#dusting off longer wips

[direwombat]

close, steel, and/or torn for the wip word game:3

challenging myself by going through my embarrassing number of wip docs and only pulling from katc and the werewolf au as a last resort so....

CLOSE (from the "jacob gets pegged" fic where syb is asking adelaide if she has any toys she can borrow)

She browses until she finds one that’s about Jacob’s length and girth, baffled by how it’s not even close to the biggest toy on the shelves. 

STEEL (i did have to go to the werewolf au for the next two tho whoops...)

"Besides, weren’t no glass on the floor from the windows; the only thing broken down was the front door — which I will remind you is made of fortified steel — and on top of that, Chad ain’t exactly easy prey." -- syb detective-ing out the crime scene of chad's murder

TORN (a line from the very end of part 1 of the werewolf au )

She’s next to a buck’s carcass, it’s belly torn open and innards all over the place and she’s got the taste of blood in her mouth. 

[norrisradio]

PEACH RING PROMISES

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “I know a place / It's somewhere I go when I need to remember your face / We get married in our heads / Something to do while we try to recall how we met” - The 1975, About You

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x f!reader | ᝰ WC: 1.1K ᝰ GENRE: established relationship, oscar is in love, there is a little baby cousin involved ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: this has been gathering dust in my wips for like. a week now but was then locked and loaded for an oscar miami win // not beta-read. we die like men ꨄ requested by @estellaelysian !

Some people go to church; you go to the treehouse. 

It sits crooked at the edge of the Piastri property line, half-swallowed by jasmine vines and the hum of summer. The planks are sun-bleached and splintering, nailed together with the blind optimism that only dads and four-year-olds share. But it’s still standing – stubborn, quiet, familiar – like the memory of a face you’ll never forget. 

Today, it overlooks a backyard choked with folding chairs and sunburnt uncles, picnic blankets and toddlers sugar-high on too many juice boxes. The barbeque is in full swing – OScar’s mum’s at the grill, his dad’s holding court with a beer in one hand and a story in the other, and someone’s blasting Seven Nation Army from a portable speaker (you swear you see Oscar roll his eyes when some of his family members start changing the lyrics to include his name).

You had just finished your second helping of potato salad when Theo, Oscar’s five-year-old cousin and self-appointed general of the under-five army, came barreling toward the two of you like a missile in Paw Patrol socks. 

“Hide and seek!” he declared, panting, cheeks red. “You’re it!” 

Oscar looked up from your shared plate, looking deeply betrayed. “Why am I always it?” 

“Because you’re tall!” Theo whined, tugging at his hand. “And you never play with me.” 

Which was a bold accusation, considering Oscar had spent the morning pushing him around on a plastic trike and pretending to be a race car announcer. Still, Oscar hesitated – eyeing the shady comfort of the patio – until you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“Come on,” you murmured, soft and smug. “Don’t make me count.” 

So he sighed, knelt down, and covered his eyes with a dramatic groan. “One…. two…. three…” 

You slipped away, giggling, weaving past lawn chairs and coolers and sticky-fingered children until you reached the edge of the yard, ducking beneath the canopy of trees. 

And now, here you are. 

The treehouse looks almost shy, peeking out between branches. The ladder’s still rickety, the walls still wonky, but it holds you like it remembers you. You climb inside and sit cross-legged on the floorboards, brushing dust from the heart you once drew into the wood with a rock. Your initials, backwards and misshapen, look like you carved them yesterday. 

You got married here once – four years old, caked in mud, with Hattie (barely out of pull-ups, in a bright orange tutu) acting as both officiant and chief witness. You gave Oscar a peach ring. He cried when you ate it thirty minutes later. 

You kissed his cheek with grass-stained lips and told him he was silly. “We don’t need a ring,” you’d said, wiping his nose with the hem of your shirt. “We love each other. That’s the proof.” 

You don’t hear the ladder creak, but you know it’s him before he speaks. 

“Hiya,” Oscar says, ducking into the doorway like a hippo trying to fit into a china shop. His grin is crooked. Warm. His curls are longer now, haloing his face like he’s been touched by sunlight. 

“How’d you find me?” 

“Our wedding venue,” he says drily, brushing a leaf from your hair. “Bit of a cop-out though. You didn’t even try.” 

You scoff and whip a twig at him. It bounces harmlessly off his shoulder. “You weren’t even counting properly,” you reply. “Hattie taught you better than that.” 

He folds himself beside you like an accordion, limbs gangly, knees knocking into yours. “God,” he mutters, glancing around. “We were tiny.” 

“You still are,” your chirp. That earns you a pinch to your side. You shriek and nearly kick out a support beam. 

When the air settles, you rest your chin on your knee and say, “If we get married-”

“When we get married,” he correct instantly, poking your ribs. 

You roll your eyes but the corners of your mouth betray you. “Fine. When we get married, have you thought about the venue?”

He hums thoughtfully, shifting to lie down with his head in your lap. You card your fingers through his curls, watching them spring back into place. They curve around his ears, golden at the tips, soft as they were when he was four and you made him cry. 

“What’s wrong with the venue of our first wedding?” he asks, cracking one eye open. “I’ve heard great things about the officiant. Real prodigy.” 

You snort. “She also tried to eat a snail halfway through the vows.” 

“A creative soul.” 

Before you can respond, the hatch slams open. 

“You FORGOT about me, Oz!” Theo screeches, hauling himself into the treehouse with all the righteous fury of a betrayed war general. 

Oscar barely has time to yelp before Theo flops into your lap like a royal cat, shoving Oscar’s head out of the way with a chubby hand. 

“I was winning,” Oscar insists, pressing loud, dramatic kisses to his cousin’s sticky curls and apologizing like it’s the end of the world. You laugh until your sides ache. 

Eventually, Oscar untangles himself and groans, cracking every joint like he’s been in a clown car. “There’s only so much cramping a man can take,” he says, grabbing Theo under the arms and turning back to you with an outstretched hand. 

You take it. 

The descent is careful – Theo held like a football, your hand snug in his. Your feet hit the grass and the smell of charcoal and sunscreen floods your lungs. 

“You guys would be a good mommy and daddy,” Theo announces suddenly, chin tilted up, tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. 

Oscar throws a cheeky wink at you over his head. You groan and shake your head, the laugh bubbling up anyways. 

“BUT!” Theo says quickly, yanking your hand to pull you closer like he’s about to reveal state secrets. “Maisie told me mommies and daddies have to be married. Are you guys MARRIED?” 

“Yes,” Oscar says immediately, just as you snap, “No!” 

“Oscar!” you slap his chest, scandalized. 

“What?” he shrugs, entirely unbothered, not even trying to hide the smile. “Feels true.” 

Theo frowns. “Where are your rings? Married people have rings.” 

Oscar reaches for your hand and you swat it away, faking disgust. He smirks. “We don’t need them,” he says easily. “We’re in love.”

His cousin accepts this with a sage nod only toddlers can pull off, then wriggles free and barrels across the yard, lungs at full capacity. 

“MUM! MUM! OSCAR IS MARRIED! THEY’RE MARRIED! I SAW! THEY SAID!” 

You groan, hiding your face in his shoulder. “He’s going to tell your entire family.” 

Oscar just grins, stepping behind you to wrap his arms around your shoulders. “It’s already happened once,” he says, brushing a kiss to your temple. “And it’s going to happen again. Isn’t it?” 

You don’t answer – not out loud. But your fingers find his where they rest over your heart, and you hold them there. 

[justpeaxchy]

'So My Darling'

A/n: I haven't finished my other wip's yet, so in the meantime, I decided to write this rq. Enjoy! 🐢

Warnings(?): none!

Hiccup x !fem reader!

-You realize the feelings you have for Hiccup aren't what a normal 'best friend' should have.

The day was coming to a close, the sun delicately edging the clouds in an orange tint, with a faint pink glow making itself visible amongst the remaining bright colors. You loved sunsets, to say the least; the sight brought a small sense of comfort to your mind whenever endless thoughts seemed to pour in, which was partly happening to you already.

There wasn't much of an opportunity for him to go far anymore, but your search for the past twenty minutes could've attested otherwise. Thinking you had used up all of your chances for finding him, your hopes were quickly revived as you finally spotted him a bit of a distance away, sitting comfortably on the edge of a nearby cliff side. You heaved a light sigh of relief, signaling for your dragon to land on the same area.

The very second your feet touched the ground, you spoke loud enough for him to hear: "And what do you think you're up to, Chief?" You suppressed a grin when his head turned to get a better view of your approaching form, a ghost of a smile tugging on his own lips.

"Oh, nothing.." Hiccup shrugged, "Just thought I should try a new...hideout. I'll give it to you, though, you found me in the same day I came here..!" An amused glint sparkled in his eyes, emerald iris's following you as you went to sit down next to him with a dramatic sigh. Toothless was off playing with your dragon as soon as you both arrived, the tree branch they suddenly found being the very thing that kept them entertained as they were engrossed in tug of war.

"Yeah...I think twenty minutes is a bit too long for me to discover your hideout.." You muttered, Hiccup still being able to hear every word you said above the passing breeze.

"Well, it's nice to know I'm on your mind that much." He said, sarcasm practically dripping off his voice. His words would be something he regretted, however, when you abruptly jabbed his side with your finger from where you sat. "Okay, okay, I take it back!" He raised his hands in surrender as you silently threatened to do it again, nodding in satisfaction when he admitted defeat.

"What a shame...you keep talking like that and you might be here all by yourself again.." You examined your nails as they suddenly became of more 'importance', using all the strength you had left in you not to smirk at the dramatic gasp Hiccup did.

"Oh, so it's like that now?" He straightened his posture from where he sat, his gaze not yet removing itself from you.

"Hey, you started it with your sassy attitude the moment I came up here." You shrugged.

Deciding to return the same jab you did, although it was much lighter than yours probably was, the Chief poked your shoulder, "Me? Sassy? You're the one who's been staring at your hands this whole time and not even looking at me once."

No longer hiding the playful smile that traced your lips, you spoke in a nonchalant manner: "Correction; it was my nails. Not my hand...sort of."

Hiccup faintly rolled his eyes, still pointedly keeping his fixed gaze on you, who was still not returning it. "Will you at least look at me, then..?" His voice was slightly softer than before, the action briefly taking you aback. Since you were known to give in easily when it came to him, you sedately started off with a glance in his direction before fully turning towards him.

"It's nice to know you want to look at me that much." You said, ignoring the exiguous warmth that dusted over your face. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to smile when you noticed his own lips pull upward in fulfillment.

"There. That wasn't so hard, now was it?" He spoke gently, although a hint of amusement was clearly heard by you when he noticed his own words were repeated.

You, who were so observant of Hiccup. You, who were one of the closest people he claimed to have by his side. People often assumed that the relationship you both had was one of a sibling dynamic; it was starting to rub off on you in the wrong way. Growing up on Berk, your attention would somehow always land back on the skinny teenager who tried to prove himself - over and over again. Despite that, you took it upon yourself to really know him, to know who Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the third was. You hadn't expected to get this close with him, though.

If anything, he was the first person you had gotten into a genuine friendship with. There were others your age that you would spend time with, but it was different when Stoick's son came to be around you. You witnessed his bravery, his courage, his selflessness, and his determination when he discovered Toothless. It was always there, but it seemed to be stifled out by the whole village with every attempt he gave to show it. You, however, saw all of those traits - especially when you watched him defend his tribe that always looked down on him. He lost part of his leg because of it.

You were the only other person who knew about Toothless in the beginning, mostly because you found him trying to track the Night Fury when he shot him down, and he had no other choice but to practically beg you to keep the dragon a secret. You were reluctant, not knowing what the outcome might be, but you agreed nonetheless. You became more glad with each passing day that you did; it allowed the opportunity for your friendship to grow, to blossom and sprout into what it was now. However, one burning question still remained in your mind concerning that: what was your guy's relationship?

The immediate answer would be close friends, siblings that aren't blood related, two peas in a pod, everything a friendship should be.

Was that what you wanted?

You witnessed his sarcasm, his caring side, his good-natured heart, his tenacity, and certainly his stubbornness. He was complex, more than meets the eye, and yet he was also very simple to read when inspected close enough. He was like his map; there was always something more to look at when it came to him. He expanded on those traits of his as he matured into an adult, carrying the burden of his father as he became the Chief of Berk. He always reminded you that he was thankful to have you with him through it all, and you were as well, but something in you longed to be recognized as more than a best friend.

You didn't understand why, when, or how it started; that feeling which would always pick at the back of your mind. It grew with you as you left your teenage years, leaving you clueless as to what you were going to do for it.

"Actually, it was a bit hard...considering how you were acting." You muttered, sarcasm coating each word.

Hiccup lightly shook his head, briefly rolling his eyes as he shifted more comfortably in his spot next to you. "Okay, okay, enough of both of our attitudes.." He looked out at the sky around him, the mixing colors of orange and pink creating an ethereal sight while he talked lightheartedly. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of having you come here?"

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes as you kept a subtle gaze in his direction. "No need to sound so weird about it.." Your hand almost reached out for his, but you forcefully told yourself not to carry out those actions with a faint sigh. "I only wanted to...see what you were doing is all."

Hiccup's attention flickered over to your hands that had now started fidgeting, a gentle wind greeting the two of you from where you sat. "Hm. I can tell something is on your mind, y'know... Are you sure that's it?"

You took a deep breath in, relishing in the weather that seemed to be just right; it wasn't too cold like it usually was, but there was enough warmth to make it pleasant enough to stay outside for a longer period of time. Similarly, you often reminded yourself to be that way towards him; you wouldn't allow yourself to be too close with him in that manner, as the cold was barely noticeable, leaving a clement touch to those encompassed by it. However, there was also the warmth. The warmth that provided the comforting embrace of amiability, a distant affection that was still noticeable from afar. The heat balanced out the frigid air.

Nonetheless, the main question still stood: would he let you in? Would he let you in the unspoken of area in his heart that would've made you more than a best friend? The thought always came with a certain emotion of fear; fear that your friendship will collapse into mere dust if you barely mentioned what you truly felt.

"...Trust me, it's nothing important." You mumble, trying to sound as if nothing were bothering you. What came next was a little unexpected, though.

Hiccup slowly moved closer to your hand, gently setting his own on top of it as he tenderly gazed at you. "I don't think that's entirely what you mean..but I won't force you to say anything..." He paused, glimpsing at his hand as it soothingly held yours. "...Let me know when you're ready, okay?"

The Chief: so full of compassion and empathy; dynamic and firm when he needs to be, one who leads the people with courage. He was staunch, persevering, and everything else a leader needed to be. Oftentimes, he didn't even see that in himself, the very flaw he couldn't seem to get rid of. You wanted to remind him, despite if you already did, that he is those things. He is brave, he is strong, and he will continue to become a great Chief for Berk. In that moment, you earnestly wanted to be the one to tell him that, to be by his side when he thinks he can't do it, and to be the one he could find solace in.

To be recognized as more than a best friend.

"...Yeah, I will. Don't worry.."

Much to your surprise, Hiccup didn't let go of your hand, only giving you a small smile before he started rambling on of all the duties he was now getting used to. He may not have known, but you silently acknowledged that you really did have feelings for him, ones that probably wouldn't be going away for a while.

---------

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Someone New 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You've had a crush on your best friend for years, but you're slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor

Note: please enjoy the first chapter!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“No, no, not the pink, red,” you cup your hand over your ear pod, “exactly what it says on the order sheet.” 

Were anyone to see you, sitting in the dirt, with a brush in hand, all alone, they might think you’re a bit out there. You, talking to the air, dusting off a clump of soil, orchestrating your own voice with the bristles. You dip your head as you focus on what the voice in your ear is saying. 

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you argue, “I put in the order weeks ago. A red bow. I have the receipt– I mean sure, pink or red doesn’t matter to me but it’s not my birthday.” 

“We’ll see what we can do,” the woman relents. It’s not exactly a triumph but as close to as you can hope. If it’s pink, you’ll just have to take the fall. The damn fondant will be devoured by the night’s end anyhow. 

You hang up with a double tap on the ear pod and your playlist resumes. You go back to trying to uncover the shape caked in layers of muck, turning the brush to chip away the rougher bits with the pointed tip. The work is tedious but it has to be. You can’t risk damaging the relic nestled inside. 

The abrupt chiming of your ringtone once more sounds through the bluetooth earpiece. You huff and hit the pod with the heel of your hand. You greet the call with only your name. 

“Are you still on site?” Your boss, Arturo asks. 

“Yep, still here,” you still your hand and twist your arm, pulling back the end of your glove to see your watch, “just a bit longer. You know I have that thing tonight.” 

“Uh, yes, I recall,” he says dully as you hear paper shuffling, “you got time to chat?” 

“Sure,” you keep the cluster of dirt and the brush in one hand and use your other to push yourself to your feet, “I just gotta catalogue this before I finish the day.” 

“Well, I have good news and bad news,” he begins as you carefully walk between the cordoned off patches. The whole place is a maze of where and where not to step. You go into the tent and put down the half uncovered idol. It’s brittle, made of hide and yew, with a bit of bone. “Lucia is pregnant.” 

“Oh? That’s great,” you furrow your brow, wondering what that has to do with you. 

“Means she can’t travel for a while. She’s adverse to long term commitments at the moment so…” 

“So…” you trail off as you label the mound of dirt and make notes for the next day. 

“So, you want her assignment?” 

“Which one?” You peel off your gloves and shake off the excess filth. 

“Norway. It can be a bit dingy but the landscape is nice.” 

“Norway? For how long?” You close up the ledger and tuck it away on the shelf. You pass between the tables of artifacts as you pull out your phone. 

“Could be a while but I figured you never get to go very far. You’ve been pent up in-state for so long, you could use the vacation.” 

“Oh? Well, I…” you scroll through your phone and see the notifications. Emails confirming delivery, messages asking if everything is sorted. “I’d have to think about it…” 

It’s evasion more than indecision. You know you don’t want to go. You can’t go. Your whole life is here. You have an apartment and friends and… Steve. Your best friend.  

“Make sure you do think about it. It’s a great opportunity. Especially for a junior anthropologist. Lucia won’t be on leave forever.” 

“I know. I’ll think about it.” 

You hang up and pluck the earbud out. Ugh, you’re covered in dirt and dust. You don’t have time to go home and shower. You knew you wouldn’t. You have to be at the venue before everyone else. You can change there and try to wash up in the sink. Whatever, no one’s going to be looking at you anyway. It’s Peggy’s night. Yay. 

You lock the fence and tug one last time to make sure it’s secure. You drag your boots across the thinning grass to your car parked on a stretch of gravel. You drop inside and hit start. You connect to the bluetooth and get some tunes going. You buckle your seat belt as you check the mirrors. You’re probably going to have to speed there. 

You back out as the music blares from the speakers. It’s not loud enough to drown out your thoughts. Why did you agree to this? Peggy doesn’t even like you. Oh, but she likes Steve. She is his girlfriend and you are only his best friend. You’re supportive. You keep your mouth shut and smile. 

Ugh. You squeeze the wheel until your knuckles hurt. You know why you offered to help plan the surprise. You’re pathetic but you’re not delusional. It meant you got more time with him. There hasn’t been much of that since Peggy came along, not just the two of you. 

Classic, isn’t it? In love with your best friend. Friends since college. Friends forever, you vowed naively, thinking that forever would never come. Nothing lasts that long, you can only hope to outlast Peggy. 

And if you don’t, maybe this crush will finally run its course. 

💟

Red and white streamers decorate a long table set with trays. There’s a banner over it that reads ‘Happy Birthday, Peggy’, and a stack of gifts already forming in the corner. Guests drift in with anticipation as you hurry around to check off all the items on your list. 

You fix a small vase of flowers, trying to hide the droopy one in the back, and tug a wrinkle out of a tablecloth. You smile and wave at those who are early as you weave between them. You pull out your phone and lean it on the clipboard angle in the crook of your elbow. They’re on their way, okay. Keep it cool. 

As you come to the kitchen door, you nearly collide with someone else. Sam touches your arm gently as he keeps you from tripping backward. You gasp and hug the clipboard with a wobbly grin. 

“Hey,” you greet breathily, “you’re here.” 

You look down at the guest list and check him off. 

“Ah, figured I’d make an appearance,” he kids, “Rogers would take it pretty rough if his best pal wasn’t here.” 

“Please, don’t start that with Bucky again,” you warn as you point the pen in his direction, “the two of you, in fact, are seated separately.” 

“No fun!” He whines dramatically. 

You scrunch your lips at him and peer around. Yes, none of this has been fun. Caterers, servers, tables, space, food! Yes, you were going to check on the cake. Your sole squeaks as you twist sharply and go to slam your hand into the door. 

“Hey,” Sam blocks your way with his arm, “before you disappear, you’re still wearing your boots.” He points to your feet, “in case you’re wondering about the snail trail.” 

He sweeps his finger up in a gesture alluding to your previous path. You glance over at the dirt littered in your stead then down at your dusty boots. You sigh and hang your head back. 

“Fuck!” You snarl. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll find a broom,” he assures you, “while you take a breath. You need it.” 

“I can’t, Sam, they’re already on their way. I still have to get everyone in their place and… quiet,” you scowl, “ugh, this is gonna be so bad. I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“So… why’d you do it?” He asks as he drags his hand away from the doorframe. You look at him and blink slowly. You shrug. 

“I’m a good friend,” you insist. 

He gives a skeptical hum and nods, “sure are,” he grumbles, “too good, if you ask me.” 

You throw up your hand before turning into the kitchen. You don’t have time to worry about him. Is he jealous that you’re helping Steve so much? Or does he know something else? You don’t let the seed sprout as you nearly cry out at the sight of the cake. 

A pink bow. Jeez. Of course. You check the cake off your list, nearly tearing through the paper. It’s better than nothing, even if Peggy never settles for less than the best. 

There’s no time to complain or send it back. Your phone vibrates again. Five minutes. Your heart is racing. Why? This isn’t even your party. You just want it to be perfect for Steve. You hate to disappoint him. Ever. 

You really shouldn’t care that much but you do. Like so many other things in your life. 

💟

The crowd can't keep quiet. There's a low buzz that ripples through the guests. A wave of anticipation that's spread like a deadly virus. 

You feel a nudge in your side and peek over as Bucky sends Sam a sneer and wriggles in place. Those two never let up. You hiss at them to quit and they look as guilty as a pair of unruly children. 

"He keeps tickling me," Bucky whispers. 

"No, I'm tryna fix his hair, look at this mess," Sam flicks a strand away from Bucky's cheek, "this is a nice event, Buck, not your living room." 

"Both of you," you warn.  

"You're bitching at me when Indiana Jones here brought the dig with her," Bucky mutters. 

You look down. Dammit. You still didn't change out of your boots. You roll your eyes. It's not about you. It's Steve's night. Er, Peggy's.  

You shake out your nerves and shake your head, "you two," you step behind Bucky and insert yourself between the men, "behave." 

"Yes, mom," Sam snickers as Bucky groans and tries to smooth the few shanks that have slipped free of his low ponytail. 

You exhale and give an exasperated look to the door. You really can't handle them on top of everything else. You just want this night to end already. All your hard work and you won't even get to enjoy any of it. 

"Everybody," Natasha hisses as she runs away from the doorway, "they're coming." 

The group quiets, as much as they can, a collective bated breath as you wait and listen. The lull is unbearable as the heat of the bodies around you pricks sweat down your neck and across your scalp. The door begins to open, almost as if in slow motion, and as the guest of honour is revealed, you cry out. 

"SURPRISE!" The eruption of the chorus has your head spinning as Peggy gives a melodramatic swoon, grabbing at Steve's arm as she leans on him heavily. 

She parts only to fan her eyes and squeal. "Oh my god, you guys!"  

She teeters on her heels as people holler happy birthday and her group of girlfriends flutter over to wrap her up in a cacophony of giggles and preening. You smile, a bittersweet twitch in your cheek as you watch her spin back to Steve and pull him into a kiss.  

You're happy for them really, proud to see all your effort come to fruition, but you just feel so hollow. For an instant, you think it should be you right there, gushing in glee over the celebration of another year, with Steve beside you.  

You gulp down the jealousy and wiggle your nose to ward away the tears. That's a stupid thought. If it hasn't happened in more than a decade, it's not going to happen now. 

💟

As the guests disperse into their own conversations, you finally manage to wade through to the happy couple. You approach with a small wave at Steve. He doesn't see you, he's watching Peggy as she chats with Natasha. 

"Hi," you call above the din, "so, you like it?" 

Steve turns to you, confusion stitching his forehead before he registers your questions. He nods and gives a smile, "it's amazing, you did so good!" 

The sparkle in his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the way he's looking at you, it makes your heart rend. You tilt your head and dig your toe into the floor bashfully, "thanks. I'm so happy to see it come together." 

"Um, the cake," he brings his index finger up, "I was hoping to bring it out soon." 

"Er, yeah, it's back in the kitchen. About that–" 

"Great," he claps your shoulder and brushes by you, "just gonna put the finishing touches on it." 

"Hm, what do you–" 

He's gone before you can finish your question. You deflate just a little, setting your feet flat as you sway aimlessly. The motion hooks Peggy's attention. You give a sheepish smile as you wring your hands. 

"Oh, uh, just came over to wish you a happy birthday," you chirp, "are you enjoying it?" 

"Ah, I didn't see you here, I thought maybe you were busy…" she gives a pointed look to your boots, "working." 

"Um, yeah, no," you fidget, "always happy to come support you two." 

"Where is Steve?" She gazes past you, shouldering by dismissively, "he was just…." 

Right. You nod and flit away in embarrassment. You can't say you ever got along with Peggy. Where you're accommodating, she's a bit too demanding. Different people, but you don't dislike her. You just don't mesh. Or perhaps it's just that you don't get what Steve sees in her. Especially when you're right there. 

Enough. This isn't about you or your stupid dumb heart. Just smile and go with it. 

The kitchen door swings open, a noise barely discernible above the hue, and the rattling wheels of a cart underline the steady drone. A lull washes over the crowd as they part. You move with the tide and face the sudden divide. 

A hush falls over the room as Steve pushes the cake across the floor. He stops before Peggy as she faces him, another feigned pout of surprise. He grins proudly at her as you stare curiously at the top of the cake. 

"Oh, pink?" She comments on the fondant bow as her eyes flick over to you. She quickly corrects herself an admires the double tiered dessert, "Steve, it's so pretty." 

You know she hates the colour. You recall the one time you wore a pink bow in your hair and she made a similar comment. Cute, she remarked in her roundabout way in her oh so sophisticated accent. 

You manufacture a smile and step closer as Steve beckons to the guest. Tension stills the air, almost paralyzing the crowd. You squint at the heart shaped box perched atop the bow. 

"Is this for me?" Peggy asks if it's not obvious. 

Steve nods, his cheeks tinting pink, as you notice how he wipes his palms on his pants. Peggy delicately takes the box from the pedestal of fondant and your ribs ache from the pounding of your heart. You curl your fingers until your nails dig into your skin as you watch him kneel beside her. 

She doesn't notice as she opens the box on its hinges. Her lips part and she stares at the contents. She looks over at Steve to find him on his knee and she claps her hand over her mouth. Her eyes gleam as she whimpers his name through her fingers. 

The scene hazes behind your tears as you stare wide eyed. Your ears ring as Steve's voice is dulled by your shock. 

"Margaret Elizabeth Carter," Steve's timbre warble just a bit, "will you make me the happiest man on earth?" 

You don't wait for her answer. You already know it. It's the very same you give in every outlandish dream you've ever had of your happy ending. You spin and storm through the crowd, blind with horror and self-pity. 

Surprise! Your whole world is crashing into pieces. 

[fungifanart]

Bean-boozled

Characters: Trey Clover, male reader, Yuu!reader, Cater Jade and Grim are there at the start, but leave quickly

CW: Smut, like VERY explicit smut, Trey tops, reader bottoms, light sadism

Word count: 2.7k

Notes: Decided to dust off an older WIP and finish it for my second husband's birthday! Can you tell when I started this? (Also, this was gonna be shorter, but you can thank @le-monchou/ @standotsukaii for threatening me into making it longer)

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Needless to say, this Beanfest isn't exactly going swimmingly for the farmers, if your team is any indication.

You THOUGHT you'd at least have strength in numbers with Jade, Cater and Grim on your team, that is, until you found yourself and the latter two being chased by a group led by Trey with a certain eel nowhere to be seen.

That eel's probably laughing as he watches the monsters chasing your group through the forest.

Sparing a glance backwards, you see the Vice Housewarden of Heartslabyul and his stupid, handsome smirk, net at the ready as he slowly gains on your group.

'At this rate, it's only a matter of time until his group--wait...' Your train of thought quickly shifts gears as you look behind Trey to see just one other monster running with him as opposed to the several that you'd seen earlier, 'where'd the others go?'

A barely audible rustle of the bushes brings your answer with it as a familiar-looking blur rushes behind the Vice Housewarden and snatches up the last monster without a sound.

Trey looks behind him to issue an order to his teammates and freezes upon realizing that he's alone, allowing your team to take cover in the bushes.

With Trey still in a daze from Jade's sneak attacks you turn towards your remaining teammates to see the eel in question there with you three, smiling as if nothing is wrong.

'So that was his angle.' You think in frustration at being used as bait without permission, 'Well, he's not the only one with tricks up his sleeve.'

While handing Grim to Cater, you mouth an order to all three of them, 'I'll distract Trey. You guys get to the stadium, understood?'

'Can't we just rush him real quick and get going??' Cater mouths back.

'That would take too much time and carries risk of him taking one or more of us down with him. Instead, I can lead him away and keep him occupied while you guys vacate the area, making me the only possible casualty.' You answer as they each nod a little too readily for your liking.

Nodding back regardless, you turn and leap out of the bushes to get Trey's attention, feigning a trip to act natural as he snaps out of his daze to pursue you.

After several minutes of running and dodging trees and swings of Trey's net, you enter a clearing that you can use to level the playing field.

Diving to the ground with your leg stuck out, the green-haired man's foot gets caught on it, sending him face-first onto the ground, his grip on his net just loose enough for you to snatch it from him as you stand up and plant yourself at the other end of the clearing.

Upon standing up, you see Trey realize the absence of his net and look towards you just in time to see you break it over your knee and throw it into the bushes.

"Heh, you sure can be mean when you want to, huh?" Trey remarks with that damn smirk, "Is that naiveté just an act, after all?"

You respond with a smirk of your own while ignoring the way your heart skips a beat, "Personally, I like to call it Altruism, but I guess you don't know what that's like, do you? I mean, you wouldn't have followed me all the way here if you did."

Trey's eyes widen as he realizes what you mean, "Wh-- don't tell me you used yourself as bait!"

"I'm more shocked that you fell for it, Mr. Monster." You taunt, causing Trey's brow to furrow further, "The others should already be out of the forest by now. Meaning it's just you and me. So, whatcha gonna do now?" You say while holding out your hand and making a beckoning motion with your fingers.

At this, Trey's expression goes back to his usual cocky smirk as he assumes a combat stance, "Well, it's not like I can just leave empty handed, can I?"

Oh, you can't WAIT to wipe that smirk right off his infuriatingly handsome face.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Trey will admit that he's quite embarrassed that he got suckered in by two different ploys, but that just means he has to work extra hard to reclaim his honor.

And that starts with taking out the Prefect and rejoining Rook's group.

Which is easier said than done, as said Prefect is suddenly more slippery than all of Octavinelle's mermen combined and dodging every one of his attacks, spouting some form of quip or taunt accompanied by a playful wink each time.

"Whoops! Almost! Try again!"

"Whew, that was a nice breeze you made with that whiff!"

"Missed again! Aren't you monsters supposed to be good at this?"

Trey can feel his frustration growing with every second wasted on just trying to touch the Prefect ONCE, which really isn't helped by how much the other man swings his hips and pushes out his butt whenever he dodges, meaning that Trey is becoming frustrated in more ways than one.

This awful game of tag goes on for several more minutes, the fatigue of the fight finally starting to catch up as Trey searches desperately for an opening, which presents itself in the form of the Prefect, clearly losing steam as much as Trey is, stumbles and starts to lose his balance.

Seeing this opportunity, Trey gains a second wind and uses it to charge full-force at the Prefect, tackling and pinning him to the ground.

"Game's over, Prefect! I win!" Trey says triumphantly as the other man struggles against his grip in vain.

"No! Stop!" The Prefect cries frantically as his eyes dart in all directions and his limbs struggle against Trey's.

"P-Prefect?" Trey asks, caught off-guard, "Are you alright??"

"Someone, help!" The other man yells in a panic, "This horrible monster's caught me and is going to have his way with me!!"

Trey blinks for several seconds as the Prefect continues to struggle to break free of his grasp...which he realizes shouldn't actually be that hard.

His surprise at the Prefect's outburst had caused his grip to weaken considerably, so, by all accounts, the other man should be able to break free.

Wait, is this a trap?!

Trey quickly starts to get up following this realization, but the Prefect is faster and, with strength and flexibility he didn't know the other man had, wraps his legs around the green-haired man's waist, pulling his abdomen flush against the space between them.

"P-Prefect?! What are y--" Trey begins to say as he can feel his cheeks heating up.

"Oh, I'm just so distressed that I can't even control my body!" The Prefect exclaims as Trey feels...something grinding against his groin and the other man's voice takes on a much darker and more sultry tone, "Whatever am I going to do?~" He leans up and practically whispers provocatively into Trey's ear.

Rational thoughts leave Trey's mind in droves as the feeling of the Prefect grinding his bulge against his own intensifies and lust he'd been suppressing breaks free and starts clouding his judgment.

'...Rook can handle himself.' is the last coherent thought in Trey's mind before he pins the Prefect back down and silences any further cries from him with a hungry kiss to his lips, which the other man quickly reciprocates as the scene quickly escalates into the two men shoving their tongues into each other's mouths.

Several moments later, Trey breaks away from the makeout session to look at his panting captive with his signature smirk and eyes radiating lust that had built up over the course of their fight.

"Cry out all you want, little farmer. You said it yourself that it's just us now." Trey teases in low voice, "So no one will be able to hear how I make an absolute mess of you." He finishes as he traces his fingers down the Prefect's bulge and then up his own until he reaches the waistband of his pants and begins to pull them down.

However, rather than pulling both layers down, Trey decides to tease the Prefect a bit more by leaving his underwear on, delighted to see the frustration in the other man's eyes at still only seeing the outline of Trey's erection through his boxers, “Now now, little farmer,” He whispers into the Prefect’s ear, “I think I've earned the right to play with my food a bit.”

“W-well, *huff* you'd better get to it before it gets col–AAH!” The Prefect’s quip is cut off by Trey quickly pulling away the fabric covering the nape of his neck and biting down forcefully on it, eliciting a yelp from him that only turns Trey on even more.

While continuing to bite and suck at the same area, Trey does what he did to himself and pulls the other man's pants down, leaving his underwear intact, before grinding their barely clothed erections together, the sensation making both of them harden further and stain their underwear with precum.

“A-ah! T-Trey, please–” The Prefect begins to moan before Trey releases his jaws from his neck and silences him with another hungry kiss, pulling away seconds later to make direct eye contact.

“You must be confused, little farmer.” The monster says with eyes radiating sadistic glee, “I'm not this ‘Trey’ you speak of. I'm the big, bad monster that's going to Eat. You. Whole.”

The farmer's eyes widen and his breath hitches as the monster moves to hold the other man's arms above his head, places his groin right in front of his mouth and finally pulls his underwear down, revealing his erect dick as it falls against the other man's face.

“Start sucking, little farmer. If you know what's good for you~” The monster says in a sweet, but sinister tone that leaves no room for debate.

With no hesitation, the farmer quickly begins licking up and down the shaft and anywhere he can reach with his arms still bound above his head, thoroughly coating the thick member with saliva as the monster's breathing quickens and he lets out several lust-filled grunts from the sensation.

“*huff* Not bad, little farmer, but I won't be satisfied with just that.” The monster taunts before moving up, angling the tip of his dick directly above the farmer's parted lips and firmly thrusting downwards into his mouth, his balls slapping against his chin.

The farmer chokes for a few moments as the monster's thrusts continue relentlessly, but is able to regain his composure and begin swirling his tongue around the monster's cock while the speed of his thrusts slowly increases and he approaches his climax.

‘Damn, how is he so good at this…?’ Trey thinks to himself as the pleasure in his dick builds until he feels it about to explode and quickly pulls out of the Prefect’s mouth, shooting his load all over his face with a loud moan.

Several seconds pass as Trey's breathing slows down and he opens his eyes to the sight of the Prefect panting with his face covered in the green-haired man's cum, a sight which is so erotic that he can already feel himself growing hard again.

‘Shit, I'm more pent up than I thought.’ Trey thinks as the Prefect notices his erection not going away.

“Mr. Monster…?” The Prefect says pensively in a way that sends Trey back over the edge as his sadistic side takes over again.

The monster stands up, pulls out a handkerchief and drops it in the farmer's now free hands, “Clean off that face. I'm not done with you yet, little farmer.”

Barely giving the farmer time to do so, the monster moves to crouch down over his pelvis, grabs his hips, turns him onto his stomach and pulls him, ass up, onto his knees.

Taking a moment to savor the sight before him, the monster slowly takes hold of the farmer's underwear and pulls it down, revealing his supple asscheeks and tantalizing hole, twitching at being exposed to the cool forest air.

However, upon closer inspection, the monster notices a certain glisten around the other man's hole and catches a whiff of lube, “Already fully prepared, little farmer?” The monster asks with a quirk of his eyebrow, “Could it be that you were anticipating this?”

The farmer says nothing as his face stays towards the ground, but when the monster leans forward to whisper into his ear, the burning heat radiating off of it is all the evidence he needs, “Or could it be that you were planning on whoring yourself out to every monster you came across?” He says in a soft, but accusing tone, which sends a visible shiver down the other man's spine, “Such a slutty little farmer you are. That won't do at all. I'll need to make sure that the other monsters know you're mine and mine alone.”

While grinding his cock between the farmer's asscheeks, the monster spits into his hand and strokes his shaft, coating it sufficiently before lining up the tip against his still twitching hole, “Are you ready, little farmer? This is your last chance to say no.” The monster says, waiting for the go-ahead, which comes in the form of a small nod from the farmer, still looking away.

Having gained consent, the monster finally pushes the tip of his cock into the farmer's asshole, slowly moving deeper, inch-by-inch, letting the farmer get used to being filled-up before beginning to thrust in and out at a steady pace as he lets out moan after moan.

While keeping up the pace, the monster leans down again, pulls down the fabric covering the back of the farmer's neck and begins licking and biting all over the bare skin, eliciting more moans from the other man as the pleasure-filled high both men are feeling borders on pure ecstasy.

“A-ah! T-Trey! I-I'm getting close…!” The farmer moans while jerking himself off inside his underwear.

“F-fuck, me too! You feel so good!!” The monster says as the pleasure wells up in his dick again and his thrusts become faster and rougher.

A couple more minutes of raw pounding and jerking pass as both men finally reach their climaxes.

Biting down hard on the farmer's neck, the monster's thrusts come to a complete stop as he shoots his second load inside the other man's asshole while he shoots his first load through the fabric of his underwear and onto the ground.

The two men remain in this position for several moments as they come down from the lust-filled high.

Trey releases his jaws from the Prefect’s neck and cups the left side of his face to turn his head back enough to initiate another makeout session as the green-haired man carefully pulls out of his asshole.

Leaning back up onto his knees, Trey takes in the sight of what he's done: The Prefect sweaty and panting with Trey's cum threatening to spill out of his asshole.

“Prefect, I–”

“Trey, that was–”

Both men begin to talk at the same time, but are cut off by a startling announcement echoing across the area, “The Beanfest has now concluded! And this year's winners are: The Monsters!! All students, please make your way back to the sports field for the closing ceremony.”

“Shit, we have to get back now!” Trey says while quickly pulling his pants and underwear back up and offering his hand to the Prefect who's pulled his back up as well, “Can you stand alright?”

“Heh…right back to being a gentleman, huh?” The Prefect teases while taking Trey's hand and pulling himself to his feet, “I may need some support on the way out of the forest, but I'll be fine after that.”

“Ok…wait. What are we gonna do about…” Trey trails off while pointing down at the Prefect's ass sheepishly, causing the other man to laugh.

“*pfft* Well, despite how much a certain someone came, I think I'll be able to hold it during the closing ceremony.” The Prefect responds confidently, “...but I COULD use someone's help cleaning out back at Ramshackle afterwards. What do you say?” He asks with a provocative look on his face.

Trey's mouth curls into a knowing smirk at this, “I think I can help with that.” He says as the two start the trek back to the sports field with Trey's hand around the Prefect's waist, already formulating any number of lies to excuse their disheveled appearances.

[starmocha]

Remember when I said the Grassland!Sylus childhood friends/arranged marriage/soulmates AU was at around 4.6k words?

she grew and I still have like three scenes I need to finish writing, but instead of doing that, I kept writing new scenes and...I think I lost control of the story and my life (╥_╥)

So I'm posting another snippet, because...my brain is tired and I really, really, really want to finish this by Sunday because I have another AU wip that I'm also obsessed with I mean I need to finish part 3 of that other Sylus breeding kink fic I promise it's coming

Reminder that this story will include light breeding kink, pregnancy kink, smut, body worship, gratuitous usages of terms of endearment ("my bride" and "my beloved"), Sylus being grossly in love with you, basically lots of fluff. Anyhoo...

The following morning you were lazing in the field as the flock of sheep grazed peacefully all around you. The warm sunlight had you yawning, already feeling yourself being lured by the tempting sun into drifting back to sleep. As the time passed, your eyes felt heavier, and you nodded off a little. Another yawn escaped before you decided a few minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt. Slowly, you closed your eyes, letting them rest for a few minutes. “Is this what you do when I’m not here?” You immediately opened your eyes when you heard Sylus’ approaching voice. You let out a soft surprised squeak when he knelt down next to you, his face looming just mere inches from yours. He was smirking. “Lazing around and sleeping? What if your sheep gets stolen by wild beasts, my beloved?” You glared at him. “I was not sleeping. I…was blinking.” “Your eyes were closed for far longer than a blink should be.” “I had some dust in my eyes.” “I’m quite sure I heard you snoring.” You blushed and shoved his face aside, glowering when he started laughing at you. “Did you come all the way out here just to tease me?” “Mmhmm,” he answered with a pleased nod as he sat back with his legs propped up. His elbow rested on top of his leg while he cradled his chin in his hand. You noticed in his other hand was a wreath crafted from leaves and berries. Your heart quickened and you gasped softly. You looked at him expectantly. It was at that moment that you noticed the dark bags under his eyes. You crawled over to him and he sat back, allowing you to settle in between his long legs. You reached up and touched his face. “Did you not sleep last night?” you asked him worriedly. He simply smiled and shook his head. Without a word, Sylus placed the wreath on top of your head. You reached up and touched it tentatively as you looked at him confused. “I wanted to finish this for you,” he explained, smiling, “Just as I had thought. This suits you.” “R-really?” “Mmhmm,” he hummed again, nodding. He leaned in to steal your lips. “You look beautiful.” “Sylus…” You could feel your cheeks warming up as he spoke. “Now everyone will know you are mine and I am yours.” You felt touched by his gesture. Without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck, surprising him into losing his balance. Sylus laid on the grass with you on top of him. You grinned and kissed him happily. He looked up, gasping softly when he saw the sunlight had formed a radiant halo behind your head. How…ethereal... He smiled, his hand gently grasped your chin, his thumb brushing over your soft, trembling lips. “We are already promised to one another,” he said, “but if I may be presumptuous, I would still like to ask.” You looked down at him confused. “My beloved,” he said, voice soft and sincere, “will you be my bride?” You stroked his cheek, and as you leaned down closer to his face, your wreath tilted on your head. “What do you think?” He smiled. “Your wreath is going to fall off.” “You’ll put it back on for me, right?” He huffed in amusement at your audacious question, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, reaching up to fix the wreath for you, “I will…my bride.” For that brief moment, you felt like your heart had stopped, and then you smiled again as you leaned in and kissed him, feeling his strong arms wrapped around you and holding you close to his body. “This is my vow to you, my bride” he said, “There is only you in my eyes. In this life and all of the lifetimes afterwards, I will always choose you.” “Same for me,” you answered, gazing back at him fondly. You stroked his cheek, letting yourself drown in those passionate crimson eyes. “I will always find you,” you promised, “In all of our lives together, I will always find you and choose you, my love.” Your ardent words beckoned his lips to yours, and for the rest of the day, you lay together under the warm morning sun on the grassland, lost in your own world of bliss.

[unfortunate17]

May Never Make it Out Challenge

Post a 1-5 paragraph excerpt of a WIP / fic idea that may never make it out of your drafts but is near and dear to your heart

thank you to @tooindecisivetopickaurl and @in-amor-veritas for the tags. I'll no-pressure tag @skibasyndrome @spennufall @malinowaj @phneltwrites and @hergrandplan

here's a very self indulgent science fiction au that i've been working on on & off for over year. i actually have more than 12k written it's just too weird to actually share LOL but...here's like 3k of it ♥️

---

SIMON: SESSION 3

"I have a surprise for you."

"Oh?" Wilhelm asks, trying to keep his voice calm. Erik's words from last night are still fresh in his mind as he makes his way from the entrance to the middle of the room where the two chairs stand as usual.

Simon's seated on the floor this time, cross-legged. Wilhelm hesitates before taking his usual seat on the chair instead of joining Simon on the floor. The boundaries between them are still a little blurred. It’s difficult to understand what would startle Simon and what would make Wilhelm himself uncomfortable.

"It's not a song," Simon clarifies, a bit unnecessarily as there’s no piano in this room, "It's - a surprise. You have to close your eyes." Wilhelm watches as Simon gets to his feet, eyes subconsciously tracing a path from his slim shoulders to his slender waist. By the time he manages to rip his gaze away, a faint shade of pink is dusting across Simon's cheeks. Strange for someone without blood. "Wille is that okay?"

“What?”

Simon smiles like he’s heard a very funny joke. “Can you close your eyes?”

"Oh - yeah, sure," Wille nods. He curls his fingers into his sweats and shuts his eyes.

"I'm going to leave the room for a minute."

Wilhelm opens his eyes, a sound of protest rising in his throat, "You - has Erik said -"

"I'm just going back to the bedroom," Simon explains patiently. If Wilhelm's sudden reaction has piqued his curiosity, he doesn't let it show. "The passages are connected. I won't be anywhere I don't belong."

Simon's already halfway to the door before Wilhelm can get himself to respond to the wry words thrown his way. "It's not that you don't belong," he finds himself arguing. Simon freezes at the doorway, but he doesn't turn around to face him. "That’s not what I meant."

The response comes after a long moment of silence. "I'm not like you, Wille," Simon says softly, "Now please close your eyes. I want this to be a surprise."

Wille shuts his eyes. Mostly because he doesn’t know what to say.

The room is silent without Simon, the only sound is his own shallow breathing and the faint ticks from the CCTV cameras moving about the room. Simon is watched twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Wille’s not quite sure how he hasn't asked about them yet, how he manages to live - exist, whatever - like that. He knows that if he were in Simon’s place, he would’ve gone insane by now..

Simon is gone for less than a few minutes, but it feels like much, much longer. The room is uneasy without him, like something is not quite right.

When Wilhelm hears the door slide open again, he squeezes his eyes shut harder, bursts of multicolored dots appearing behind his eyelids. "Simon?"

There's a warm hand on the back of his neck. Wilhelm jumps, his eyes flying open involuntarily. He swallows at the sight before him. His tongue feels like it’s stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Is it a stupid surprise?" Simon asks quietly, a hint of uncertainty coloring his voice.

Wille thinks he’s forgotten how to use his vocal chords. He shakes his head, keeping his eyes trained on Simon's as he reaches out to gently take one of his translucent hands in his own.

A smile flickers across Simon's features then, eyes squinting in happiness, tongue pressed to the backs of his white teeth. He relaxes, shoulder’s loosening. "How do I look?" he asks, "Do you like it?"

Wilhelm leans back in his chair, scanning him from head to toe. Black boots with little zippers up the sides, dark jeans covering the length of his legs. His arms are covered by a soft looking navy sweater; the peek of a white tee shirt visible through the V-neck. "Yeah,” he nods roughly, “You look - nice." Every nerve in his body must be burning, Wille thinks hysterically, what with the fucking heat Simon's body seems to give off.

"I spent a long time picking it out," Simon admits, squeezing his fingers, "I wanted to - I wanted you to like it. Like me. Sometimes it looks like you do, but you're embarrassed by it. So I thought, if I was more like you, then - you might."

Wille pulls his hands away, noting the way Simon flexes his wired fingers as though he misses the feel of it. "What're you doing?"

"I -" Simon looks at him, wide-eyed. Innocent. "I want us to go on a date."

Wilhelm stands from his chair, steps a few feet to his right in order to take in Simon's delicate frame. He hesitates, then decides that the question probably isn't as loaded as he's making it out to be. "Okay," he says, as casually as he can muster. His pulse is jackhammering. "That sounds like fun. Where would we go?"

Simon's expression ripples, something catching his features far too quickly for Wilhelm to read. "A movie," he says, "An ideal place to observe culture, ideals of beauty, self, and fantasy. Then maybe a walk through a busy street. We'd get a concentrated but shifting view of human life."

Wilhelm stays silent.

"Do you think about me when we're not together?" Simon asks now. He takes a step forward. When Wille doesn't move back, he seems to take it as a sign to close the space between them entirely. He fists a robotic hand in Wilhelm's long-sleeve. His voice is smooth, sexual in a way Wilhelm has never heard. "Because I think about you, Wille. I like to think about you watching me on the cameras."

Wilhelm thinks this is what it means when people say their life is flashing before their eyes. His breathing is obviously unsteady and he wishes he'd worn jeans, or at least thicker pants. He's embarrassingly hard on camera and Simon's done nothing but talk to him. "Simon," he begs, "I’m not sure what you - "

"You give me indications that you're attracted to me," Simon whispers, fingers smoothing across his chest. He tugs at the waistband of Wille’s sweats, "Your micro-expressions are - "

"I'm not sure how micro they are," Wilhelm grits, teeth clenched. He tries to imagine Erik in the observation room, tries to conjure up the image of him watching his exchange with muffled laughter. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to calm the rush of blinding lust that pools in his stomach at the way Simon’s blinking up at him, eyes deep and dark and wide. He takes a shuddering breath and pulls Simon’s hand away from his pants.

Immediately, Simon's face falls. He takes a step back, "I'm sorry," he says, "You’re aroused, but also uncomfortable."

Now, Wilhelm's face feels like it’s on fire. His gaze darts up to the cameras, their steady, blinking almost incriminating. "It’s fine, Simon. Our time is - I'll see you tomorrow, okay?."

The acute disappointment on Simon's face makes him want to take back the words at once. He swallows, turning towards the door. But, Simon stops him once again, his fingers brushing the edges of Wille’s shoulder blades.

"Will you ever take me on a date?" Simon whispers. It sounds like the words are being torn from his body.

Wilhelm closes his eyes, trying to keep his breath steady. "I don't know," he admits, more honest than he’d have preferred to have been in this room. "Have you ever been outside this facility, Simon?"

"No," Simon murmurs. His hand smooths across Wilhelm’s back. "I've never been outside these two rooms."

Wilhelm nods. He turns slightly to remove Simon's arm from his back, the grip of his hand wide around Simon's clothed elbow. The touch is different somehow, more charged than anything they've shared before.

"Will you take me?" Simon asks again, "Wille?"

And Wilhelm needs to leave. Right fucking now.

________

Wilhelm’s breathing hard by the time he’s out of the room, the ghost of Simon’s fingers still dancing on his neck, his face an ever-present image in his mind. He leans against the table in the observation room, ignoring the way Erik’s watching him closely..

“What the fuck,” he manages at last, his voice sounding hoarse to his own ears, “What in ever-loving fuck was that?”

Erik simply calmly adds another spoonful of sugar to his tea. He's leaning back lazily in his chair, screens still blown up with the view of the now empty room. Wilhelm decidedly doesn't look to see where Simon is now. “What was what, little brother?”

“What was he doing?” Wilhelm’s all but yelling now, “Why is he - he’s coming on to me. Why would you make him do that?”

Erik takes a sip of the steaming liquid, an amused expression spreading across his face, “You’re the only other person he’s ever met besides me and I’m basically his father. Doesn’t seem too far-fetched that he’s got a bit of a crush.”

“Fuck,” Wilhelm runs a hand through his hair, trying to get his racing heartbeat under control. “Why would you do that?” He asks finally, “Give him - a sexuality?”

Erik sets down his cup and leans forward on his elbows, “Why not? Sexuality is a fundamental aspect of human life. According to most psychologists, sex is considered a primary reinforcer.” He snorts, “Gives him something to look forward to with you around now.”

Wilhelm takes a seat gingerly on the edge of the table, knee bouncing almost involuntarily. “Why me though? Why make him attracted to his tester?” He tries to keep his question as neutral as possible, but it’s obvious from the way Erik’s face twists with perverse pleasure that he’s given too much away.

“You're asking me if you can fuck Simon, right?” Erik laughs, open-mouthed and shameless.

Wilhelm cringes, cheeks blazing, “No - fuck you, Erik. That’s not what I -”

“You can,” Erik throws him a smirk, “His body is wired with neurotransmitters. He has a complex network of signal paths that mimic nerves. Strip him of those clothes he's just put on for you and he's anatomically accurate, a concentration of sensors down there. If you engage him in the right way, it'll create a pleasure response, and he'll give as good as he takes. He'll even finish, even if the actual mechanics of him coming - ”

Something in Wilhelm runs cold at the words. He steels his back, tries to make himself look as tall as possible even if Erik could stand and dwarf him with mass alone. “That’s not what I fucking asked,” he says darkly.

“Maybe not," Erik mulls as he gets to his feet, "But it’s what you want to know.”

"No it isn't," Wilhelm argues hotly as he follows Erik out of the room. Instead of taking the staircase to the right back up the kitchen and living room, they make a left turn at the end of the corridor. There's a completely new hall here, one that Wilhelm's never seen before. Not for the first time, he wonders how big the facility really is, why one lonely man would need so much space.

They walk in silence for a minute, passing a range of anatomically accurate paintings, mostly of naked young men and women. Wilhelm doesn't ask about them, keeping his eyes trained on Erik’s back. "I want to know," he says instead, repeating his thought from earlier, "why you made him attracted to me - his tester. Why program him like that? Is this to cloud my judgment? A defense tactic or something?"

Erik snorts unkindly. They stand in front of a smooth metallic door, much like the other ones he's seen around in the hallways. Erik clicks the button on his remote door slides open with a smooth hiss. "You don't have access to this room. Just saying."

"Erik," Wilhelm grits, "Why is Simon flirting with me?"

"For fuck's sake, Wille," Erik's voice is tense, coiled, clearly irritated and condescending all at once. "I programmed him to be gay, just like you were programmed to be fluid or whatever the fuck you’re calling yourself this month."

Wilhelm frowns as he steps through the doorway, "Nobody programmed me to be anything."

They're in some sort of lab, smooth glass cases covering bits of blue gel, boxes - clear and cardboard - line an entire wall, most of them filled to the brim with papers to the point where the lids strain outwards. Along his left are sections of android bodies - limbs, torsos, hands - lined in glass cabinets. Towards the back of the room are more parts, specifically a collection of heads. Skull-forms, some with complex carbon-fiber and pneumatic muscle structures, ready to frown or smile. All are noticeably missing the synthetic meshed-flesh covering that Simon has. A row of synthetic faces hang separately up on armatures, much like hats on hat-stands, waiting to be worn.

In the middle of the room is what appears to be an operating table.

Erik moves towards it, picking up a skull as he goes. "Don't be ridiculous," he rolls eyes, clearly amused, "You decided to be queer? No, of course you didn't - you were programmed by a complex combination of nature and nurture. Just like Simon has been programmed." He motions for Wilhelm to follow him as he sets the skull down on the smooth metal of the table. "And frankly, this sounds like your insecurity talking. You're attracted to him; he's attracted to you. His flirting isn't an algorithm, because for the record, I didn't program him to like you."

Wilhelm allows the words to sink into his skin for only a moment before he stomps down on the giddy warmth that irrupts in his stomach. For fuck's sake, he's a scientist; he needs to stop thinking like a teenager with a crush. "Is this where you built him?"

Erik watches him for a long moment, clearly interested by the change of subject, or more accurately, Wilhelm's need to change the subject. "His version of the womb if you will. Want to know the biggest challenge when it came to making him?" Wilhelm moves to nod before he realizes that it's a rhetorical question, "Facial expressions. Humans read and express them on a basic level, we're born with it hardwired into us - they span every culture, every language. It ended up being the main downfall of some of the earlier prototypes - "

"Earlier prototypes?" Wille can't help but jut in. Realistically he knows that Erik's been working on this little hobby of his for over a decade, there had to have been other models, simpler ones, ones that didn't work as well. It's still a strange idea though, that there were others before Simon. That there might be others after him.

Erik raises a dark eyebrow at him. "You thought he was alone - the only one?"

"No," Wilhelm admits, "I just - I knew he wasn't the first. But I did think he'd be the last." His voice is tighter than he'd anticipated, a fierce curl of protectiveness that’s obvious even to himself.

"You feel bad for him, little brother?" Erik leans against the table, looks him dead in the eye.

Wilhelm shakes his head, tries not to let his voice betray him.

Then, Erik sighs. "Simon doesn't exist in isolation - not any more than you and I do, at least. He's part of an evolutionary continuum, version 12.8 to be exact. Every version gets a little bit better, a little bit closer to that all-consuming fear. The androids that'll make the human race obsolete."

Wilhelm cracks a weak smile despite himself. He rolls the thought around in his mind like a marble. "So - do you think he's it? You know - singularity?"

There are a few beats of silence, nothing touching the moment except for the sound of their breathing, even though Wilhelm feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest. He wants to know the answer almost as badly as he doesn't.

"I don't know," Erik says at last. He shoots Wilhelm a strange look, "Shouldn't you be telling me?"

"Fair enough," Wilhelm reasons, cocking his head. "Anyway, what about facial expressions?"

"Christ," Erik shakes his head, runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair, huffing a laugh. "He really does make you emotional doesn't he." Wilhelm flushes despite himself, "I hacked everything," Erik says abruptly.

Wilhelm blinks, "You - "

"I took all the data pouring in from cameras, cell-phones, every single one, across the globe - and redirected it through social media. Gives you a limitless supply of human facial and vocal interaction. Simon's mind is made out of structured gel - do you know what that does, Wille?"

Wilhelm shakes his head, "I don't know what any of this does to be honest."

"Don't exactly blame you," Erik shrugs casually. He sets the skull on the table, before he pinches it with two fingers. Wilhelm watches in fascination as the gel keeps its form even after Erik lets go, hardening into its new shape. "This is state of the art stuff, hasn't been released to the public yet. Structured gel is a new building material my company found a few years ago. Earlier AI models always used circuitry, but we had to get away from that. Our minds don't necessarily work in sequences; it'd be inaccurate, simplistic. AI minds need to be able to restructure and rearrange at a molecular level, but still hold their structure when required. For example, Simon’s mind holds still for memories, but shifts for thinking."

Wilhelm reaches down to poke at the skull. It feels like Jell-O, but tougher somehow, more durable. "What about the software?"

Erik smirks, "You're a thinking man, Wilhelm. Why don't you give me your best guess?"

"Social media," Wilhelm guesses. Then, he huffs a breath of laughter. “I guess, since you need to filter his data, social media is perfect - it gives you the ability to work with dense graphs based on familiarity rather than raw data from search engines. Most companies use social media to map out profits, what items are popular, who's trending.” At Erik’s encouraging nod, he continues. “It's a map of people's thoughts. But not just not a map - it's - it's more like a - blueprint. Because it's not what they're thinking, but how they're thinking, isn't it? It makes it so that Simon can be fluid and patterned, but also impulsive and chaotic."

Erik gives him an appraising look, clearly impressed. "Well done, Wilhelm. I hope this'll help you in future sessions."

Wilhelm stills, hand faltering where he reached for the gel skull again. "What do you mean?"

"I'm showing you this so you'll remember," Erik's gaze is cool, collected, casual, but it makes Wilhelm feel like he's been dunked in ice water. "Simon is not a boy. By definition, he has no gender, no sexuality, no identity. He's synthetic gel and hydraulics."

Wille averts his gaze from Erik to the skull on the operating table.

“A machine.”

[louebel]

Hi! Can I request fluff Law x fem!reader where reader is feels sick but tries to ignore it/do things on her own (she’s not used to ask for help) but as a doctor law easily can tell by the signs and it happens during their sea journey on the polar tang? Hope I’m not asking too much love ya 🥺

Feel free to add angst or anything else to your writing ^•^

this is super old and the only request i'll ever do (atm) since i had a wip— ANON SORRY IT TOOK FOREVER <\3 reader is gn since i used the second person and no description.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: trafalgar law × gn!reader 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 6,124 wc. a bit angsty, ends with fluff, emotional reader for the sickness, law is bad at emotions. this turned longer than expected, i hope it's decent xdd hit me up if there's any mistakes lol. supposed to be called windows of the soul,, divider by @ benkeibear my lord and saviour. 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: sickness overtook your body and worsened your already pitiful situation. law has been ignoring you and you have no idea why... but with how you felt, there was no way you could confront him at the moment.

scrub, scrub, scrub... 

"... phew ..." 

scrub... poof! 

"Oh! — damnit — aargh..." 

Cleaning today has been a nightmare. Never been so tedious. 

Like, it was already uninteresting compared to all the other things you could do, but today it was ten times worse. You could bear it, seeking to make dusting shelves fun by humming some random tune to yourself. It was okay, something you had to do every once in a while. You could do it. 

If only you weren't sick. 

"Achoo! Achoo! — urgh... Achooo..! Damn." 

You began feeling like this some days ago, or so you told yourself as you delicately hunched down to the floor, hoping to grasp the yellow sponge soaked in foam and water without experiencing excruciating pain. However, your hopes soon shattered as your back screamed in agony and your legs trembled with soreness, almost giving up on you. 

Just the flu, you insisted, it would go away. A couple of sneezes mean nothing. You would feel better and all would go back to the ordinary. 

... Oh, how wrong you were! And how stupid for not getting a day off. 

You were capable, though! You counted on your immune system (it sounded heroic the first time you thought of that). One night is all you needed. 

Or not. 

"Ow, ow..." 

You should've told your captain. Sure, it would cost your courage, pride, and dignity, but at least you'd be cured. You'd rather die than tell him you got sick because of the one herb he instructed everybody to avoid. 

What's worse is that he's been rather distant, and he's unquestionably avoiding you. The way he shoots daggers — no, whole machetes in your direction every time you do anything, smart or not, is so clear even the crew can see it. And the worst part? You do not know why. 

It had been like this for a while now, and you detested this whole plight with passion. Everything was okay between the two of you, you were sure of it! What did you do that spurred such a reaction? From one so dear to you? 

Those sweet memories... 

From new findings you excitedly presented him, to revealing himself, his past and adventures to you after almost a year of sailing. You knew everything about him. He knew everything about you. 

So why? Why stop so abruptly? You didn't mind when he digressed about his newfound coins. When he murmured under his breath while he pored over medical books or mulled about a particular topic. When he stressed over labor and called for a brief break, where you or the crew would attend to him by delivering him a meal or helping when he wasn’t looking. He's so stubborn.

"Uurgh..." 

From captain, to Law, to captain again. Not to mention how he deftly stopped you from hanging out with him. You thought he needed space at first. Maybe he was tired and had to rest for the next few days. That’s alright. However, your thoughts deteriorated as the days passed. But well, right now it's better if he doesn't see you at all. Nor the crew‌ — oh, the damn crew. Those two.

The "two" being the pair of nitwits that constantly stand by law's side and grin at you. Seriously... 

You do not understand what Penguin and Shachi find so amusing about your situation with him. It's a tragedy, not a comedy. You love them both, truly, the minute you stepped into the polar tang they were the first ones to get you to open up and all, but goodness, you wish you could beat them for sitting there, cackling and clapping their hands while confiding some mysterious comments to each other when la — the captain, showed up in the area and walked past you with an unreadable gaze. He'd constantly salute you and the others with a bow of his head or more, depending on his mood. 

Now? If he saw one inch of your form? 

Sigh. His face always went red. 

Why can't those two just tell you? Even Ikkaku seemed to know something you didn't. She was more subtle about it, though. Jean Bart wasn't slick either. You could see him smile from a mile away. Hakugan and Clione? Shachi and Penguin 2.0, except they hid behind Jean Bart. The rest pitied you instead, sometimes patting your back — sometimes shaking their head almost in disbelief. Oh, and Bepo gave you suspicious smiles! Every time he tried to say something to you, those two animal hat-wearing goblins silenced him. Did they just want you to suffer? 

And if they did want that then their curses were working because even after grabbing the sponge (almost losing your temper as it slipped through your gloved palm twice) and straightening back to an erect pose, your head was still banging with fervor, muscles barely reacting. 

If only you could snuggle with the fluffy, warm mink right now. A bitter sigh rushed past your lips at the thought. 

Those two were just so mean. But Law was much meaner — the captain, the captain... Yes, the captain. That... That dummy. 

You groaned and shook your head while forcing your wobbly arms to scrub the table, exhausted mentally with this never-ending train of thoughts and these fanciful fists leaving invisible bruises all over your poor body. Not to point out those hands pinching your brain like dough... 

Just — you... Goodness, what was it he suddenly despised so much? The submarine felt like home. It was home, especially when he joined you. Now when he does, he — the aura he emanates is intimidating, yet everyone is either unaware of it or not affected by it. 

What made him so resentful? You can barely say anything when he strides into the place, too panicked to learn how he would perceive you or talk to you if you go on. It's like you're back on step one, isolated, too scared to be yourself with your family. Because of one man who's supposed to be the head of it. 

Being you felt like a sin when close to him, as if he preferred the private variant of who you are, and shunned your curious and spirited self. You could understand since he’s rather closed off and well, in a certain aspect you are too, but — did he not like you at all? Was it all an act to not offend you? He didn't seem to dislike your vivid reactions initially, or your foolish gestures when nearing a fresh island. You were often silent, smiling and listening to others converse, but when around your companions, you easily liked to open up since it was the only time you could do so. And they were more than just that. You entrusted all the members of the heart pirates. They meant everything to you. Even him, who stopped including you. 

Ugh... 

You wished it could all go back to normal. 

This disease enjoyed fumbling with your previously scrambled sentiments. Law did mention it brought a high fever and emotional susceptibility. You didn't consider it'd be this severe. 

"... Okay, I'm done." 

You certainly weren't, with your bed unmade and furniture still dusty; floor imploring for a good wash. However, with the croaky voice you had paired with your runny nose, you doubted you could do more. Even if you did, it'd be better not to. 

You peered down at the bucket full of water that probably smelled better than you at the moment, ignoring the small puddle beside it made by your poor handling sponges skills. Grimacing, you decided to leave it where it was in case carrying it back turns out to be a challenge. Hopefully, Ikkaku can provide you help later. 

Looking around, your droopy eyelids dimmed your perspective and further provoked you as both exasperation and exhaustion mixed and boiled in your gut, room so messy it mirrored your current state. You didn't know what was irritating you more: the light of the lamp or the disarray you resided in. 

Howling dejectedly, you turned and plodded to your bed, opening your arms, ready to throw yourself on the mattress. The more you sleep, the sooner you'll get better. Yeah, you're so brilliant. You closed your eyes and — 

knock knock. 

— reopened them a second after, remaining immobile for an extra few before glowering at your door, contemplating whether to go open it or linger to determine if they'd leave. Hmm. 

You waited. 

... knock knock. 

Fantastic.

You gritted your teeth, drawing a profound breath to settle your nerves, haywire thanks to the hellish illness. They didn’t deserve to withstand your rage, but who knows, maybe by seeing your shape, they'll show sympathy and tell you. That could work. 

Okay. 

You sluggishly trudged to the door, not bothering to adjust your unbuttoned pajamas and faking a cheerful facade. You hoped your face didn't look too awful, but you couldn't care less right now. 

Gripping and twisting the knob, you pushed it open, greeting them with the feeblest voice you've ever had, your sore nose making it unthinkable to inhale air. You rubbed the back of your head while doing so, eyelids closed to evade any light. 

"Yo, Penguin, Shachi, how can I—" the words automatically came out of your coarse and blazing throat, opening your eyes a bit to look at... them... 

Then you saw a tattoo. And more tattoos. No white, poofy boiler suits in sight. 

By barely seeing light before, you tried giving yourself mercy, but now you were only slaughtering yourself to make sure the person in front of you was, well. Him. 

Your jaw fell while your brows lifted in consternation, but shortly returned down thanks to your declining headache. Your pupils then scaled the mountain of mass before you and arrived at the peak. Another pair of eyes. 

Cool, gray eyes. The ones that just a week ago welcomed you with compassion and comfort. Now they drive you to wither away from this world. Even if you look up to them. (Hehe, get it? man, you're so silly, wow.) 

"—help … Captain. Uh, hello." and there goes your comfort zone. 

You tried swallowing down air but got pounds of mucus down your stomach instead, curved posture closing up even more in his presence, ashamed to be seen in such a weak state, instantly regretting not managing your appearance as his gaze scrutinized you from top to bottom, probably displeased with how you presented yourself.. 

You looked everywhere but at him. He only looked at you. 

Envy spurted from the plant’s toxins. How could he focus on one thing and have so much confidence to stare at someone without breaking eye contact at all? If you do the same for longer than two seconds, it feels like whoever looked at you has seen your entire personality, life, darkest secrets that you didn't really have, closest people to you — everything in poor words. The windows of your soul, perpetually agape.

How does he keep them closed? Why can't you seal them at all? Why?— 

"—so care to explain the meaning of this?" 

"Huh?" 

You stupidly stared at him, blinking and glancing at his shoulders, then back at him to break whatever spell he put on you, not able to concentrate at all. 

Barely could you see the annoyed expression on his face. You hoped he wasn't dealing with excessive stress. Making him feel worse was not your intention. 

"I said, care to explain what this is? You look... terrible—" you cringed at that, "—and you haven't come out of your room since this morning. Do you have any idea what time it is?" His scrutinizing tone made you want to crawl under your blankets and stay there forever, but his patronizing gaze didn't let you. 

You could merely fidget with your fingers and glance back at the floor to relieve your worries, which mixed with pain, fatigue, and dirtiness. You called for sleep so badly. 

"I'm—I'm sorry, Captain. I, uh, I didn't—" sniff, "—mean to skip my duties. Sorry." 

His brow creased in suspicion at your raspy voice and poor shape. 

"Is that so? Look at me while you say it." if his words weren't menacing enough, his tone was too. He knew you couldn't do that. Especially now. 

"Uh..." you unconvincingly whispered, continuing to play with your fists, until rubbing your nape once more, shuddering at how chilled your hands were compared to it. 

Your actions were, again, spotted by him, and if one more thing occurred, then he'll be correct. 

"Well? I'm waiting." 

"..." 

Sighing exasperated, you raised your head to look into his pupils once again.  

Unbeknownst to you, he already confirmed another of his impressions while taking a further view of your sullen visage. 

"I, uhm, overslept, Captain. That — that happens sometimes, yeah? Sorry about that. I'll—I'll..." stopping for a moment, you squinted your eyes and scrunched your nose while the man before you attentively fixated his stare on your frame and— 

"Achooo!" —covered half of your face whilst he recoiled back at the loud sneeze you let out, not expecting it at all. He blinked, then you sneezed again, and again. Streak of three. 

If your voice and glossy eyes already told everything to the doctor, the continuous sneezes only reinforced his thesis. 

You exhaled haplessly as he sternly said your name. 

"You're sick." his firm and coherent words could not be fooled. Your fate was sealed. 

"...Yeah." at this point, you didn't care. He was gonna scold you, nothing you could do about it. You could only hope he'll do that after you're cured because right now, you could barely stand still without shivering. You were sure if he wanted to do something he would have already, so he definitely will have a talk with you after you're healthy. 

"Why?" you've been proven wrong so many times this morning — afternoon. Evening? That you don't know what's gonna happen next. 

You stared at him numbly, almost done with everything. 

"What do you mean 'why'? I don't, I don't know. Probably our... Ugh, our last stop, isn't that obvious—" 

"Not that. Why didn't you say anything? To the others? To me?" 

If it wasn't for your head beating incessantly and the aching of your tendons ruining everything, you would think this was a dream. 

You kept gawking at him like a goldfish. His timbre wasn't as stern as it regularly was. It was a bit, just a tad bit lower. Like, barely. His eyes were softer, and if you met the man yesterday, you wouldn't be capable of identifying his mood. It's because you knew him for so long that you could distinguish it. 

"I..." you mumbled talks under your breath, awfully feeble to maintain the discussion, barring your eyes and hitching away when Law planted his freezing hand on your forehead. You fussed in protest, although it didn't last long. 

"You're cold... Off." 

"My hands are perfectly fine. You're burning," he interrupted you, stating the obvious. But you were far too deep to listen, fatigued. 

"Yeah... M'sorry." you nodded while deliberately looking down in shame, almost dropping to the ground out of fatigue. Everything seems hazy, the pressure in your skull fading, while the breaths you took were meager. 

Something skimmed over your shoulder and nape — ah, his fingertips — palm carefully tilting your head back up. Your mouth hung open, and you attempted to focus on your captain's facial features and the iconic hat to not fall asleep. 

"It's fine." But his gentle approach and mellow maneuvers set you in a soothing trance, where you couldn't do anything other than auscultate him. 

It’d be an exceptional moment to speak up about these last days, his odd actions. 

"It... It is? You, ah... You're not..." but you struggled to do so, chest too heavy to speak. He narrowed his eyes, striving to make out what you were saying, but it was all incomprehensible to him. 

"I'm not?" he urged you to proceed, getting closer — he felt warm. Wasn't he cold some seconds ago? Ah, he’s draping his coat over your shoulders, so, so cozy, — and holding you as if you were glass. Why was he holding you? It felt nice, undoubtedly nice. Oh, you were going to fall, you think. 

“Hey—hey. It’s okay. I got you. I got you.” 

Cradling you in his arms, Law cursed and crouched down, snaking an arm under your knees and sweeping you up, a short "there" slipping from his tongue, keeping you close to his breast. Naturally, you snuggled close to the source of heat, losing consciousness, unaware of your surroundings, his distress, and jogging to the infirmary. 

“Hey. Keep your eyes open. No, no, open—yes, yes, like that. Good job. A bit more, then you can go to sleep, alright?" 

While nodding lazily when he said your name again, you curled up for more warmth, and he mellowly followed your movement, hefting you up and pressing his lips upon your forehead, his frown deepening at how high the temperature was. He needed to administer medicine quickly. 

"Law …'m sorry if I smell." 

He scoffed. Thinking of such idiotic things was exactly like you, sputtering them out so bluntly. Rolling his eyes was natural at this point. 

"That's my last concern. We'll think of your scent and hygiene later. Don't speak. Shh." 

So stupid, so stupid. He should've confronted you ever since you left the island. He should've. It's been a recurring pattern these days. He couldn't see you because of his work but spoke with the others at breakfast, lunch, dinner... They all grew concerned about your distance. Uni shared that it began right after the departing... He knew something wasn't right with you, he could feel it.

Back in that inhabited location, he quickly took note of your drooping posture and fatigued breathing. He wanted to ask about it, but the following days, you acted normal, and Law thought you were queasy because of the heat.

Then he got busy checking on the crew's documents, medicine supply, the damn broken scope Hakugan sadly reported, bounties, news — and something else. He managed to give a check-up to everyone but you. It was mandatory after leaving an island.

With you evading him and him doing the same, this happened. Great. He could only hope it wasn't contagious.

... Wait.

He gritted his teeth in sour realization — Not once has he seen you in the halls or dining hall. No one mentioned you, either. Have you eaten anything at all? Oh, you imbecile.

He palmed your skin through your suit, easing your laments and whimpers, walking through the hallways of the Polar Tang and reaching the infirmary. Kicking the door open while lulling you a bit, shushing and fluttering his eyelids at your sick and quaking form. 

"There we go. Shh, I know, I know, it's awful." 

Uplifting the blankets, he quickly covered you and began searching for his equipment, rustling and metal clicks tangling with your whines. 

"U- uuh... W- where..?" 

"I'll be there in a second. I'm here." 

As he said that, he quickly came back to you, already stirring medicine in a cup. He had to give to you before you blacked out or fell asleep. Sliding a hand under your back, he carefully pushed you up, gaining a groan from you; you sounded so tired. Tipping your head forward, he brought the rim of the cup to your lips. You were delirious, could barely see or feel, but managed to follow his direct instruction to "open". The first glass was tasteless, fresh... water. 

The second tasted awful. 

"E—eugh..." 

"A couple more sips and we're done. Come on, you're doing good." 

Once you drank it all, with a small praise from Law, he gently laid you back down, about to check your vitals. He knew you were in no condition to do as he instructed, it would be all him. Idiot, idiot... 

Just looking at you made him guilty. He never saw you this awful. However, what truly pushed him were your next phrases. 

“Do you feel better now..?” 

Low and dry, they all were. He halted his movements, his hands in the bag, shifting his attention to you. 

Your question puzzled him. 

Feel better? Him? He was fine. Perhaps you thought the disease was contagious? No; you would've phrased that diversely. His forehead creased, slightly tilted to the side. 

"What?" 

“I … I missed you." 

And as clear drops cascaded down your cheeks, his limbs froze, a bittersweet ache striking his chest. 

"I—I thought I did something wrong … I’m sorry … Should've told you. 'M sorry ... really...” 

Shit. 

“No, no, don’t be. It’s alright, don't—don't speak. You did nothing. Shh...” 

And if you stayed conscious for some more seconds, you could've seen those severe pupils mitigate. The windows of his soul open up; the "stern" gaze he preserved for you withering in an instant at your vulnerability. 

All he wanted to do was clear that up. When, now..? 

“I—I’m the one that should’ve apologized, damn it…” 

"Aargh..." 

Warm. 

"Mmh..." 

It was very warm. Pleasant. 

"Hn..." 

The boilersuit felt different. Heavier, and not … poofy. Hm. 

The pillow was so nice, though... 

You sought a better position under the comforting and amiable regime of your blanket, squinting your glistening eyes as if sand had struck them; eyebrows knitting in distaste and discomfort, choler cramming up your insides — but not for long, extremely achy and sleepy to lament. 

Shouldn't it be easier to relax now that you are tired? Shifting left and right left your muscles throbbing. The peace you could achieve in your dreams was all you begged for. But no, you just had to rise two more times in the span of minutes or hours. 

When you woke up the third time, someone surprised you. He was perching on a chair near the infirmary's bed, head, presumably about to doze off. An encyclopedia of vegetation and exotic environs sat in his palms and dotted jeans, the cover made of green-coloured leather, firm to the touch. 

He looked peaceful. 

"... Law?" 

Your lashes fluttered at the fierce shudder that rocked his frame, the textbook about to fall, his eyes snapping open and rapidly darting up to you. 

"Oh. You woke up. Good. Good evening." 

You were mad at him. You were mad at him. 

His lips were indubitably moving. Whatever he was saying, you were not listening. Something about being out for hours, but you were too out of it to pay attention. 

And looking down at your body, your eyeballs almost popped out of your sockets at the sight of... Not your boilersuit. 

"I'm in my pajamas?" 

"And — hm? Oh. I changed you." Pause. "With my devil fruit, of course. Obviously. You were way too hot in it." 

"..." 

"..." 

Pause number two. 

"I'm hot?" You bluntly said,

"Not in that way." And he quickly retorted, bashful. You immediately got gloomy.

"Oh..." You and Bepo were alike. He couldn’t help but sweatdrop.

"No, no, no, don't — you look fine. That's not what I meant." 

A hoarse chuckle ripped from your sensible larynx, a noise that he hadn't heard in a while. His back loosened at your jovial note, the pressure applied on the envelope of the manual lessening. 

There was a superb illustration of the flora you accidentally whiffed. 

"You inhaled it, didn't you?" 

... Silence followed. Then a sigh.

"A simple allergy with a sore throat and emotional instability in the first phase caused by the pollen, weakened muscles and headache in the second, and heightened senses, nausea, and worsening of the body in the last one. You felt them all." 

Quick and precise, each symptom he mentioned appeared throughout the weeks you boarded on the Polar Tang. He hit the mark. Glancing at him from the corner of your eyes, you nodded sheepishly, feeling hot in your cheeks. 

"Y—Yeah." 

"I thought I mentioned dodging those peculiar red flowers. I don't expect you to recall the name, but to avoid it. Thankfully, you only inhaled its pollen, or else you would've been in this bed the moment we departed." 

"O—oh... That bad?" 

"No, not really. The symptoms would've developed quicker, but nothing dangerous. Perhaps you would have slept over two days, as all cases do when encountering this allergy," He narrows his eyes at you, shutting the book and crossing his long legs, his foot jouncing. "Not at all fatal, only worrying when the patient in question mentions nothing about the symptoms and overworks themselves.” 

“Hey—” 

“You're fine." 

A small huff left your lips, nodding lazily. Nothing was uttered after from both sides. Occasional groans from yours. Only then he spoke. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

"..." The answer was simple. He immediately found the illness yet couldn't pinpoint the cause of this? It was almost ironic. Your quietude wasn't taken well. 

"Well?" 

"... You ignored me. You made it clear." 

And he was faking ignorance. That glance, his attitude. You knew him too well, but had no energy to call him out. 

"I—I didn't." 

"Don't play coy, Law. Did I do something? Even the others know. Penguin and Shachi told me. I—" 

You paused when he raised his hand, glancing at it in confusion, then back at him, twice or more. He sighed and dropped it back on his thigh again, using his other one to rub his temple in distress. 

"You did nothing. I don't know what... Shachi and Penguin said," You tilted your head at his peculiar manner of quoting them. "But I've got nothing against you." 

He stopped rubbing and lifted his head to check on you again and you were unsure of what to say. His brows wrinkled the tender skin of his forehead, severity, and minor unease painting every fiber of his appearance. 

You just... didn't know. 

"Really? Then why those weird stares? Why leave the room the moment I come in? I mean." you flailed your hands around, looking everywhere as if you could find an explanation. "You never behaved this way, Law, not with anyone. I... It was fine before, right? Let me ask again, did I do something wrong?" 

"Of course not!" 

At his hasty exclamation, you blinked, uncertain why he became as rigid as stone. Palms back on the blanket, you awaited an elaboration of his thoughts, observing his adumbral face to detect any key to figure out what caused him to alter his ways with you. However, his hat, which you've always appreciated for its fluffiness, turned out to be an issue. Those eyes you've grown so fond of refused to meet yours. 

You just couldn't get it. The surrounding air grew an intoxicating no romance book would mention, one that did the contrary of setting your heart aflame, that poor muscle of yours. 

If he explained, it would've been easier. 

"Okay, 'of course not' ... Sure—" 

"We are not having this conversation. You need rest." 

He briskly cut you off, and your heart felt constricted. The words felt bitter upon both of your tongues, so bitter and revolting, they made his jaw clench and your eyes water. You weren't having it. Absolutely not. 

"I feel better now, thank you, and I say we're having this right here." You pushed, ignoring how he clenched his tattooed fist.

"No—" 

"Yes, Law! I don't know what I did, but if it bothers you, shouldn’t you tell me? There are things we can all miss." 

The pang in your brain was still active, and you had no patience nor strength to argue. Either he spoke up or you'd go straight to sleep. 

"I... You did nothing that bothers me." 

His speech was almost a whisper, a low rumble, and were you in your regular state, you'd feel sad to see him like this. Law had no trouble speaking up— perhaps with apologies, or admitting to be wrong when in the midst of a conversation. Maybe something genuinely bothered him. But he'd tell you, wouldn't he? He had to.

But you weren't the only one who had to consider the consequences. He also had to do his part. 

"... And?" you encouraged him, to gain something, something that would lead you both to that damned thing you were both chasing, that ounce of understanding. 

“And—and what?" alas, it served another wave of blistering dissatisfaction down upon the membranes of your boiling stomach. 

He couldn't be serious. 

"... Whatever. I'm going to sleep." 

"What?" 

You detested how you were feeling, a volcano of passions, the pounding in your skull, and the heat, and the ludicrous, nagging insecurity, all these wretched, gristly sensations shoved in your mouth and scraping your gullet, such a relucting and squalid dish, contaminating your palate and inflaming the gums of your teeth. 

But all Law could see was how your eyes moistened and reddened, the crinkles at the corners of your mouth, the contracted tissues above your nose. 

You couldn't feel how his heart plummeted, either. Again, he caused you to cry. 

"Hey... I—" 

"No, Law, no! I said leave! You ignored me for almost two weeks and now—now you're just..!" 

Perhaps you were being a bit too "dramatic" for something you could solve with a modest exchange, something that, compared to all the obstacles you and Law went through, was a sheer grain of dust in your shoes. Yet you erupted for the frustration, the plant's effects and that nameless thing you'll bring in your grave, for if he knew, he'd probably pity you. 

Maybe, just maybe, he should've kept ignoring you. If solely to dim that warmth. The glow in your eyes that only sparked with him. 

"I don't mind if you need time. I don't mind if you're busy or whatever, that's obviously fine! But can't you tell me? Is it that hard? Instead of treating me like a stranger? Just—just, just leave..." 

Your snotty voice seemed ridiculous, resounding through the infirmary alongside your sobs and sniffles. Vision tarnished by your tears, staring at the ceiling with resignation. It alarmed Law, whose emotions were already scattered; unnerved, anxious. 

He couldn't take seeing you like this. He couldn't. 

"That’s not it! I... I just — I..!" His broken explanations fell as your cries didn't stop; spasms traveling through your frazzled nerves. He swore under his breath, getting up and coming to you, standing close but so, so distant. His fingers jerked, impatient to wipe your tears, to calm you down, to assure you everything was alright, and this was all on him. 

"What..?" you meekly whimpered, gazing at him as he appeared in your sight. 

"I, I..!" if only he could express himself. You'd figure out. If only he could, without buckling and tearing apart at the weight of his own feelings. 

"... You what, Law?" 

It was tough to see with all those tears coating your scleras, but... His lips quivered. His jaw tensed. 

His hands craved yours. 

"I like—I like you!" 

... You wondered if illusions were part of the symptoms. Your eyelids were all but relaxed. Popeyed. 

"There. I said it. I mean it. Seriously. I—I think I love you." 

You could feel his frantic grip, slightly pulling the blankets in his direction, tense as him. You've never seen Law so … jittery with you. Perhaps when he slowly spoke of his past, or when his plan failed. 

"I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I... I was confused. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't... No, okay. I, I love you, but you don't have to reciprocate, really. ‌I just wanted to clarify that I wasn't—" 

This was different, however. Not the same vulnerability, nor agitation. That teetering edge coating his sayings, not at all close to those instances. 

"... Law." 

"—ignoring you, I mean, I was, but I just couldn't face you, you know? I didn't know how to act—" 

That glow, those feelings. The twinkle in his eyes Bepo mentioned when you spoke of something that fascinated you, that rare grin on his lips, and that sweetness, the swelling in his chest, and the red, and the breath of fresh air, and the intoxicating romance books loved to talk about... 

Those tints blooming in his cheeks. The faint relaxation of his defined brows. How he covered his pretty, vulnerable self. 

He's no different from you. Oh, oho ho, no, he wasn’t. Only now did you realize. 

"Law." 

"—but I missed you so much, I missed your presence, being with you, I—" 

Your heartbeats matched. 

"Law!" 

You understand now. The definitive yell induced him to quit his blabbering, and eventually, he found your gaze. Those windows were not locked at all. Not marginally, not halfway. They were fully open. You could see him. 

"It's... the same." 

It was all you could utter. His jaw loosened, and you could recognize his wide, stormy irises. 

"Huh? Wh — what?" 

"I feel the same way, Law. I—I love you too." 

Yours were open, too. They always were- yet he never acknowledged what dwelled inside. Two fools you both were. 

"... Oh..." and a breathless whisper was all he could offer. 

The silence dissipated. A delightful warmth occupied your rib cage. The pressure was gone. 

All is back to normal. 

"If... If you weren't sick. I'd kiss you." He mumbled, and his lips looked more luscious than ever. He shouldn't have said that. Now it was even harder. 

"P—pfft... Of course, of course. Can you come closer, at least?" you pouted, giving him the best puppy eyes you could muster. “Pretty please?”

"... Fine. It's — not contagious, anyway," he huffed, his cheeks a light pink, and he sat on the margin of the infirmary's bed, hustling just a tad bit closer... 

Closer... 

"Closer?" 

"Alright." 

His ears grew pink at your giggles. Your fingers graced each other, "DEATH" entwined with you. His hands were lukewarm. Long, slim, calloused in some places, but also tender to the contact. His metacarpals were partially discernible, defining the shadows. He took care of his nails, ensuring they were cut short, although they appeared slightly, just somewhat lengthier than usual. Not considerably, however; they were still short. 

How you missed holding it. 

"Sorry, by the way. About everything." Squeezing his hand, you attempted to show him what it meant to you. He squeezed it back, brushing the top of your hand with his thumb, a pensive and solemn look on his face. 

"No- I should apologize for not saying anything sooner. I neglected and avoided you. I … I don’t know what to do. You know I’m not the type for relationships.” 

You hummed in acknowledgement, but weren't as worried as Law. You'll wait. Nothing would change. 

“Mmm. I can wait for you, Law.” Saying it seemed to take him off guard, as if he hadn't thought about it. Or, rather, didn't expect you to propose it. In his head, it seemed silly because it's him. If you were to ask in his place, he'd also wait. 

He felt lighter. 

“… Truly?” 

“Yeah. We can figure it out together. Like we always did. I’ve loved you for years." He inhaled deeply, your words buttery and sweet. "I’m fine with waiting longer.” 

Thinking you wouldn't accept, if he asked, was stupid of him too. Of course you would. Of course. With another squeeze, he nodded, and turned his head away from you a bit. 

His eyes glistened. 

“I’d like that. Thank you.” 

You smiled, too, saying nothing in return. 

He can take all the time he needs. 

After some days, everything went back to the typical routine. The first thing you did was knock Shachi and Penguin's heads, (supported by Ikkaku) and since Hakugan and Clione were on duty, you couldn't do the same for them. 

You puffed your cheeks and enjoyed chewing the well-earned treat you snagged from the kitchen, reorganizing boxes since this morning. 

"Tired?" 

Peeking at the door, a smile adorned your mouth at the sight of your captain leaning on it. 

"Mm, there were a lot of them." 

"You could've asked for help. You know I don't want any of you to strain yourselves with tasks." 

"I had it. Don't worry. Although..." another bite. "I miss it." 

"Hm?" he crooned, tipping his head forward. "Miss what?" 

You gazed into his eyes, "Miss getting pampered by you when I was sick." lovingly observing how they enlarged a bit before returning to the stoic stare he always wore, swaying his head to dismiss your remarks. The chambré tint on his cheeks was as clear as day, like his light smile. Not that you'd tell him, he'd immediately disregard it. 

"... Meet me at my office once you're done." 

As he turned his back to you, his boots making clicky rumors with each step, your smirk amplified... After all, who could wait to get coddled by none other than their favorite captain?

[ladykailitha]

The Caged Bird Still Sings Part 12

Welcome to act 2. These are going to be a rough set of chapters for Steve. I hate to do it, but I've got to get him low, to have Eddie build him back up.

If you've been following along to WIP Wednesday, you'll know (or at least suspect) that I'm nearing the end of act 2 and the return of Eddie.

Then I'm not sure how much longer it's going to be. It could be a couple of chapters. But it might be several.

Here we have Jeff teasing Steve and Eddie. Steve decides to spend all his money on movies and popcorn, and at last a wild Birdie appears.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

~

It took a month before Clint Harrington gave up on his crusade to chase his son out of town. That didn’t make Steve safe, per se, just safer. But he took what little comfort in that that he could.

The kids were jealous of the Sunbird, Mike finally admitting that yes, some mysterious benefactor had come in and swept Steve off his feet. He was a kept man.

Steve squirmed at the term. He was going to start looking for work. Just as soon as the dust settled. There was no point in looking when Clint Harrington was just going to come in and throw his weight around get him fired again.

Mike just rolled his eyes when he explained it to the kids, but Max was of the idea to milk for as much as it was worth.

“Seriously, Steve,” Max huffed, “if I could live in a hotel and swim whenever I wanted and order as much food as I wanted, I’d never want to leave.”

He scoffed. “That’s because you’re like ten and actually have friends your age or did you all forget that my dad chased all my friends off?”

“Ooh,” Lucas said clicking his tongue and shaking his head, “yeah, man. That’s rough. And it doesn’t help that this place has one movie theater, an arcade, and a handful of specialty shops none of which scream fun times for teenagers.”

“Yeah,” Will said from the couch, “Jonathan has been complaining about it all summer. There’s Bloomington or Indy, but considering you don’t know which direction your parents went, you’re pretty much stuck in Hell.”

Steve waved his hand at Will. “See? Will gets it.”

So all the kids got their heads together will Claudia and Joyce and tried to plot out something for Steve to do so that he wouldn’t have be staring at the same set of walls every day, no matter how gorgeous those walls happened to be.

Which is how Steve became cinaphile. He started just picking random movies to see at random times of the day during the week. His favorite time to go was Tuesday afternoons before the middle school got out. Not enough time for high school students to evade the place, but later than the moms taking their small children as a way to beat the summer heat.

It also allowed him to find new genres he liked and through all this Eddie stayed his constant phone companion. He loved listening to Steve talk about the plot and how hot the actors were. It was fun.

Steve was also starting to make friends with the rest of the band. He found out who the other person that picked up before thinking it was his phone that was ringing.

“Hey, is Eddie around?” Steve had asked, calling the mobile phone.

“He just stepped out for a minute but he’ll be right back,” the person said. “I’m Jeff by the way, I’m the one that picked up before.”

“Oh hello!” Steve said in surprise. “You’re the other guitarist, right?”

Jeff laughed. “Yeah that’s me. Thanks for not saying ‘the black one’ by the way.”

“Happens a lot?” he asked with a grimace.

“All the time,” Jeff deadpanned. “All the god damned time.”

“That must be shitty,” Steve commiserated. “I guess it’s not quite the same as saying the blond one or the tall one.”

“Yeaaaahhh, no,” Jeff said. “The other two are neutral attributes while being black carries a certain disdain to it.”

“One of the families I used to babysit before this all went to hell,” Steve said, “was a black family and I didn’t realize all the little shit they go through each day. All the snide remarks and sneering glances all the for the crime of existing in the grocery store.”

“Yeah,” Jeff agreed. “Oh wait, your lover boy is back. Hey Ed, it’s Steve.”

“Little Canary!” Eddie said excitedly upon being given the phone. “Jeff didn’t spill any of my secrets did he?”

Steve heard Jeff laugh in the background. “I didn’t know there were secrets he kept... I’m going to have to pump him for information next time.”

‘No, no, no,” Eddie whined. “Not allowed! Shoo Jeffy. Mine! Shoo!”

“Don’t worry, Eddie,” Steve giggled. “You can tell all your secrets yourself the next time you’re in Hawkins.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said softly. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“You’re just a gooey marshmallow, aren’t you?” Steve said with a giggle. “A perfectly roasted marshmallow. Hard on the outside, but all melty and gooey on the inside. Sweet and sticky.”

Eddie burst out laughing. “You really had me going there until the sticky part. Yeah, baby. I’ll be your marshmallow and you’ll be my little Canary.”

“Yeah, Eds,” Steve said, “I’d really like that.”

They talked for a little bit longer before Eddie hummed.

“Steve we have to talk about the last month of the tour,” he said seriously.

Steve’s blood froze in his veins. Eddie rarely called him ‘Steve’. It was a petname like baby, sweetheart, or honey, or little Canary, or maybe even Stevie. But never Steve. “Oh yeah? What about?”

“We’re going to be in Canada,” Eddie continued. “I’ll still be able to call, but only from hotel rooms. I don’t get good service there.”

The ice in his veins turned to lead in his stomach. “So while you’re on the road, you won’t be able to call me?” he asked, his voice small.

“Oh, little Canary,” Eddie said sympathetically. “I’ll try to call from payphones when we stop for gas, but yeah. It’ll be pretty sporadic. But I’ve gotten Chrissy to promise that she’ll take good care you.”

“She still doesn’t like, you know,” Steve said, “she thinks I’m distracting you from doing your job.”

“Which is fucking ridiculous,” Eddie assured him. “I shake my ass on stage and sing and play my heart out. I never skimp on that, and never walk out one meet and greets with the fans. It’s her job to worry, but it’s not your problem. It’s mine. Plus I have my little elf in play who will be plying you with as many little bird gifts I can find.”

Steve couldn’t help but smile at that. He had gotten in addition to the necklace that he only took off to shower, a couple of graphic t-shirts with canaries on them. A keychain as well as one with his name on it. Three little ceramic canaries and a glass one. All brought in by Eddie’s little elf.

“Yeah, okay,” he huffed. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with next.”

“Well, I’ve got to go, babe,” Eddie murmured, “I’ll talk to later. The change won’t happen right away, but I’ll tell you when the date gets closer, okay?”

“Roger that,” Steve said with a sigh of relief. Then they hung up and he flopped on the sofa like a fainting Victorian maiden. In a couple of weeks, he would go back to being as lonely as fuck.

He didn’t even know who the little elf was or why they never showed themselves. All though, knowing Eddie, it was probably just because he thought it was cute. Which it was. It was also a little on the creepy side. He had gotten to know the porters, bellboys, and cleaning staff very well, so he didn’t mind them coming in while he was out or even in the shower.

But a mysterious person whom he knew nothing about? Yeah that was a problem. He didn’t know if they were male or female, how old they were, were they friendly or just doing their job.

To say it drove Steve nuts would be an understatement.

It had been six weeks since his dad chucked him out for making out with Tommy on the sofa and all that time he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the bastard or any of their friends. It was just then his luck ran out.

He had accidentally spilled almost his whole bottle of shampoo and had to go and get more. He spoke briefly to Joyce and chatted with her about Will and how Jonathan was adjusting to being newly graduated and turned around to run directly into someone.

“Shit!” Steve hissed as the basket he was carrying slammed into his stomach. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

He looked up, right into the green eyes and freckled face of Tommy Hagan.

“Steve!”

“Hey, Tommy,” Steve said with a fake smile. “How have you been?” The unasked question of ‘why did you leave me?’ hung in the air between them.

Tommy reached up and rubbed the material of Steve’s shirt between his finger and thumb. “That’s some pretty fancy new getup you’ve got there. Where you get the money for such nice things?”

Steve took a step back and crossed his arms. “I’m surviving. Like I always do.” He hated how he was already put on the defensive.

“Mhmm...” Tommy purred. “Pretty little slut like you, I bet you’ve got yourself a sugar daddy you’ve spread your legs for.”

Dread immediately pooled in Steve’s stomach. That wasn’t what Eddie was? Was he?

He smacked Tommy’s hand away. “Jealous that someone is fucking me better than you ever could? Maybe I have someone paying my bills or maybe I just have a trust fund. I’ll never tell you jack shit.”

The thing was is that he probably did have a trust fund. He just wouldn’t get it until he turned twenty-one. He had two years of running on empty he would have to do first. At least he had until Eddie came home anyway.

“No,” Tommy agreed, “you were always more of a screamer than a talker.”

Steve rolled his eyes and scoffed. “At least I didn’t run like a bitch when my parents walked in on us fucking. You find another dick to ride or did you go back to Carol like the coward you are?”

Tommy scowled. “You keep her name out your dirty mouth, Stevie boy. You don’t want to see what will happen if you don’t.”

“Yeah,” Steve said with a snort, “you’ll go running back to Daddy to protect you, like always do. Now pardon me, I have better things to do.” His eyes flicked over Tommy’s body. “If you hadn’t been the only option, I wouldn’t have picked you.”

He pushed passed him, bumping their shoulders together as he did.

He quickly bought what he needed and about as much junk food as he could get hands on. Joyce looked as though she wanted to ask if he was okay, so picked a different line to go though, hurrying out to his car. He looked around to make sure Tommy wasn’t waiting for him, but he didn’t see his car.

He drove back to the hotel, ready for a junk food night in front of the TV. He ordered room service and turned on the shower to wash off the slimy feeling of the interaction with Tommy. He had removed his shirt when he realized he had left the shampoo out there.

He opened the door and stopped in his tracks. Because there putting a couple of boxes on the end table was a girl with choppy blonde hair and boxy clothes. She was definitely not staff.

“So you’re my elf.”

~

Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @beelze-the-bubkiss

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @sticknpokelightningbolt

9- @scoops-aboy86 @kurofuckingshi16 @watermelonmite @eyehartart @dreamercec

10- @little-birch-boy @yearningagain @micheledawn1975 @blondie1006 @sadisticaltarts

[wolvietxt]

𝓒HAPTER 𝓣HREE !

series masterlist    taglist form pairing : logan howlett x fem!reader warnings : hurt / comfort, fluff, kiss (no explicit consent), arguments, angst, confrontation, happy ending wc : 6k a/n : will be posting one more chapter after this one, but that’ll really be just random bits n bobs i’ve squished together from other wips, so ready for this series to be over tbh😖

the days after the mission were quieter. the x-mansion hummed with the usual mix of laughter, strategizing, and the occasional clash of egos, but for you, everything felt just a little too loud, a little too close. you kept to yourself mostly, retreating to your room when things felt overwhelming, only emerging when necessary. the weight of the mission still clung to you like a heavy cloak.

you hadn’t heard much from logan after it was all over. his usual gruffness hadn’t softened at all, and you couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not. if he was still upset with you, he hid it well. there were times when his eyes lingered on you, but it was never long enough to read into. just enough to make you wonder if he was judging you. just enough to make your chest tighten.

you'd expected worse. after everything that happened - the way you’d both barely made it out alive - he could’ve easily used it against you. maybe even told you to leave. but he hadn’t.

and that was confusing. unsettling.

it wasn’t like you had a lot of experience in this kind of thing. in the past, you’d always been a tool to be used, a weapon in someone else’s hands. but logan... he wasn’t like the others. no matter how much he tried to distance himself, there was something in his actions, something in his eyes that made you feel... seen.

it didn’t make sense. you couldn’t let it. but you also couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, something between you was shifting.

the tension between you and logan had never really gone away. it had just... settled, like dust after a storm. a quiet understanding, an unspoken truce. you still exchanged clipped words when you crossed paths, but it wasn’t hostile. it wasn’t friendly either. just... neutral.

it was during one of the training sessions when it first really hit you. you were sparring, and as usual, logan was pushing you hard, not holding back an ounce. but there was something different in the way he moved today - something less harsh. you couldn't tell if it was intentional or if it was just a byproduct of his own need to prove a point, but it felt... softer. a little gentler.

you barely noticed the moment when he softened, so focused on keeping up with his relentless pace. but when you finally managed to land a punch - surprising even yourself - logan’s lips twitched upward, just the slightest hint of a smile. it was almost imperceptible, but it was there. a brief crack in his usual scowl.

"not bad," he muttered, stepping back as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "you’re learning."

you didn’t know how to respond to that. his praise was always wrapped in sarcasm, but today, it almost felt genuine.

you nodded stiffly, refusing to meet his eyes, not wanting to read too much into his words. “thanks.”

his gaze followed you for a second longer than necessary, and you felt a strange pressure building in your chest. but before you could think about it too much, he was already moving on, barking orders to the rest of the team. he had that way of switching off, of shutting everything out when it suited him.

in the days that followed, there were more moments like that - small, seemingly insignificant gestures that seemed to say something else. when you passed him in the halls, he’d shift just slightly, enough to let you through without brushing against you. when you trained again, he wasn’t quite as harsh. the criticisms were fewer, and the praise, though still wrapped in his usual gruffness, felt like a sign that maybe he was beginning to let his guard down.

you didn’t know if you were imagining it. part of you wanted to believe that maybe he was starting to trust you, that maybe he didn’t see you as a liability anymore. but there was always that barrier, that unspoken distance that he kept between you, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t cross it.

still, you noticed the changes. they weren’t much, but they were there.

the first real shift came when you were both sent on a mission together. it was a small one - nothing dangerous, just a quick retrieval mission for the team. but there was an intensity to it that you couldn’t ignore. you and logan worked together like a well-oiled machine, moving in sync as you navigated the target building. the mission was smooth, and there was an unspoken ease between you two. no harsh words, no cold stares. just... silence, punctuated only by the occasional order or nod.

it wasn’t perfect. but it was better. much more manageable, for the both of you.

after the mission, you found yourself sitting on the roof of the mansion, staring out at the stars. you weren’t sure what you were doing up there - probably just trying to avoid everyone else, but you were too tired to care. the wind ruffled your hair, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, leaning back against the wall. the quietness of the night was a relief.

you didn’t expect him to find you.

but of course, he did.

"didn’t take you for the stargazing type," logan’s voice was rough, but there was something softer in it tonight. less biting.

you didn’t look at him. you didn’t want to. but you also didn’t want to pretend he wasn’t there.

"what do you want?" you asked, voice quieter than usual.

he paused for a beat, and then, in his typical fashion, he sat down beside you without waiting for an invitation. the space between you wasn’t huge, but it felt heavy. thick.

“nothing,” he said after a moment, his voice low, almost vulnerable. “just... didn’t think you’d be up here alone.”

you didn’t say anything to that. instead, you kept your eyes on the stars, letting the silence hang between you. it wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. just... neutral.

“it’s easy to get lost in your head up here,” you muttered, your gaze flickering toward him. his eyes were trained on the same stars you were looking at, his posture still and tense.

“i know,” he replied quietly. “i’ve been there.”

the simple admission hit you harder than you expected. logan, of all people, had his own battles. you knew he did, but hearing him say it, so plainly, made your chest tighten. you looked at him then, really looked at him, noticing the weariness in his eyes. the same fatigue you saw in the mirror.

he wasn’t invincible. neither were you.

the night passed without much more said between you, but the weight of it lingered. there was something unspoken in the air - something fragile, but there nonetheless. you didn’t know where this was going, you just knew it might get messy. you didn’t know if you were ready for it. 

nevertheless, the tension between you and logan had been simmering for weeks. you knew it was there, always hanging in the air, unspoken but present in every interaction. the quiet moments were just as full of pressure as the loud ones, because the silence between you two never felt easy. it was the kind of silence where you were both holding your breath, waiting for something to happen. and eventually, it did.

it started with a simple conversation - or what should’ve been a simple conversation. the x-mansion was quieter than usual, most of the team away on missions. you had gone to the gym to work out some frustration, and of course, logan was there. he was always there, it seemed, in all the places you were. sometimes it felt like he was following you. other times, it felt like you were the one trailing behind him, trying to find a place to stand.

you weren’t sure what made you speak up. maybe it was the way he kept looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. maybe it was because you were tired of feeling like you were walking on eggshells every time you crossed paths. but whatever it was, you snapped.

"why are you always watching me?" you asked, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

logan didn’t flinch, but his brows furrowed, a little confusion flickering in his eyes. "what do you mean?" he said, voice low and controlled, but you could see the edge in him, the same way it was always there, just beneath the surface.

"don’t play dumb," you shot back, the heat of frustration creeping up your neck. "it’s like you’re constantly waiting for me to mess up. always lurking around, making sure i’m not - "

"what, not good enough?" his voice cut through yours, sharp and biting. "don’t act like you don’t know how it goes. people like you are always waiting for the other shoe to drop. and i’m just - "

"i’m just what, logan?" you interrupted, your temper flaring. "a liability? a screw-up? is that how you see me? is that how you’ve always seen me?"

he clenched his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides. his eyes hardened, but there was something else beneath the surface, something deeper. something that almost felt like guilt. but he buried it quickly, shutting it down before you could catch it.

"i don’t know what you’re talking about," he said, the words coming out almost too cold. "i’m just trying to keep us all alive. that’s what i do. you should be grateful."

"grateful?" you scoffed, taking a step toward him. "you think i’m grateful for you watching me all the time like i’m some kind of ticking time bomb? you’ve been treating me like i don’t belong here, like i’m a risk to everyone around me - "

"and you’re not?" he shot back, voice rising. "you want to talk about risks? you’re the one who - "

"who what?" you nearly yelled, your chest tightening with each word. "who messed up on the last mission? who almost got us all killed? don’t act like you’re perfect, logan. don’t act like you haven’t made mistakes too."

he took a step closer, his face inches from yours, and for a moment, you thought he was going to explode. but instead, he just stood there, glaring at you, his breathing ragged. you could feel the heat of his anger radiating off of him, and it only made your own simmer hotter.

"i never said i was perfect," he muttered, almost too quietly. "but you’ve been skating by, always on the edge. i don’t know how much longer i can keep watching you get yourself into situations you can’t handle. it’s... exhausting."

the words hit you like a punch to the stomach. you blinked, caught off guard by how much they stung. "is that how you see me?" you whispered, your voice shaking. "as a burden? a fucking hassle?"

"no," he said sharply, his gaze flicking to the floor before meeting yours again. "that’s not it. it’s just... i can’t afford to lose anyone else. i can’t - "

"so you push me away because you’re scared?" the words came out before you could stop them, and the vulnerability in your voice shocked you. it wasn’t the angry outburst you’d been expecting. it was raw, exposed. "you don’t want to get close because you’re scared of getting hurt. well, guess what? i’m scared too. but i’m not gonna shut myself off just to protect my damn feelings. i’m not like you."

the silence that followed felt thick. suffocating. logan’s expression softened, but not enough to make you feel better. instead, it just made you more uncertain, more frustrated.

"you think i don’t know that?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "you think i don’t know what it’s like to lose people? to care and then watch them get torn away from you?"

"then why do you act like this?" you snapped, the words spilling out in a rush. "why are you always so distant? so cold? why can’t you just - "

before you could finish, logan reached for you, his hands gripping your shoulders, and in an instant, his lips were on yours. the kiss was unexpected, fierce, desperate. it felt like it came from nowhere - no warning, no buildup. just a sudden collision of heat, like a wildfire igniting between you two. 

you froze, your mind scrambling to catch up. his lips were rough, almost bruising, but you could feel the fire behind them, the intensity that had always been lurking beneath his gruff exterior. but you couldn’t move. couldn’t think. you were paralyzed by the shock of it.

then it hit you. the rush of emotion, of everything you’d been holding back, all flooding to the surface in an instant. you pulled away from him, stumbling back a few steps, your chest heaving with every breath. tears burned at the corners of your eyes, and you couldn’t stop them from falling. you didn’t want to cry. you didn’t want to be weak in front of him. but the floodgates were already open.

logans’ gaze softened, and you could see the regret in his eyes, even though he didn’t say anything at first. he stepped toward you cautiously, as if not wanting to scare you away. "hey... i didn’t mean to - "

but you couldn’t stop it. you couldn’t stop the sobs from wracking your body, couldn’t stop the tears from falling. everything was too much. the mission, the constant tension, the kiss, the way you felt like you were losing control of everything. you didn’t know what to do with all of it.

logans’ hands reached for your face, cupping it gently, his thumbs brushing away your tears. "hey... hey, it’s okay. i’m sorry. i didn’t - "

but the more he touched you, the more it seemed to unravel. you didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to explain what you were feeling. all you knew was that you needed him, needed something to hold on to in this mess. but you just couldn’t, you pulled away from his tender grasp abruptly. 

logan stood still, his gaze heavy on you, his body tense, like a coiled spring waiting to snap. his fists clenched at his sides, the harsh breath he took a sound that echoed in the heavy air. your pulse was racing, and your breath felt shallow, like the world was closing in on you. the weight of everything you’d been holding in was suddenly unbearable.

you had never wanted to yell at him, never wanted to feel like this, but he had a way of pushing all your buttons. the words you’d spoken had come out sharper than you’d meant, but the rawness had spilled over, and you couldn’t take it back now.

he was looking at you like you had just struck him, and it twisted something inside of you, making your chest tighten painfully. you didn’t know what to say anymore. you didn’t know how to fix this mess.

he took a step toward you, his jaw clenched tight, but his expression was softer now, like the anger was leaving him, replaced with something you couldn’t read. "i didn’t want to hurt you," he muttered, his voice low. "i never want to hurt you."

you swallowed hard, your throat tight with emotion. "then stop treating me like... like i’m nothing." the words were out before you could stop them, and you hated how they sounded - so weak, so broken. it wasn’t you. but the way he made you feel made everything crack.

logan hesitated, his hands balling into fists, his breath a low growl. "you’re not nothing," he said, but there was a distance in his eyes, a barrier you couldn’t cross. "you matter more than you know. more than anyone should."

the air between you felt thick, heavy. you wanted to say more, to fix everything, but you couldn’t. the tears had started again, trickling down your cheeks. you wiped them away furiously, as if it would make the hurt go away. but it didn’t.

logan moved closer then, slower this time, his movements hesitant, unsure. his rough fingers brushed the side of your face, and the gentleness in his touch almost made you want to pull away. it wasn’t something you’d ever expected from him - not this quiet, careful tenderness. but it was there, and you didn’t know how to react to it.

"don’t cry, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice so low you could barely hear him. his thumb traced the edge of your jaw, the touch soft and almost reverent. you could feel the heat of his hand, and it only made everything worse - the weight of the moment, the heat of his body so close to yours. you had always known logan as the distant, hard man, the one who never let anyone in. but here he was, and you were falling apart in front of him, unable to hold it together.

you shook your head, unable to form words. how could you explain what you were feeling? how could you tell him how much his presence stirred something deep in you, something you couldn’t control, something that terrified you?

his hands slid down to your shoulders, and he drew you a fraction closer, his face inches from yours. for a moment, neither of you spoke. all you could hear was the sound of your own breath, shallow and fast, as if it would escape you if you didn’t focus on it.

he shifted again, his eyes dark and unreadable. and then, almost without thinking, you reached up, your hand trembling as you touched his chest. his heart was beating faster, just like yours. it seemed like everything was syncing between you - the tension, the desire, the need.

before you could stop yourself, you closed the gap. your lips brushed against his, so light at first it was barely there. his breath caught, and you felt the slight shiver in his body, but neither of you moved away. the kiss was hesitant, uncertain, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

logan responded slowly, cautiously at first, as if testing the waters. but then, his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his mouth deepening the kiss. his lips were rough, warm, but there was something incredibly tender in the way he kissed you - something that made your heart pound harder, made the rest of the world slip away. you could feel the weight of his emotions in that kiss, the storm that always raged beneath the surface, hidden behind his tough exterior.

you parted for just a second, breathless, and before you could think, your hands were on his jacket, tugging him back into you. this time, the kiss wasn’t gentle. it was urgent, desperate. your lips moved against his in a way that made the room spin. his hands roamed, one settling at the small of your back, pulling you closer, while the other cupped the side of your face. everything about him was commanding, powerful. yet, there was something raw, something fragile, in the way he held you.

you felt your body press into his, every inch of you attuned to him. the way his chest rose and fell, the way his lips moved with a passion that sent sparks through your veins - it was all so overwhelming, so consuming. you didn’t know how to deal with it, didn’t know how to make sense of the rush of emotions that flooded you.

when you pulled away, you were breathless, your chest heaving as you looked up at him. there was something in his eyes - a mix of longing and uncertainty - that made your heart ache.

and then, as the room seemed to settle, the weight of everything fell back into place. you realized you were shaking, your hands still resting on his chest, trying to steady yourself.

logan didn’t speak right away. his forehead leaned against yours, his breath ragged. for a moment, you both just stood there, wrapped up in the silence, trying to catch your breath. you didn’t want to break it. didn’t want to speak and ruin the fragile thing that had just begun between you.

but then, when the silence stretched on too long, you spoke quietly. "logan..."

his hands were still on you, but his touch had softened. "yeah?" he murmured, his voice rough but gentle.

you swallowed hard, the emotions from the kiss still swirling in your chest. "don’t push me away," you whispered. "not again."

logan’s thumb brushed across your jaw, and he kissed you again - this time softer, gentler, like he was trying to tell you everything he couldn’t say with words.

when he pulled away this time, his lips lingered just a breath away from yours, and his eyes were searching yours again. there was something different in them now. something raw. something real.

"i won’t," he said softly. "i won’t push you away again."

the days following the kiss felt heavy with unsaid words, thick with the weight of something neither of you fully understood. it was as if the air around you both had thickened, and no matter how many times you tried to breathe, you couldn't escape the pressure. logan was still logan: rough, abrasive, and stubborn, but now, there was a flicker of something softer beneath it all - a flicker you weren’t sure how to interpret. 

you found yourself watching him more often than you intended. it was hard not to. he was still the same, still gruff, still distant. but there were moments where his eyes lingered just a second too long, or his posture shifted, as if the weight of his own thoughts was more than he wanted to admit. the kiss hadn’t been talked about. not directly. but it had changed things - made the quiet moments between you more charged, as if the world was holding its breath.

tonight was no different. you sat on the couch, the book in your hands long forgotten as you stared at the pages without seeing them. the hum of the mansion around you was oddly comforting, a steady rhythm you could count on. yet, you felt restless, like something needed to be said, but you weren’t sure how to say it. your thoughts kept drifting back to logan - his presence, the way his hands had held you, the way he'd kissed you. 

and yet, when you looked at him now, sitting in the chair across from you, he was just... there. his gaze was focused on the floor, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. there was something about him in that moment - like a storm was brewing, but he was trying to keep it contained.

it felt like forever before either of you spoke. 

"you still mad at me?" logan’s voice cut through the silence, low and gruff. there was a hesitation there that you hadn’t heard before, a slight crack in his usual indifference.

you glanced up, meeting his eyes for a brief moment. the question felt unnecessary, considering everything that had passed between you, but you answered anyway. "no," you said simply. "i’m not mad."

he exhaled, a sharp, heavy sound. "good." he didn't seem convinced by your answer, though, and for a second, you thought you saw a flicker of something in his eyes - regret, maybe. or was it doubt?

"you’ve been distant," you said, your voice more quiet than usual. "it’s like you’re... trying to avoid me."

logan stiffened, his jaw tightening as he looked away. "ain’t avoidin' you."

"then what is it?" you pressed. "i don’t get it, logan. you kissed me. and now you’re acting like it never happened."

there it was. the question you had been dancing around. and now that it was out, the weight of it settled between you both like a looming storm. logan didn’t say anything right away. he just sat there, fingers tapping restlessly against his arm. it was as if he was sorting through the words in his head, trying to figure out what he was supposed to say - what he wanted to say.

you waited. you knew he wasn’t going to make it easy.

finally, after a long pause, he spoke, his voice rougher than usual. "i don’t need anyone to get too close. don’t need anyone tryin' to figure me out."

you could feel the walls rising between you, as high and thick as ever. but this time, there was something different about the way he said it - something that made the words sting.

"so you push people away, huh?" you said, your voice barely above a whisper. it felt like the air had turned to ice around you. "is that how you deal with it?"

logan’s eyes flashed with something - anger, maybe. or was it fear? "i don’t deal with it," he snapped. "i keep my distance. it's better that way. keeps things simple."

"keeps things simple?" you repeated, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. "and how’s that working for you? because from where I’m standing, it looks like it’s making everything worse."

logan shifted, his eyes flickering to you for a second before he looked away again. you could see the tension in his body - how tight his muscles were, like he was preparing for something, bracing himself. but for what? a fight? or something else?

"you don’t know anything about me," he muttered, a trace of defensiveness creeping into his voice. "you don’t get it."

"then help me understand," you shot back. "stop pushing me away. stop making this harder than it has to be."

there was a beat of silence - just long enough for the words to settle between you both like poison. logan clenched his fists, his knuckles white with the effort. he looked at you, and for the briefest of moments, you saw something flicker in his eyes - a vulnerability that scared him. but just as quickly, it was gone, buried behind the walls he had spent years building.

"you want me to open up?" he finally said, voice tight, like admitting it was a struggle. "you want me to let you in?" his gaze dropped to the floor, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "i don’t know how to do that. okay?"

you took a step forward, your heart hammering in your chest. "i don’t expect you to be perfect. i just want to be here." your voice softened, the anger giving way to something gentler. "we’re both broken, logan. but maybe we can fix each other, piece by piece."

he let out a breath, his body relaxing slightly, but the tension was still there, thick in the air. "i don’t know how to let people in," he muttered, his voice almost regretful, but still so guarded. "i don’t want to hurt you."

the words hit you harder than you expected. he was afraid of hurting you? after everything he’d done - after the way he’d kissed you, pulled away, then built these walls higher than ever - he was still afraid?

"logan," you said softly, your hand trembling slightly as you reached out to him, "you’re not going to hurt me."

he looked at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, before he sighed deeply. "i don’t know how to believe that," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "i’ve lost too many people. too many times."

you closed the gap between you, your fingertips brushing his arm gently, grounding him. "you don’t have to be afraid of me, logan."

he finally met your eyes, and for the first time in a long while, you saw a flicker of something close to fear - fear of losing you. fear of losing anyone again.

you didn't need to say anything else. your touch, your presence, said it all.

there were days when it felt like everything was normal again - like everything was just fine. you and logan had started to settle into something new, something fragile but real. there were still moments of tension, moments where the old habits of keeping distance would surface, but it was easier now. easier to just be with him without the heavy weight of uncertainty hanging over everything. at least, most of the time.

you’d found your own quiet moments together, away from the chaos of the team. the mansion wasn’t exactly small, but it was easy to find pockets of solitude. the quiet corners of the common room, or the back porch where the two of you could sit in silence, watching the sunset and pretending the world didn’t exist outside the walls. it was in these moments that everything felt just right.

today was one of those days. the air outside was crisp, but not cold. there was a soft breeze that made the trees outside the mansion sway, and the sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room. you and logan had retreated to your favorite corner of the common room, your heads close together as you both absently read through mission reports. he was sitting across from you, his leg stretched out, arms folded in front of him as he scanned a piece of paper with his usual intensity. but you couldn’t help but watch him, your eyes flickering from the pages to the man across from you. there was something comforting about the way he carried himself - still so guarded, so logan, but with just enough softness in his posture that you felt like you could reach him if you tried.

you hadn’t meant to, but your gaze lingered a little too long, and when your eyes met his, he raised an eyebrow.

"what?" he asked, his voice rough but somehow soft at the same time.

"nothing," you muttered, quickly glancing back down at your own papers, a smile tugging at your lips. but the air between you was different. lighter. warmer. you could tell he felt it too, even if he didn’t say anything. 

he was always like this, so hard to read, but so much more than the tough guy he liked everyone to believe he was. and, despite everything, he was still here. here with you.

you heard footsteps approaching, light but deliberate, and your heart skipped a beat as you glanced up. logan didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in whatever was in front of him, but you knew the sound all too well.

"you two seem awfully cozy," scott’s voice broke through the stillness, and you immediately stiffened, the air between you both suddenly feeling a little too heavy.

logan didn’t move. he didn’t even look up, but there was something in his stance that shifted, something guarded and tense. you could feel the protective instinct coming off him in waves, and you knew it wasn’t just about scott. it was about keeping this - this quiet, fragile thing between you both - safe.

"we’re just looking over some reports," you said, your voice smooth, a little too smooth. you could feel your cheeks warming, but you tried to hide it with a small, casual smile.

scott wasn’t convinced. "uh-huh. sure." his tone was light, but there was something in his gaze that you couldn’t quite read. "well, don’t mind me."

you and logan exchanged a quick, silent glance, and before you could react, logan shifted, his hand moving instinctively to his side, a quick, sharp gesture that had you instinctively leaning back. you almost bumped into the armrest, and for a second, you both froze, tension prickling in the air.

"uh, scott," logan’s voice was gruff as ever, but you could hear the edge to it. "you need something?"

scott looked between the two of you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but before he could press further, he shrugged. "nah, just wanted to see what you two were up to. looks like you’re... busy." he threw a glance between you both, before giving you a teasing grin. "don’t let me interrupt."

and with that, he left the room, the sound of his footsteps growing fainter until he was gone.

the second he was out of sight, the air seemed to relax again. you exhaled sharply, your body suddenly aware of how tense you’d been holding yourself, and your hand automatically went to your chest in a small attempt to calm your racing heart. you could still feel the heat on your cheeks, the flush that had risen in response to scott’s teasing, and you quickly glanced at logan, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

but of course, he had.

"you alright?" logan’s voice was low, softer than usual, but still rough. he didn’t move to touch you, but his gaze lingered for a second too long, and you knew he was waiting for some sort of reaction. 

"yeah," you said, forcing a grin as you gave him a small shrug. "just... not used to being caught."

logan chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that had your stomach flipping. "can’t help it. you’re too obvious."

you laughed, a light sound that felt almost foreign, but good. good because it was just the two of you here, no masks, no pretending. just this. 

and maybe it was the aftereffects of the near-miss with scott, or maybe it was just the weight of everything that had been building up between you and logan, but before you could stop yourself, you leaned toward him, just a little, your lips barely brushing against his cheek.

logan froze. you could feel the shift in him, the way his body tensed for a fraction of a second before he relaxed, the warmth of his breath ghosting against your skin.

"god, you drive me crazy," he muttered under his breath, his hand coming up to gently cup your chin. he tilted your head slightly, his thumb tracing along your jaw. 

and before you knew what was happening, his lips were on yours. it was rough at first - hungry, almost desperate - as though he was afraid he would lose this moment, afraid he would lose you. his kiss was demanding, but there was something tender underneath, something softer than you had expected. it was like he was trying to pull you in, to keep you close. 

you melted into the kiss, your hand resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. he tasted like warmth, like something familiar and safe, and for the first time, everything else fell away. there was no mission, no team, no barriers between you. just the two of you, and the quiet understanding that this was right.

when you finally pulled away, breathless, logan’s forehead pressed against yours, his hands still cradling your face as if you might slip away if he let go. he didn’t say anything at first - he didn’t need to. you could see it in his eyes, the vulnerability that he only showed you when no one else was around. 

"we’ve gotta be careful," he muttered, his voice gruff, but there was something soft in his tone, a quiet understanding. "we can’t let anyone find out about this... us."

you nodded, though your heart twisted in a way you couldn’t explain. you knew the risks. you knew the consequences of getting too close, of allowing yourself to feel things that were too big, too messy. but for now, in this moment, all that mattered was him. and you. together.

"yeah," you whispered, brushing your lips against his again, just a soft, fleeting touch. "we’re fine. just... just don’t let go."

he didn’t.

and for the first time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

🌀 logan howlett : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @rooroen

@lemoanaid, @correnz, @coocoocachewgotscrewed, @ohmystvrk, @y08h

@lovely-liliacs, @california-boys-and-sun, @omen-keke, @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts, @seasonofthenerd

@superlegend216, @mikaaki, @withasideofmeg, @samfunko, @aaronhotchnerlover

@qxuanii, @m1cky-y-y, @uncertified-doc, @cryingwta, @pvndomi

@marvelescvpe, @flamin-hot-cheetos, @misscrissfemmefatale, @ltristessedureratoujours, @meadow-field

@hazydespair, @stupid-little-birdie, @aoi_targaryen, @urlocallocachica, @person-005

@christinamadsen, @zaggprincess2, @lokixryss

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[deetheteadrinkingdragon]

WIP Wednesday #3

“I probably should have put this down when I was clipping your wing fur,” she muttered, brushing clumps of fur roughly off the edge of her bed before she lay the towel down where he had been sitting.

“Here,” she patted it, and N clambered back onto the sheets, parking himself in the middle of the cloth. She gently hovered her hands over his waist before placing them there, giving him a little push, and he complied with her silent request, scooting a few inches forward. Uzi smiled and ran her fingers up the small of his back and he straightened up with a cheerful trill. “Alright, lets finally get you sorted.”

---

It's Wednesday again, friends! I have a bit of a longer preview for you guys below the 'read more' because I was feeling particularly soft over them this week hehe. Enjoy a cute little moment where Uzi cleans up her sweet boy!

N watched her curiously, twisting his shoulders to peek back at her, and she gave him an affectionate, yet distracted chin scratch as she reached for the bottle of surgical spirit in her kit, setting it aside. She dumped a bowl of batteries out onto the bedside table, indifferent to the fact they simply rolled right off the edge, and very carefully poured a few glugs of distilled water into its bottom along with the last dregs of the ancient shampoo. The plan was simple enough; she would use this to help tackle his mane, while she used a spare rag dabbed with alcohol to wipe clean the years worth of oil build up on his casing.

Uzi pulled on a pair of vinyl gloves from her kit carefully – even though her body was now host to squishy, probably pretty damp internal organs, the idea of water leaking into the joins of her fingers still filled her with instinctual dread. The last thing she wanted was to fry a circuit in her arm or something - regenerating missing limbs or healing over a gaping hole in her chest was one thing, but she had no idea how well her Solver could cope with water damage.

Scowling at the mixture with apprehension, Uzi pointed a finger at the bowl firmly. “Don’t. Kill me.” She muttered threateningly. She heard N snort, his back bouncing with a little giggle.

“Should I be worried at all about this?”

“No, you’re fine. Probably.” Uzi swirled her protected fingers about carefully in the water until soapy bubbles danced on its surface. She was pretty confident in N’s safety. She was only planning on using the foam itself, and even if a little water made its way onto his casing, he’d spent who-knew-how-long living out in an eternal, deathly snow-storm. Cyn must have made him weatherproof - a few drops of water was probably nothing to him.

Uzi scooped up a handful of soapy bubbled and scrunched them into the fibres of his mane, lathering them between her fingers. Almost instantly the soft, pale pink suds swallowed up the dust and oil, fading to grim greys and near blacks. She worked her fingers through the fur enthusiastically, scrunching and twirling it and massaging the soap into the hairline where it met his casing. She could hear and feel him purring again and she smiled, delighting in how the prickled spines softened as clumps parted into something softer.

“That nice?” She asked fondly, as she watched his tail wag cheerfully.

“Mhm,” he hummed softly. “It’s feels like a massage…”

The colour of his mane was more vibrant than she initially realised. As the years of grime, dust and oil faded with each new addition of shampoo, the dull gold stripes brightened to a vibrant yellow not unlike the hue of the hazard strips lining his wrists, thighs and heels. It already looked so much healthier, despite the haphazard length and missing sections along its stretch. The wonders a simple wash could do for a drone.

With a clean rag, Uzi ruffled the fur from the base of his tail up to between his shoulders to remove the foam, and then, she repeated the process again. She couldn’t deny the relief – this was working, it was actually working. The bubbles foamed a duller pink, but a pink nonetheless, as the last remnants of his life in the wild washed away. This time as she dried his mane, it puffed up; fluffing out and bristling, each individual hair now free from the crusted prisons they had endured.

“It’s pretty,” she didn’t mean to say it out loud, but she was glad she did when N offered her the fondest smile over his shoulder.

“…It is?”

“Yeah,” she pulled the gloves off and tossed them on the floor so that she could truly feel the difference for herself. The tactile sensors of her finger pads revelled in the softness, and how it twitched gently under her fingers as she hovered them slowly over their tips. Then she dug them into the thick fluff, scratching near the roots and N’s whole body rumbled in delighted approval. His tail thumped joyfully against the mattress again, once, twice, and then curled around her, draping itself loosely around her waist.

[mawofthemagnetar]

TFC’s Completely Normal Afternoon Where Nothing Goes Wrong And Nobody Dies Horribly

(shoutout to @lindentree for inspiring this silly fic!)

TFC sat in his little bachelor pad, coffee in hand, watching the steam rise out of his mug. 

It was a nice mug, all things considered. A gift from the other Hermits. A handmade blue thing, turned on a potter’s wheel, with an extra-large handle to give his old hands a break sometimes. Full of coffee from his ancient coffee machine, that gurgled and growled like a jackhammer being waterboarded.

TFC took a sip, and winced. Okay, so maybe it was time to leave the mine and get more coffee. He’d re-used the grounds for the fourth time, and now it was really starting to get properly bitter. 

He drummed his fingers on his glass-top table, listening to the echo against the cold stone walls of his little antechamber. Maybe he’d decorate the walls at some point soon. 

TFC shrugged, and opened his comm. Hopefully one of the other Hermits had some coffee beans. He wiped the stone dust off his screen, and held down the three buttons to switch it on. Yes, he kept his comm strapped to his arm like almost every other player with some semblance of sense. No, he refused to let the damn thing be awake for any longer than it needed to be. The Hermits were chatty folks, and when TFC was deep in his mines and deep in thought, the last thing he needed interrupting his musings was a million buzzing noises as Cleo and Jevin got into a slapfight in the general chat. 

TFC’s personal logo flashed across the screen (the three letters of his name in red, natch) and he took another slurp of his bitter coffee, wrinkling his nose. The comm beeped, and TFC opened the group chat and tapped out a quick message. 

<Tinfoilchef> anyone got any more coffee? I’m clean out. 

He put his comm down, and took another swig. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

TFC frowned. He was a patient man by nature. The same could not be said of the other Hermits, who were usually falling over themselves to help each other out. 

And he hadn’t gotten a reply yet. 

It had been a whole ninety seconds.

TFC scrolled up in chat, and he sighed, rubbing his face. He sank back in his chair in annoyance. 

Of course. 

He tabbed upwards, watching things spiral out of control… in reverse. 

<Renthedog was blanched to death> 

<Renthedog> THE PAIN! THE PAIN IS INDESCRIBABLE

<Vintagebeef was portaged to death> 

<Vintagebeef> RUN! THE BOATS! THE BOATS ARE COMING!

TFC rubbed his temples with his free hand, sighing in exasperation. ‘

“Guys, I dug up five stacks of diamonds, don’t make me do this…I don’t want to re-dig those tunnels…” TFC groaned. 

And of course the nonsense kept coming as he scrolled farther and farther back. Gee, that last message from Ren was about four hours ago, now...

<Iskall85 became part of the weft> 

<Iskall85> HELP GOD THE LOOM’S GROWN LEGS

“Does anyone on this server besides me even know HOW to weave?!” TFC growled, averting his gaze from his pile of unfinished weaving in the corner of the room. It didn’t exist. He couldn’t see it. His WIP’s couldn’t hurt him.

And on and on it went.

<Xisumavoid was hooked to death>

<Grian was torqued to death>

<Tango was unraveled to death> 

<Zombiecleo was racqueted to death>

“Right, I’ve seen enough.” TFC sighed, “On the bright side, at least I’ll have all the coffee I had a week ago, so there’s that…” 

He carefully tabbed through his various screens and menus until he arrived at the one bit of his comm that was set aside for admin functions. Now, TFC wasn’t a server admin. That much was true. But he had slight admin privileges, for one thing and one thing only: server rollbacks. 

While, say, Hypno would have had an extensive wall of options, showing his permissions and all sorts of bells and whistles, TFC’s admin console had a text box to input a date and a big red “GO” button. 

He looked mournfully at his ender chest, and, with a sigh, keyed in a date one week prior. 

And TFC jabbed his thumb on the big red button. 

The world flashed white, utterly blinding him, and a second later TFC was deep in the branch mine in a half-finished tunnel, the same spot he’d been exactly a week prior. 

Unfortunately, he was still in a comfortable sitting position, resting all his weight on a chair that suddenly wasn’t there, so he immediately toppled to the ground, landing on his ass in an undignified heap. 

“Ow.” TFC muttered, sitting up slowly and tapping through his messages. 

<Xisuma> oh, we rolled back. Is everyone alright!?

<Tango> Mumbo you are BANNED FROM TIME TRAVEL

<MumboJumbo> It wasn’t me this time! I mean it was. But blame Zedaph! 

<Zedaph> ME?! No! Blame Cub! Cub gave me the doodad! 

TFC rolled his eyes and typed out a message. 

<Tinfoilchef> Does anyone have any fresh coffee beans?

Silence. 

No messages. No new complaining. As all the hermits re-read TFC’s words and soaked them in. 

Finally, Cleo broke the silence. 

<Zombiecleo> TFC. How many times did you re-use your last filter of grounds. 

<TinfoilChef> eh, six? Seven?

<Zombiecleo> are you telling me we’d all still be in shuttlecock hell if you hadn’t gotten sick of the taste of reused coffee grinds?!

<TinfoilChef> Pretty much, yeah 

<TinfoilChef> anyway 

<TinfoilChef> does anyone have some fresh coffee? 

[milktrician]

Ohoh Can you tell me something about the WIP "Supernova"??

A few months back I read “Mysterious Encounters In My Neighborhood” and I took one look at the male leads and said “god i want to write a jiuyuan dynamic kinda like that” and ended up with a Shen Yuan dream demon au of sorts and also he’s an old man :)

I don’t know if I want it to still be called Supernova or to use that title for another jiuyuan thing I’m working on but it’s based off the song Supernova by Yunosuke and Haruno. By the music video you can assume why I assign it to jiuyuan lol

anyway here’s part of the wip

Snap

“Ugh, does this world even have bolt cutters?” A muffled voice carries through the door.

The chains hit the ground, the sound he’s always wanted to hear. Waited to hear. His legs are bunched against his beating chest, awaiting what this unknown man is going to do to him. Lots of men visited the Qius to do business, but they would never be allowed to touch him in the shed. Who would be allowed to open the shed other than the guards and Qiu Jianluo?

The door creaks as it opens outward, the moonlight outlining the old man in front of him. His form is shaped by several layers of simple robes, rounded glasses placed upon his face. Strands of his white hair frame his head, floating around him as if not affected by gravity. For a second he believes the rest of the old man’s hair is tied behind him, but no, it’s almost a shear cut at the base of his neck.

The metal tool that cut through the chains is thrown to the side, the man dusting his calloused hands.

“Strange, and here I would have thought you would have realized you’re dreaming right now.”

“Excuse me?”

His voice is deeper now, as it should be.

…This man was right. He had been foolish, falling into the same nightmare again. He is no longer some sniveling child submitting to his fate in a dingy shack. He is now a Peak Lord, and he should act like one.

“Not even a hello? Truly you are as they say, I suppose.”

Shen Qingqiu stands, “Who are you? How did you manage to break through the wards?”

“And the thanks I get! C’mon, would you have liked to be stuck in these dreams again?”

His wrinkles exaggerate as his face sours, and all of a sudden he’s sitting within a room with bright walls, windows to a night sky without any stars. There is a large seat not made from wood but plushed with fabric that the old man sits upon, relaxing into it.

The old man looks at him expectantly, “Well? Sit. I made this for your comfort.”

“Answer my questions.”

“Haven’t you already figured that out?”

There’s a smirk on his face that he should wipe off this instant.

“The demonic ways of dream manipulation were wiped out.”

“Ah, but you can’t kill an idea can you? And who says I wasn’t already wiped out long before your time?”

“So you’re a stray spirit.”

“Call it how you’d like it.”

Looking around the room it’s larger than he realizes, housing what looks to be a kitchen, a dining table, and this seating space all in one area. The lights are brighter than any candle and look more similar to the balls of light conjured through using qi. There are holes in the ceiling to house these lights, casting a brightness that is uncomfortable in this artificial night.

The city outside almost fights back the night sky with lights of all colors. What look like carriages carry lights to light up the roads ahead, all clustered against each other to create a strip across the land. Buildings, taller than he’s ever seen, have lights peppered across their floors. Housing from what it looks like.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 17

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I have a house now. One more month until move in.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You leave the queen, stepping into the gales that whip around the outer flap of her tent. You reach to keep your cap from flying into the violent winds, the soldiers with their chins down as they lean against the force. Before you can gain your bearings, a shadow appears and calls your name, battling the weather to be heard. 

“Eh, where is your cloak, silly mouse? You will blow away with the leaves,” Bryce approaches, latching onto your arm as the bluster swirls around you, nearly taking you off your feet. 

“I am fine, sir, I only need find a blanket,” you stumble against him as another willful gust pushes you around.  

“That isn’t what I asked. What has happened to it? You’ve lost it?” 

“The queen was cold, sir,” you answer and cling to him, shivering as the tempest swirls around you. 

“The queen... greedy...” his voice trails off as her sneers towards the tent. 

“Sir,” you touch his arm gently to calm him, “she needs it more than I. She is expecting the king’s child.” 

He looks at you and juts out his jaw, “aye, s’pose you’re right, even if you’re too kind for yer own good.” 

He turns you and grips you tightly, shielding you as best he can against the wind. Your progress is slow and stunted by the sudden ebbs and flows. He grunts as you stagger and steadies you, at times almost lifting you off your feet. 

“Sir Bryce,” a deep voice slices through the whistle of the winds, “a storm approaches.” 

The king nears, his sword gripped by the pommel as he leans it against hit shoulder. His golden eyes flick towards you, as if he had not seen you in the shadow of your escort. He raises his chin and returns his attention to the soldier. He angles his blade to the ground and the tip buries in the dirt. 

“Aye, it surely does,” Bryce agrees, “I’ve seen a worst tempest in my years.” 

“Sir,” Geralt holds out his hands and a glisten appears on his sleeve. You lean in without a thought, curious, then feel a cold speck on your nose. You look up and see the white flakes drifting down. “It will not remain so peaceful. It comes from the north and will deepen by morning.” 

“Shall we wake the camp?” Bryce asks and you sway with the wind. Once more, the king’s attention strays to you, he frowns. 

“Not as yet. Let the horses rest a little longer. They will be able to handle a dusting,” he affirms. “but I will harry the men to prepare for our departure.” 

“As will I. I’ll be certain the carts are covered and weighted.” 

“Sir, ever wise,” King Geralt praises and scowls at you. He shakes his head and huffs, “why does the maid wear no cloak? She will not survive in this, summer soul, she is.” 

“Aye, yes, I was only just telling her as much. Seems her heart is too big for her thin hide,” Bryce tuts, “we were only off to find her a blanket before she sleeps.” 

“Blanket, eh,” the king lets go of his blade, letting it stand in the ground. He unbuckles his collar and sweeps his cloak from around his shoulder, “I have my hunting cloak and I don’t mind the snow so much.” 

Before you can react, the king lays his heavy cloak over your shoulders. It is longer than your height requires and it smells of sweat and iron. You lower your head at the warmth clinging to the lined wool. 

“Your highness, many thanks, but I might find a blanket--” 

“Do not defy your king,” Bryce rebukes, “mouse, you would do well to accept his grace. You will certainly need it if these winds do not pass.” 

“Apologies,” you utter, “sir, your highness, you are both generous.” 

King Geralt grumbles and nods, looking once more to the sky as he grabs his sword. 

“The Ridge, Vulture’s Peak... it isn’t far. The castle will do, eh?” 

“Not far at all, your highness,” Bryce agrees. “It would do you well to let your wife rest. Many congratulations, my king.” 

“Congratulations? For what? Smelling a storm?” the king furrows his brow. 

“Oi, I think I’ve said too much,” Bryce glances at you. 

“Say more,” the king commands. The soldier sighs and sheepishly shows his teeth.  

“Please, maid, would ya...” He mutters. 

“Your highness, the queen said she is with child,” you swallow, “I only just came from her tent. I believed you were aware. I did not mean to gossip.” 

“Child,” his eyes sink and close. He hums and heaves a deep breath, “yes, she would need to be still a time.” 

“Your highness, again, you have my apologies--” 

“No matter,” the king waves his hand. “Take the maid, I shall see to my wife.” 

The king resumes his path onward, sword in hand. He hardly shares in Jazlene’s cheer for the news. Perhaps it is only the threat of the storm that has him unhappy.  

You bring your hands to the dark fur along the collar of the cloak and draw it snug. You chatter and Bryce clucks. He nudges you and you walk forward in step. 

“So the snows have come,” Bryce declares, “along with the heir. I sense many storms brewing, mouse. Best keep our eyes on the horizon.” 

⚔️

You don’t sleep for long, if at all. Only the shallow dregs of your anticipation. You watch the snow fall from beneath the canopy and as the horses are roused and fed before dawn, a carpet coats the ground. 

You peer down at the powder. You wonder what it feels like. Cold and wet, Bryce says, but don’t dirty your soles, you’ll be soaked. He remains, as ever, cynical. 

“Be off soon,” he says as he brings Daisy around, a thick coat over her back and haunches. 

“To Vulture’s Peak?” You ask. 

“Aye, so we will,” he pets Daisy’s snout as she sniffs him. “though our host may not be so fond to have us.” 

“Host? It is not the king’s castle?” 

“Ha, no, no,” Bryce laughs heartily, “a king can’t live on a desolate bluff. By fealty, a lord must break bread and offer a roof to his king. It might be his company which has him facing a cold welcome.” 

“Oh,” you frown. 

“Ah, even this old coot won’t deny us in the coming storm. He has sense of these better than any,” Bryce shrugs. “Don’t worry your head. You stay in your cart and Daisy will do the rest. She’s a fine climber--” 

“Out of my way!” The curdling snarl interrupts the soldier and you both look to see the source. “Move, by gods, I am the queen, be away from me.” 

You get to your knees, leaning on the edge of the wagon to see out from under the canopy. A scatter of bodies split apart as Queen Jazlene struts through, the fur cloak rippling from her shoulders and the hood set back on her head as her curls spill out. She sneers at the snow beneath her slippers. 

“Ah, I did hear there was a cart around here—ugh, out,” she points as she marches up to the cart, “by royal right, I am seizing this cart.” 

“Eh,” Bryce moves closer, “your highness, the king--” 

“I cannot sit a horse, sir,” she rests her gloved hand over her stomach. “Or would you murder the future prince with your selfishness. All for a--” she pauses and glowers over at you, rolling her eyes. “A maid?” 

You rise and snatch up the cloak you’d used as a blanket. You keep bent under the low canopy and climb out with the cushion under your arm. 

“Sir, the queen is right, she should have the cart, I will sit with the luggage.” 

He huffs and sends a grimace to the sky, unable to direct his malice towards its source, “if she must...” 

“I must!” The queen snaps and yanks the pillow from your hands, “I will need this, certainly.” 

You stand aside, staring at the pillow dolefully, and buckle the top of your cloak. The queen pauses as she faces you. She looks you up and down. 

“Where did you find this then?” She touches the collar of the cloak. 

“It is my spare cloak,” Bryce insists before you can answer, “what else do you require, your highness? Shall we bring a lamb to sacrifice?” 

“Hm, is that how you northerners worship?” She sneers, missing his irony. 

He blinks dully and says nothing. 

“Well, secure the horse, I will need to be drawn.” 

“It is my horse,” Bryce insists, “you may bridle your own.” 

“You dare deny me?” She snarls at him as the soldiers with her stand on either side of the cart. 

“You may take it up with your husband. This is my steed, she carried me to war and she will carry me henceforth,” he snips. 

Bryce and Jazlene glare at each other. You look between them nervously. You don’t know who King Geralt might choose in this battle should he be called. 

“Fine, fetch the stinky thing,” Jazlene demands of one of the soldiers, “and blankets, another pillow, perhaps something to eat.” 

The cast of the sky shifts with the first light of the sun and Bryce grabs both horses and leads them aside. He whistles for you to follow. You come to him as Chestnut and Daisy cluelessly puff into the cold air. 

“You will ride. I will not have that... queen seizing my horse,” he sniffs, “I will show you how once I’ve saddled the mare.” 

“Oh, yes, sir.” You look up at the horses back. It seems very high. 

“You will want to be aback anyhow,” he shrugs, “you’ll not want to miss the mountain. It is very beautiful, especially in the snow.” 

⚔️

The party continues onward, treacherously. As the snow falls, the train diverts away from the flats and onto the narrow paths speckled with broken trunks and towering trees. The smell of pine tickles your nose as you ascend, bit by bit. 

It takes some time to grow used to the motion of the horse. Daisy’s hooves are certain and she does not slip on even the most precarious spots. Bryce rides behind you, booming about each nook and cranny, pointing out the white rabbits and the wilted fauna. His enthusiasm is unexpected but endearing. 

You ride until the moon replaces the sun and dismount along the side of the great cliff. There is no room here to pitch a tent and only a few fires burn along the ridge. Your hips ache as the soldier grunts about his back. 

“I should see to the queen,” you suggest as you rub your hands together. 

“She must have many fawning over her,” Bryce spits out a wad of leaves and squashes it under his feet. 

“I am her maid--” 

“And we are on a long road. She might go without you minding her temper,” he snarls. 

You frown, “I am not upset. She needs the cart more than me.” 

“It isn’t that which sees me chagrined,” he growls. “It’s those deeds you will not admit of that traitor’s daughter which make me prickle.” 

You’re quiet. You look away, your eyes wandering up into the sky, watching the snow swirl down, following it down to the ground far below. The heaps are immaculate in the moonlight and the trim of white along the ridge gleams. 

“I am a maid.” 

“I know little of your summer people but if that is how they treat those who serve them, perhaps this alliance was not so wise,” he grumbles as he steps up beside you, “perhaps it would’ve been better to submit such cruel nobles.” 

“Sir,” you say, shocked and peer over at his profile. His beard has grown to meet his cloak, his hair coiling down to his shoulders. 

“I serve my king, as I ever will, but I will not bend the knees to a snake,” he hisses and crosses his arms. 

“We are united, aren’t we? Summer and Winter,” you reach to touch his thick hide mitt. 

“Aye, yes, I do not seek another battle,” he exhales. “I am only wary of those who may.” 

You squint. Your mind returns to Lord Dustan and what he said to his daughter. The heir is their prize, an affirmation of the bounty earned by their betrayal, but also a chain to that very act. To the man they forsook their name for. A man they speak as kindly on as they had their former allies. 

“Might I walk?” You draw your hand from his. “My legs are sore.” 

“Not too far. And keep your eyes open,” he girds, “and your hands in your cloak. You needn’t frostbite.” 

You nod and he turns to you. He pulls up the hood of your cloak and pats your shoulder. 

“Tarry too long and I’ll look for you,” he warns. 

“Sir,” you shift slowly and step past him. 

You trod higher up the incline as you marvel over the edge. Bodies huddles together beneath cloaks and blankets, nestling for warmth against the wall of the cliff. You carry on and stop near a luggage cart, close to the drop. You hold out your hand, letting snow gather in your palm. It is cold, bitterly and painfully cold, but so beautiful. You bring it closer and watch it slowly melt as your hand numbs. 

“Do you remember...” the king’s voice drawls over you as his soft steps approach. “What I told you of this place?” 

You look at him. He is lit by the moonlight, his golden eyes like stars, and his jaw is bristly with thickening stubble. You bow your head, “your highness, are the bears already asleep in their caves?” 

He chuckles, “you do recall,” he praises, “not yet, though they do not come this high.” 

“And the wolves? Are they near?” 

“They are always prowling,” he says, shifting closer, his arm pressing to yours. He bends slightly to peer straight down, “the elk will be in the forests.” He points to the snowcapped tips of the distant trees, “here, the vultures have their nests. Their eggs,” he curves his hands to show the size, “I made a writ, years ago. It is forbidden to eat the eggs. I always found it quite tragic to desecrate the majestic creatures before they can even be borne. Before they can fly even.” 

“Vultures? I’ve never seen one? They are... birds?” 

“Yes, birds,” he confirms.  

He is silent as he considers his kingdom below. His breath is gritty as it rises and falls. He has much to think on. A child, a wife, and his homecoming delayed by a storm. 

“One thing has changed here, in these lands of winter,” he says lowly and you feel a ripple in your cloak. He presses his hand firmly to your back, sliding it along your side to grasp your hip. He moves to stand behind you and brings you close. He wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on your crown, “I said before, there is no summer here,” he holds you, pulling his cloak around you, concealing you within it as he drapes himself around you, “summer is here. With me. Warm and gentle.” 

You go rigid as he holds you, your heart beating at the unexpected embrace, at the unseemly contact between you. He hums as he stands with you in the shadows of the cart, so brazenly covert. Anyone might happen upon you and yet they all hide away from the storm. 

“Your highness,” you stammer and quiver against him. 

“Treasure,” he purrs, “my treasure. The one good thing I’ve brought home...” 

You can’t breathe or think. Is he drunk? Confused? What does he mean? 

“I--” he begins but the kick of a rock quiets him, the stone bouncing off the cart’s wheel. 

A shadow stalks down the precipice towards you and the king detaches, uncovering you from his cloak. He faces the figure as the tramp up the incline. You hear the king shudder as he tickles your back. 

“There’s the mouse,” Bryce says as he comes into the moonlight, his brow and jaw set, though he doesn’t look at you. He looks at the king, almost defiant. “You shouldn't be out so long in the cold. Exposed,” he grits, “come, I’ve sparked us a fire.” 

King Geralt clears his throat, “thank you, sir.” 

“My king,” Bryce says as he beckons to you, “I will keep the maid safe. As you bid.” 

[terresdebrume]

Work is kinda hectic rn, my knees are NOT liking how much traveling between floors I have to do, and I am missing sleep like crazy so my WIPs are staying largely untouched but I HAD to push out this concept for a maybe-someday fic in the I'm down on my knees universe

Written for the free square day of @painlandweek . Have some hurt/comfort ft Charles and how he feels about his mum. Also belatedly tagging @ghostinthelibrarywrites bc I think you'll enjoy it and I accidentally posted a thing that was meant to stay a draft again xD

Charles is sitting on the doorstep. It's almost eight PM on a weeknight, Edwin is just back from a fun-study session—which is really just Maren's way of saying she wants beer with her textbooks—tired, brain swimming with texts of law, and more than a little tipsy... And Charles Rowland is sitting on his doorstep. His building's doorstep. The difference is irrelevant.

Caught off guard, Edwin blinks, and stares at Charles.

He is curled up on the ground, spine back in that parenthesis shape it had back in school. His elbows are on his knees, hands buried into the hair at the back of his neck, his eyes closed. Edwin takes in the tension in Charles' shoulders, the way the fading sunlight catches the green vines tattooed on his left forearm, the slow, deliberate depth of movement around his ribcage, and decides against calling out to him. Instead, Edwin walks up to him until Charles can no longer ignore the footsteps, and waits for him to speak.

"Hi," Charles says, muffled, from between his elbows.

"Hi," Edwin replies, chest twisting when the last hope he had that Charles was just a bit tired evaporates like rhum from a flambé.

He steps forward again, then ignores the fresh layer of summer dust on the steps and sits down next to Charles, deliberately picking a position that makes their hips and shoulders touch. Charles leans into it immediately, turning a light contact into solid pressure, and Edwin sighs. Things could be worse.

"I did not expect you tonight," Edwin prompts, trying to make himself as gentle as he can.

Tuesday nights are when Charles and Niko's dance classes take place. Edwin has never known either of them to miss one, so Charles' presence here is one more sign that whatever is going on is not to be taken lightly. As if to confirm Edwin's suspicions, Charles sighs, and mumbles:

"I ran into my mum."

Edwin freezes. For some reason, in the few months since he and Charles reunited, it never quite clicked for him that Charles' parents, for all that Charles hasn't had any contact with them for nearly eight years now, exist in the same world they do. London is such a large, dense city, it is easy to make your life in a corner of it and never step outside its boundaries. Edwin's parents certainly treat Kensington like an insular country only worth leaving for the richer shores of Mayfair, when they deign to visit the capital at all. Just like Edwin and Charles existed less than ten minutes away from each other for months without having a clue, the possibility of him running into Mr. or Mrs. Rowland by accident did not even cross Edwin's mind. Nor Charles', from the look of things.

"That must have been a shock," Edwin says.

He does not know enough to infuse more feelings into his response. Charles, for all that he shares his smiles, his affections and the chief of his worldly possessions freely, has remained incredibly tight lipped about his past. The summary of what Edwin knows of Charles' youth is quite easy to make.

Fact the first: at the age of sixteen, not one term into his stay at St. Hilarion's School for Boys, Charles Rowland jumped into a pool full of a deadly allergy trigger to save Edwin's life.

Fact the second: for the remainder of that school year, Charles endeavoured to make Edwin's life as painless as possible. His presence remains, by far, the brightest highlight of Edwin's adolescence.

Fact the third: at the age of seventeen, or near enough, Charles ran away from what he described as a bad home situation exactly once and proceeded never to mention again. It is Edwin's understanding that Charles may have escaped with nothing but the clothes on his back that day.

Two of those facts, Edwin knows because he was a direct witness to them, and the third was only shared with him because he accidentally made it an implicit condition to renewing his acquaintance with Charles.

Charles Rowland is not an emotional sharer, and Edwin is sort of at a loss.

"Yeah," Charles mumbles after a beat. "It was a bloody shock alright."

Edwin bites on his bottom lip, resisting the urge to push his fists together.

"Would you like to talk about it?" He asks, hoping his voice conveys the appropriate mixture of care and caution.

Charles shrugs, sniffing and rubbing his face against one of his forearms. Edwin bites his lip a little harder, and cautiously raises his right hand to place it on Charles' back. He feels and sees the muscles tense, Charles arching his back like an angry cat for the half second it takes Edwin to take his hand back.

"I apologize," he says, hand hovering uselessly above Charles' shoulder blades, "I wanted—"

"Neck's fine," Charles mumbles, low enough that Edwin almost misses it.

He swallows thickly, pausing when the upstairs neighbors walk by with puzzled faces. Edwin doesn't quite glare at them but it's a near thing, and he turns back to Charles the second they're out of view.

"Alright," he says. "Neck, then."

He only touches two fingers to the nape of Charles' neck at first, trying to keep it light, but that makes Charles tense again so he changes to a more present grip, palm flat and only just brushing with the edge of Charles' hair. Charles doesn't move into it this time, but he doesn't flinch away either. Edwin feels Charles take a deep, soundless breath, like a swimmer before a dive, and braces.

"I. She asked how I was," he exhales at last, and the wind rushes out of Edwin's lungs with a punched out sound. "I haven't seen her in over seven years and she—"

Charles takes a shuddering breath, sharp and painful sounding, and his voice sounds utterly broken when he says:

"He used to beat me up, you know."

Edwin, who hadn't known but kept the possibility in his mind like a bad thorn, bites down on a sympathetic hiss and leans a little harder against Charles instead, stretching so he can lean his forehead against the back of Charles' skull.

"Charles, I'm so sorry," he murmurs, free hand grasping around until it can find the jut of Charles' left knee, and wrap his fingers around it, squeezing with as much reassurance as he can muster.

He wishes, abruptly, that he'd thought to take Charles inside before he started this talk. They both deserve better than the front step of Edwin's building, where another pair of neighbors gawks at them as they walk past. Yet, now that they're here, Edwin wouldn't cut Charles off for all the gold in the world. He fears with an intensity he didn't know he was capable of, that interrupting Charles now would send him back into his usual reserve, and Edwin knows with absolute certainty that he will go to great lengths to prevent that from happening.

"She never—every time he did it," Charles says, almost choking on the words, "she'd just stand—she didn't do anything! And now—now she—"

A long fit of coughing cuts Charles off, wracking his body and shaking Edwin's head even as he tightens his hold on Charles, as if he could make up for his childhood with how much he loves him.

"I'm so sorry," he tells Charles. "You deserved so much better."

Charles' cough subsides, melting into shuddering, soundless sobs that Edwin wants to take into his ribs and hide from the rest of the world. He straightens up and, as gently as he can, guides Charles to lean against him harder until his frame his half cradled in Edwin's arms.

"It's not bloody fair," Charles manages between sobs, gulping air like he's drowning, shaking against Edwin.

Edwin breathes in, tears crowding at the corner of his eyes, and holds Charles closer. He wishes, so desperately, that he could love him enough to erase the past and make all the pain go away.

"I love you," he says instead, recklessly, pressing a kiss into the side of Charles' hair. "I know it doesn't make anything better, but I love you."

They sit like this for a long time, Charles crying and Edwin rocking him lightly like a child, until things finally calm down enough that Charles is ready to go upstairs for tea. They drink it out of the blue mugs Monty bought when he and Edwin moved in, quietly sitting on the couch in one of those strange bubbles of relieved fragility that comes after a crisis. For a long while, they sit in silence on Edwin's couch.

Then Charles sighs, long and tired, and leans sideways until he can rest his head on Edwin's shoulder, one arm looping around his waist.

"I love you too, mate," he sighs, making Edwin freeze. "And it does make things better that you love me."

Edwin, his heart singing from Charles' declaration and bleeding from the way he meant it, nods, and drinks his tea.

[therogueflame]

The Bronze Reign Chapter 3 - Yellow Roses

hello my darling readers,

i went back through my chapters for the first time last night to proofread but my computer is broken bc the maintenance people dropped their drill and broke my monitor so i cant do any real editing until it’s fucking fixed so please excuse any brevity and errors. anywhoosies, i think these chapters might just get longer and longer. :D love you bye

The song for this chapter is Pink in the Night by Mitski

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Summary: A dream lingers, but the day waits for no one. Words are exchanged, alliances tested, and expectations pressed upon shoulders already burdened. In the great hall, a move is made—a challenge set. The court watches. A shadow lingers.

WC: 9.8k

Warnings: 18+, Daemon Targaryen, Slow Burn, Angst, Viserys is literally just doing his best yo

previous chapter

MDNI!

Vysaria woke slowly, pulled from the depths of restless sleep by the soft glow of morning light filtering through the heavy curtains. The warmth of her bed was tempting, but her mind lingered in the haze of half-remembered dreams, tendrils of something formless and unsettling curling at the edges of her thoughts.

She exhaled, pressing a hand to her forehead as she blinked away the remnants of sleep. It had been nothing—just a dream. And yet, it clung to her, leaving behind a strange unease that refused to fade entirely. Pushing back the covers, she sat up, willing herself to shake it off. The day had begun, and she had no time for foolishness.

Breakfast awaited, and with it, her family.

She moved through the motions of dressing, allowing the familiar routine to settle her. Her maid worked in silence, fastening the clasps of her gown, smoothing the fabric, combing through the waves of her silver hair. The castle beyond her chamber doors was already stirring, the distant hum of voices and movement a quiet reminder that life did not stop, even in grief. By the time she was ready, the lingering traces of her dream had dulled, though not entirely disappeared. Straightening her shoulders, she stepped into the hall, making her way toward the morning meal.

The corridors of the Red Keep were busier now, servants moving with quiet efficiency, their voices hushed but steady. The early morning light streamed through the high windows, casting long beams across the stone floors, illuminating dust motes that swirled with each passing step.

Vysaria walked with purpose, though the heaviness of sleep still clung to her limbs, her mind lingering in the haze of her dreams. She could not remember them clearly—only flickers of heat, the sensation of something just beyond her grasp.

She forced the thoughts away.

By the time she reached the private dining chambers, the scent of freshly baked bread and spiced tea drifted through the air, mingling with the richer aroma of roasted meats. A servant stepped forward to push open the doors, and she entered without hesitation.The table was already occupied. Her father sat at the head, his expression lighter than it had been the night before, though the ever-present weight of kingship had not left him. Across from him, Aemma looked well enough, though there was still a paleness to her skin, a lingering fragility from her ordeal. Further down, Rhaenys and Corlys were engaged in quiet conversation, their ease with one another an unspoken testament to their years together.

And then, of course, there was Daemon .He lounged in his chair with the same effortless ease he carried everywhere, sipping from his goblet, his sharp violet gaze flicking toward her as she entered.Vysaria met his gaze briefly before turning her attention elsewhere.

“Good morning,” she murmured, dipping her head slightly toward her father and mother before taking her seat.

Viserys nodded in greeting, and Aemma offered a small smile. “You look as though you barely slept.”

Vysaria reached for her goblet, tipping it just slightly before taking a sip. “It was nothing.”

Her mother’s gaze lingered, as if she might press further, but Aemma only nodded, returning to her meal.

Across the table, Daemon smirked over the rim of his cup. “Nothing, is it?”

Vysaria did not look at him. “I wasn’t speaking to you.”

Rhaenys chuckled under her breath, though she made no comment.

Daemon, undeterred, leaned forward slightly, the corner of his mouth still curved in amusement. “You seemed troubled last night when you left.”

Vysaria set her goblet down with quiet precision. “Perhaps I was tired of your company.”

Daemon only laughed, taking another sip of wine.

Viserys exhaled, shaking his head. “Must the two of you start this early?”

Vysaria reached for a piece of fruit, cutting into it with measured patience. “I wasn’t the one who started.”

Daemon grinned, but Rhaenys, seated beside him, finally cast him a pointed look. “Leave her be, Daemon. At least until she’s finished eating.”

Corlys smirked but said nothing, clearly content to let his wife handle the matter.

Daemon lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Very well.”

Vysaria took a slow bite of her fruit, letting the conversation move on, though she could still feel Daemon’s gaze lingering on her. The meal had only just begun.

The conversation moved on, shifting to lighter matters—idle talk of the day ahead, the expected arrival of new ships from Driftmark, the quiet hum of court life resuming its rhythm. Rhaenys and Corlys spoke of Velaryon affairs, their voices low but steady, while Viserys listened with mild interest, nodding on occasion as he tore off a piece of bread.

Vysaria focused on her plate, methodically cutting into the fresh fruit before her, willing herself to settle into the familiar comfort of routine. The remnants of her dream still clung to the edges of her thoughts, but she pushed them aside, keeping her expression carefully neutral.

Daemon, however, had never been one to let things rest.

“So,” he mused, lifting his goblet once more. “What will you do with your day, niece? Aside from brooding, of course.”

Vysaria didn’t look up. “Not all of us have the luxury of idleness.”

Daemon chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Oh? And what great duty demands your attention?”

She speared a piece of fruit with her fork, chewing deliberately before answering. “I’ll be walking the gardens.”

Aemma, who had been mostly quiet, glanced at her with a small, knowing smile. “With Lady Alicent?”

Vysaria took another sip of her drink before offering a curt nod. “Yes.”

Daemon arched a brow. “Ah. Mending bridges, are we?”

Vysaria’s grip on her goblet tightened slightly, though she did not react otherwise.

Rhaenys, who had been idly slicing into a cut of roasted meat, hummed in amusement. “If Lord Otto has his way, there will be no bridges left to mend—only ties to tighten.”

Vysaria turned to her, intrigued. “You think that’s his aim?”

Rhaenys gave a small, knowing smile. “Otto Hightower does not waste his time with things that do not benefit him.”

Aemma’s lips pressed together slightly, though she said nothing.

Viserys, on the other hand, exhaled, setting his goblet down with a soft thud. “Otto’s daughter is a sweet girl, nothing more. There’s no need for all this talk of strategy before breakfast.”

Daemon smirked into his cup. “And yet, strategy never waits, does it?”

Aemma shot him a look before turning back to her daughter. “It’s good of you to spend time with Alicent. The poor girl has few companions at court.”

Vysaria only nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Daemon, however, tilted his head, studying her. “And do you enjoy her company?”

Vysaria finally looked at him then, meeting his gaze directly. “Does it matter?”

He grinned. “Only if you pretend it does.”

She exhaled slowly, returning her focus to her plate. “I imagine I’ll survive it.”

A chuckle rippled through the table, though it was Rhaenys who spoke next. “A ringing endorsement if I’ve ever heard one.”

Vysaria shook her head, though the tension in her shoulders had eased somewhat.

The morning sun had risen higher by the time the meal began winding down, the plates picked over, goblets half-emptied, and the earlier energy of conversation fading into something quieter, more subdued. Servants moved efficiently around the table, clearing away what remained as the last sips of wine and tea were taken.

Viserys leaned back in his chair, exhaling with satisfaction, while Aemma quietly set down her utensils, giving Vysaria a small, expectant look.

“You shouldn’t keep her waiting too long,” she murmured.

Vysaria resisted the urge to sigh, instead offering her mother a brief nod. “I won’t.”

Daemon, watching with undisguised amusement, smirked. “Off to suffer through your morning obligation?”

Vysaria shot him a look as she rose from her seat. “Try not to miss me too much.”

Rhaenys chuckled under her breath, and Corlys smirked but said nothing. Viserys, too used to their bickering to bother commenting, only shook his head as he waved his daughter off.

Vysaria dipped her head toward her parents before stepping away from the table, her steps steady as she exited the dining chamber and moved toward the gardens.

The Red Keep was alive with movement now, courtiers and attendants moving about their morning routines, voices carrying through the halls in hushed tones. The air was warmer, the scent of blooming roses and fresh earth drifting toward her as she approached the royal gardens. And there, under the shade of a trellis, waiting with her hands clasped in front of her, was Alicent Hightower. The gentle breeze carried the scent of blooming lavender and citrus, mingling with the faint perfume that clung to her skirts. She had seen Vysaria approaching and straightened slightly, smoothing a hand over the bodice of her gown—an unconscious habit, perhaps, or a quiet attempt at composure. Vysaria, still carrying the last remnants of her morning grogginess, did not rush to close the distance between them. She moved at her own pace, unhurried but inevitable.

“Princess,” Alicent greeted with a polite dip of her head, her tone measured, as careful as ever.

“Alicent,” Vysaria returned, stopping just a pace away.

For a moment, there was only silence between them, the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds filling the space that words did not. Then, Alicent shifted, glancing briefly toward the pathway that stretched deeper into the gardens. “Shall we walk?”

Vysaria gave a small nod, and together they set off, their steps falling into a slow, deliberate rhythm.The Red Keep’s gardens were beautiful this time of year, meticulously maintained with winding paths leading through bursts of color—deep red roses, pale golden marigolds, violets that bloomed in quiet shade. It was a place meant for peace, for soft conversation and quiet reflection. Vysaria had never truly appreciated it. Alicent, however, seemed at ease here.

“I was surprised when you invited me,” Alicent admitted after a few steps, her voice thoughtful rather than accusatory. “I hadn’t thought you much cared for company.”

Vysaria hummed, glancing ahead rather than at the girl beside her. “I don’t, usually.”

A soft laugh. “I had gathered.”

Vysaria cut her a sideways glance, but Alicent wasn’t looking at her. Instead, she reached out, brushing her fingertips lightly against the petals of a white camellia as they passed.

“You never needed anyone,” Alicent mused. “Even when we were children, you were always… apart.”

Vysaria didn’t reply immediately. It wasn’t an insult, nor was it said with resentment. Just an observation.

“I prefer it that way,” she said at last.

Alicent finally looked at her, her expression unreadable. “Do you?”

Vysaria did not answer. The path curved ahead, leading them toward a fountain where water trickled over sculpted stone, the sound soft and unintrusive. The conversation could have died there—Alicent had never been the type to push when unwelcome.

But then she said, quieter this time, “I think sometimes you believe you must be alone, whether you wish to be or not.”

Vysaria froze for a moment, her breath catching as Alicent’s words settled over her. The simplicity of them, the quiet precision, struck her in a way she hadn’t expected.

I think sometimes you believe you must be alone, whether you wish to be or not.

Alicent kept walking, her steps measured and unassuming, as if she hadn’t just laid bare something Vysaria rarely allowed herself to think, let alone hear spoken aloud. When Vysaria finally moved again, her steps were deliberate, catching up to Alicent as they neared the fountain. The gentle trickle of water filled the silence, but it did nothing to soften the tension now coiling in her chest.

“What makes you think you know me so well?” Vysaria asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

Alicent stopped beside the fountain, her hand trailing lightly along its edge. She glanced over her shoulder, her expression calm but unflinching. “I don’t claim to know you. But I’ve watched you.”

“Watched me?” Vysaria’s brow arched, a faint edge of incredulity creeping into her voice.

Alicent gave a faint smile, though there was little amusement in it. “How could I not? My father brought me to court for your sake, to be your companion. And yet, you hardly noticed me. You preferred your adventures, your family. I was only ever… there.”

Vysaria blinked, the words sinking in like stones thrown into a still pond. She had always been aware, on some level, of Alicent’s presence—quiet, dutiful, and constant. But she had never stopped to think about what that presence might have meant to Alicent herself. Alicent turned fully to face her now, her hands clasped lightly in front of her. “I never minded. Truly, I didn’t. You were… different from anyone else I’d ever known. You didn’t need to try, didn’t need to prove yourself. You just were. And I admired that.”

For the first time, Vysaria didn’t know how to respond. She opened her mouth, but no words came, and Alicent seemed to take the silence as permission to continue.

“But you don’t have to be apart, you know,” Alicent said softly. “Not with everyone. Not always.”

The words were simple, offered without expectation or judgment, but they carried a weight that lingered between them. Vysaria’s gaze dropped to the ground for a moment before lifting to meet Alicent’s again. Her own voice, when it came, was quieter, more measured. “And what if I don’t know how?”

Alicent’s expression softened, and for the first time, her usual careful composure faltered, replaced by something more genuine.

“Then I’ll show you.”

The words were so earnest, so utterly devoid of pretense, that Vysaria didn’t know whether to laugh or scoff. Instead, she just stood there, the moment stretching longer than she intended, until finally, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Come,” Alicent said, her tone lighter now as she gestured toward the path ahead. “There’s a grove of irises farther down. You’ll like it.”

Vysaria followed without protest, and for the first time, the silence between them did not feel heavy.

The path curved gently ahead, leading them toward the grove of irises Alicent had mentioned. Their soft violet blooms swayed with the breeze, their delicate fragrance lingering in the air. The tension that had once settled between them seemed to have loosened, if only slightly, as their conversation drifted toward simpler things—the gardens themselves, the change in the weather, a passing comment on the color of the sky. Then, Alicent spoke again.

“My brother, Gwayne, wrote to me last week,” she said lightly, reaching out to trace her fingers along the petals of a pale blue iris. “He’s still in Oldtown, training with the household knights.”

Vysaria felt the shift immediately. The ease of the moment fractured, subtle but undeniable.

She kept walking. She kept her expression neutral. But the tension coiled beneath her skin all the same. Gwayne Hightower. A name that meant nothing to her personally, yet everything in the context of court. A son of Oldtown. A son of Otto Hightower. A knight in the making.

And, more importantly—a match.

She had known it before Alicent had even spoken his name. The moment she mentioned a brother, Vysaria’s mind had already anticipated where this conversation could lead. She had spent enough time in court to recognize when something was being placed before her, when a seed was being planted for the future. Alicent, oblivious to the shift in Vysaria’s thoughts, continued. “He always wanted to be a warrior, though I think our father imagined something else for him. He writes of drills and sparring, but I can tell he wishes he were here instead.”

Vysaria exhaled softly, ensuring her tone was even before she responded. “Why would he wish to be here?”

Alicent gave a small smile, her hands clasped gently before her as they walked. “Because we’re here. Our father, the court, the king—” She hesitated, then gave Vysaria a pointed glance. “You.”

Vysaria felt the weight of that single word settle over her like an iron chain. It was not the first time she had seen this play before her, nor would it be the last. She could almost hear Otto Hightower’s voice in her mind, as measured and careful as ever, crafting the perfect case for why the match would be advantageous. A Hightower knight, a Targaryen princess, a bond that would steady the realm…

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, but she forced them to relax.

“Does he?” she asked at last, her voice light, casual. “I don’t recall ever meeting him.”

Alicent hummed thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think you have. He was still young when Father brought me to court, and by then, he was already training in Oldtown. But he’s heard of you, of course.”

Vysaria felt a sharp prickle at the back of her mind.

Of course.

Her stomach twisted—not in fear, not in uncertainty, but in something colder. She had been raised knowing that her future was not her own. Marriage, alliances, duty—her path would always be dictated by what best served the crown. But there was something suffocating about he’s heard of you, about the realization that even without knowing her, he had been made to consider her.

Alicent sighed, her voice softer now. “I miss him sometimes.”

Vysaria turned her head slightly, watching the way Alicent’s fingers trailed absently over another flower. There was no guile in her expression, no hint of pretense. She wasn’t scheming, wasn’t trying to place a thought in Vysaria’s mind the way her father might have. She was just a sister, speaking of a brother. For a moment, Vysaria almost allowed herself to believe it was nothing more than that.

Almost.

She inhaled, slow and steady. “Do you think he’ll come to court?”

Alicent glanced at her, surprised by the question. “Perhaps. One day.” She hesitated, then added, “If Father wills it.”

That, at least, was something they could agree on. Vysaria gave a small nod and continued walking.

The conversation between them settled into something quieter, the initial tension ebbing, though not entirely disappearing. Alicent still spoke of her brother in fond tones, but Vysaria allowed the words to wash over her without truly absorbing them. The gardens had always been a place of retreat, a world apart from the political machinations of the Red Keep. And yet, even here, the weight of expectation found her. They followed the winding path deeper into the greenery, past low hedges trimmed into careful shapes, past rows of irises and budding lemon trees. The further they walked, the more the sounds of the castle faded, replaced by the rustle of leaves, the distant chirping of birds, the gentle trickle of a hidden fountain.

And then, as they rounded the bend of a marble archway, they were no longer alone.

Daemon Targaryen stood near a stone bench, leaning one shoulder lazily against a carved pillar, as if he had all the time in the world. A goblet dangled from his fingers, half-filled with wine that caught the light of the morning sun. He did not startle at their presence, nor did he seem particularly surprised to see them.

Because, of course, he wasn’t.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Daemon drawled, tilting his head as his gaze flicked over them. His smirk was as insufferable as ever, his violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

Vysaria exhaled slowly, already feeling a headache forming. “Do you always lurk in gardens so early in the day, uncle?”

Daemon chuckled, lifting his goblet in an exaggerated toast. “Only when the company is worth it.”

Alicent, standing beside Vysaria, hesitated before offering a small, polite nod. “Prince Daemon.”

Daemon turned his gaze to her, studying her in that way he always did—not improper, not quite—but enough to unsettle. “Lady Alicent.” He gestured vaguely to the garden path. “Taking a morning stroll, are we?”

Alicent smiled gently, though it did not quite reach her eyes. “The princess was kind enough to invite me.”

Daemon hummed, flicking his gaze back to Vysaria with the faintest hint of amusement. “How very kind of you, niece. And here I thought you disliked company.”

Vysaria resisted the urge to sigh. “I make exceptions.”

Daemon’s smirk deepened, but he said nothing—at least, not yet. Instead, he took a slow sip of wine, watching her over the rim of his goblet, as if he were waiting to see what she would do next.

Daemon swirled the wine in his goblet, watching Vysaria with that same insufferable smirk before turning his attention to Alicent.

“Lady Alicent,” he said smoothly, “would you mind if I borrowed the princess for a moment?”

Alicent hesitated, her polite mask faltering for just a breath before she composed herself again. Her gaze flickered to Vysaria, as if searching for some unspoken answer, but Vysaria gave none.

“I—of course,” Alicent said at last, dipping her head slightly. “I’ll—wait here.”

Daemon grinned as if he had expected nothing less. He gestured for Vysaria to walk with him, and after a brief pause, she stepped forward.

They did not walk far—just enough that the distance placed them out of earshot but not out of sight. Alicent remained standing near the carved stone bench, her hands lightly clasped in front of her, watching them in that careful, measured way of hers.

Only once they were alone did Daemon shift. His smirk softened, his voice dropping into something lower, something that carried in the space between them like an unspoken challenge. And when he spoke, it was in High Valyrian.

"Do you find her company so enjoyable, niece?"

Vysaria did not slow her steps, nor did she react beyond a flicker of her eyes in his direction. "I find her company tolerable."

Daemon let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head slightly. "A rare compliment from you."

Vysaria’s gaze flicked forward, her voice as smooth as the morning air. "And yet, you sent her away so you could bother me instead. How predictable."

Daemon exhaled a quiet laugh, but there was something else beneath it—something thoughtful. He took another slow sip of wine before speaking again, his words measured, casual.

"You seemed uneasy when she spoke of her brother."

Vysaria’s fingers curled slightly, though her expression remained composed. "I was not."

Daemon hummed in amusement. "Lying does not suit you, little dragon."

She turned her head then, meeting his gaze fully, her voice quiet but sharp. "And yet, you do it so well."

Daemon grinned, pleased rather than deterred. "If you wish to play this game, at least be honest about it."

Vysaria exhaled through her nose, her patience thinning. "There is no game."

"There is always a game, Vysaria," Daemon murmured, stopping just long enough for her to do the same. The space between them was slight, but the weight of his words made it feel even smaller. "The question is whether you intend to win it—or let them play you like a piece on a board."

She studied him for a long moment, the morning breeze rustling the leaves around them.

Then, finally, she said, "I am no piece."

Daemon’s smirk was slow, knowing. "Good."

Without another word, he turned back toward the path, leaving her as if nothing had passed between them at all.

Vysaria inhaled slowly, smoothing her expression as she turned back toward the path where Alicent remained. The conversation with Daemon still lingered in her mind, his words curling at the edges of her thoughts like smoke that refused to dissipate.

But she would not let it show.

When she reached Alicent, the girl was standing beside a cluster of pale yellow roses, her fingers carefully brushing along the petals, as if studying them with great care. Whether it was genuine interest or merely something to occupy her hands while she waited, Vysaria couldn’t tell.

Alicent did not look up immediately. For a brief moment, it was almost as though she had not noticed Vysaria’s return at all. Then, as if sensing her presence, she finally glanced over, her expression as composed as ever. “Your uncle has a way of stealing attention, doesn’t he?”

Vysaria exhaled through her nose, amused despite herself. “That’s one way to put it.”

Alicent let her fingers trail from the flower’s edge before finally turning fully toward her. “I hope he wasn’t too much of a nuisance.”

Vysaria tilted her head slightly, glancing back toward the path where Daemon had disappeared. A nuisance. It was such a simple word, so utterly insufficient. But she only offered a small, knowing smile. “He’s always a nuisance.”

Alicent chuckled softly, nodding before looking back down at the flowers. “I’ve always liked these. My father used to say that yellow roses mean warmth and friendship.”

Vysaria arched a brow. “Did he?”

Alicent hummed, carefully plucking a single petal between her fingers before letting it fall. “I think he only said it so I’d stop picking the red ones.”

Vysaria watched her for a moment longer, something unreadable passing through her mind, before she reached out and plucked one of the roses herself, twirling it idly between her fingers. Then, after a beat, she handed it to Alicent. Alicent blinked, clearly surprised, before hesitantly reaching out to take it.

Vysaria’s voice was quieter when she spoke. “Then I suppose this means we are friends.”

Alicent studied her, her expression softening ever so slightly.

“If you’d like to be,” she said.

Vysaria didn’t answer right away, only giving a small nod before turning back to the path ahead. “Come on,” she murmured. “Let’s keep walking.”

Alicent smiled to herself, tucking the rose gently into the folds of her sleeve before following.

The winding paths of the garden led them back toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, the scent of roses and freshly turned earth fading as they stepped into the shaded corridors of the castle. Their footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor, and for a time, neither of them spoke. The quiet between them was not uncomfortable, only thoughtful, the kind that came when words were unnecessary.

Then, as they neared one of the castle’s inner courtyards, Alicent finally broke the silence. “Do you visit the dragonpit often?”

Vysaria almost stopped mid-step. She did not, but there was the briefest hesitation before she answered. “Not often.”

Alicent cast her a sidelong glance. “I’ve never been inside,” she admitted. “My father would never allow it, and I think I would be too afraid even if he did.”

Vysaria hummed, keeping her expression unreadable. “There’s nothing to fear.”

Alicent laughed, though it was quiet, almost self-conscious. “That’s easy for you to say. You were born to ride one.”

The words were said without malice, without anything beyond simple observation, and yet Vysaria felt something twist inside her. Born to ride one. But she hadn’t. She had stood in the pit, watched the great beasts prowl, felt the heat of their breath, the rumble of their growls that vibrated through the very stone beneath her feet. But none had answered her. None had chosen her. And the longer it remained that way, the more the whispers in court would grow.

A princess without a dragon. A queen without fire.

She inhaled slowly, keeping her voice carefully even. “Dragons do not care for fear. They do not care for birthright, either.”

Alicent studied her with quiet curiosity. “Then what do they care for?”

Vysaria exhaled, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. “Themselves, mostly.”

Alicent tilted her head as if sensing something unspoken but did not press. “Perhaps that is why they are so feared.”

Vysaria met her gaze, something unreadable in the violet of her eyes. “Perhaps.”

They reached the threshold of the inner keep, the air shifting around them as they stepped through the archway. Whatever conversation might have followed was lost to the weight of stone and shadow, to the unspoken thoughts both girls carried but did not voice.

The castle was alive with movement as they reentered, the hushed murmur of courtiers and attendants filling the corridors, the morning’s stillness giving way to the steady hum of the day ahead. Servants moved with practiced efficiency, carrying trays of food, freshly laundered linens, letters sealed with wax. A group of noble ladies passed them in the hall, their whispers trailing in their wake like the rustling of silk. Vysaria and Alicent walked in step, but something had changed. The moment in the garden had been lighter, easier, but now, in the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, the weight of expectation pressed in once more.

Alicent was the first to break the silence. “Will you be attending court today?”

Vysaria resisted the urge to sigh. “I expect so.”

“My father says the king will hold audience in the afternoon. He mentioned something about a delegation from the Westerlands.” Alicent glanced at her carefully, gauging her reaction. “I imagine you’ll be at his side.”

Vysaria nodded. It was expected. She was her father’s heir, his cupbearer, a visible reminder to all who gathered that Viserys had chosen her, that she was meant to rule one day. The thought should have steadied her, but instead, all she could think of was the words whispered behind closed doors, the uncertain glances, the lords who still fretted over the lack of a male heir.

Alicent’s voice softened. “You don’t enjoy court, do you?”

Vysaria let out a quiet, humorless breath. “What’s there to enjoy? Lords murmuring about things they’ve already decided before they’ve even stepped into the chamber? Ambassadors speaking in circles, offering empty pleasantries while maneuvering for their own gain? It is all a performance.”

Alicent studied her with something like sympathy, though she did not say so aloud. “My father says court is where the game is played.”

Vysaria glanced at her, something sharp flickering in her expression. “Your father would say that.”

Alicent looked as though she might respond, but before she could, a voice called out from down the corridor.

“Princess.”

Vysaria turned, her spine straightening instinctively. A servant stood at the entrance of the hall, dipping his head in deference. “The king requests your presence.”

Of course he does. She suppressed the sigh that threatened to rise and instead gave Alicent a brief nod. “It seems my father has plans for me.”

Alicent hesitated, as if there was more she wished to say, but in the end, she simply offered a small, polite smile. “I suppose I’ll see you at court, then.”

Vysaria gave no confirmation, only turned on her heel and followed the servant deeper into the keep. The corridors were quieter here, the usual hum of court life fading into the solemn hush that always clung to this part of the castle. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting shifting shadows as they passed. She knew where they were going before the servant even led her through the heavy doors.

The air changed as she stepped inside—the scent of smoke and old stone, the lingering weight of something ancient. The chamber was dimly lit, the great skull of Balerion looming in the torchlight, its hollow sockets staring into the dark.

Viserys exhaled slowly, stepping closer to the massive skull, his fingers grazing the curve of one of Balerion’s fangs. “I was the last to ride him, you know.” His voice was softer now, as though the memory had gentled something in him.

Vysaria knew the story well, but she said nothing, allowing him to speak.

“I was no older than you are now when I first climbed onto his back. He was old then, near the end of his life, but even in his twilight, there was no mistaking his power. His wings stretched farther than any ship’s sails, his roar shook the very stones of the Dragonpit.” He smiled faintly, but it did not reach his eyes. “And yet, he was not mine. He was never mine. He belonged to history, to the past. I was only a rider, never his rider.”

Vysaria watched him carefully. She had never considered what it must have been like for him—claiming a beast that was already fading, feeling the weight of that legacy without ever truly possessing it.

Viserys finally turned to her, his gaze steady, searching. “You must try again, Vysaria. The realm will not wait for you to be ready.”

She had expected the words, but still, they landed like lead in her chest.

“I have,” she said, careful to keep her tone even.

“Not enough.” His expression did not hold disappointment, but something heavier—concern, urgency. “The lords whisper, and I cannot fault them for it. A Targaryen queen without a dragon… it is something they will never understand.”

Vysaria inhaled slowly, her gaze shifting back to the gaping maw of Balerion’s skull. The fire was long gone from his bones, his wings forever stilled, his body reduced to nothing but an echo of what he once was.

Vysaria held her father’s gaze, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. “I have tried,” she said, her voice measured but firm. “Again and again, for years. I have stood in the Dragonpit, I have reached for them, called for them—” she exhaled sharply, the frustration creeping into her tone. “But none would answer.”

“The Dragonpit was never their true home,” Viserys said after a moment, his voice thoughtful. “Most of our dragons roost on Dragonstone, along the Dragonmont. That is where their blood runs thickest, where the heat of the earth still calls to them.”

Vysaria tensed, already anticipating what he was about to say.

“You should go there,” he continued. “Spend time among them. Try again.”

She shook her head slightly, turning away from him, her arms folding across her chest. “I have no interest in parading myself before the dragons of Dragonstone like some desperate supplicant.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temple. “It is not desperation, Vysaria. It is persistence.”

“I have been persistent,” she countered, her voice sharp. “Since I was a child, I have stood before the dragons that reside in the pit, the ones within reach, the ones I was told might answer me. None did. And now you would have me cross the Blackwater and humble myself before beasts who have had no interest in me for nearly sixteen years?”

“You speak as if they are men, with logic and intent,” Viserys said. “They are not. They are creatures of fire and instinct. And instinct must be met with instinct. Perhaps you were not ready before, but you are nearly a woman grown. Perhaps now they will see you differently.”

Vysaria swallowed down the sharp retort on her tongue. She wanted to argue, to tell him that she had never been just a girl, that she had carried the weight of her name, her duty, for as long as she could remember. She had spent her childhood watching the others bond with their dragons, watching them claim what she could not.

What would be different now?

Still, Viserys was not unkind. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, his fingers warm but heavy. “I named you my heir because I believed in you, Vysaria. I still do. But the realm… they must see you as I do.” His grip tightened slightly. “A dragon does not make you my heir. But it will make them stop questioning.”

Vysaria turned her head slightly, her gaze drifting toward Balerion’s empty eye sockets. The last rider.

And if no dragon would have her, what would they call her then?

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “And if I fail again?”

Viserys hesitated, his thumb brushing against the fabric of her sleeve before he sighed. “Then you will try again.”

The words felt as heavy as the stone walls around them.

Vysaria exhaled slowly, the weight of his expectation pressing against her ribs. She did not want to go to Dragonstone. She did not want to stand before the mighty beasts of the Dragonmont and feel their disinterest settle over her like a shroud. She did not want to hope, only to walk away empty-handed once more.

But she could not tell him that. Not when she saw the quiet plea in his eyes.

She lifted her chin slightly, meeting his gaze. “I will consider it.”

Viserys studied her for a long moment, as if waiting for her to protest, to argue, to push back. But Vysaria only held his gaze, unreadable, her thoughts swirling beneath the surface. Then, with a quiet sigh, her father straightened, the weight of kingship returning to his shoulders as easily as breathing.

“We’ll speak of this again,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “But for now, you must get ready.”

“For what?”

Viserys exhaled, rubbing his temple. “The Westerlands delegation.”

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. So Alicent had been right.

“The Lannisters?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Her father nodded. “Lord Jason has sent envoys to discuss trade agreements, though I expect he means to bring up other matters as well.” He cast her a glance, his meaning clear.

Other matters.

Her lack of a match, no doubt. Another conversation about alliances, about what the realm expected of her.

Vysaria lifted her chin. “And what would you have me do?”

Viserys’ gaze softened just slightly, but it did not waver. “Be present. Observe. Speak if you wish to.” Then, after a pause, he added, “And—make an effort, Vysaria.”

She did not need to ask what he meant. She had spent years making an effort, standing at his side, playing the role of the dutiful heir. But it was never enough. Not without a dragon. Not without a husband. Still, she did not argue. Instead, she dipped her head, her voice smooth and measured. “As you wish, Father.”

Viserys studied her for another moment, then nodded, satisfied. “Good. See that you’re ready.”

With that, the conversation was over. Vysaria turned on her heel and left the chamber, stepping back into the torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep. The door shut softly behind her, but the weight of the conversation lingered.

The Westerlands. The Lannisters. More talk of duty and expectation.

The great hall of the Red Keep had been prepared with its usual grandeur, the banners of crimson and gold standing in bold contrast beside the black and red of House Targaryen. The stone columns flanking the chamber bore woven tapestries of conquest—Aegon’s triumph over Westeros, the embroidered form of Balerion the Black Dread stretching across the fabric like a shadow cast over kings and kneeling lords. The flickering torchlight made the golden thread of his eyes glimmer, as though the beast himself still watched.

The air carried the scent of polished wood and fresh rushes, undercut by the sharper tang of wax, ink, and the steel worn by the knights lining the hall. Their armor caught the low firelight, polished but dented, lived-in, a quiet reminder that this was a court built on war, no matter how much the lords within it pretended otherwise. The torches in their sconces flickered with every subtle draft, casting long, shifting shadows against the stone walls—shadows that sometimes moved, where no man stood.

Daemon was there. Not at the throne, not at his brother’s side, but present all the same, lurking at the edge of the hall where the torchlight struggled to reach. He did not stand with the assembled lords nor take his place beside the king. Instead, he observed. Unnoticed by some, ignored by others, but felt. The kind of presence that unsettled, even without a word spoken.

At the head of the hall, beneath the jagged weight of the Iron Throne, King Viserys I Targaryen sat, his golden crown catching the dim light. He looked at ease, but Vysaria saw the truth in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed idly against the armrest. These audiences had never been his joy—the posturing, the barbed pleasantries, the lords who spoke in measured words but maneuvered like swordsmen. Yet he bore them, because he had to.

Vysaria stood at the foot of the throne, her posture composed, unreadable. The assembled court had been watching her since the moment she stepped into the hall. Weighing her. Measuring. The princess. The heir. The single thread upon which House Targaryen’s future hung. She did not meet their eyes. She did not need to. Her focus remained on the delegation approaching the throne.

Lord Jason Lannister had not come himself. That in itself was an answer. Instead, he had sent his younger twin, Ser Tyland Lannister, to play the role of diplomat. He strode through the hall with the ease of a man accustomed to wealth and welcome, his golden hair neatly combed, his fine doublet adorned with the sigil of his house—a lion woven subtly into the fabric, not roaring, not clawing, but present. A quiet statement, for those who knew how to read such things.

Behind him, his retainers moved in perfect formation, their crimson cloaks trimmed with gold, their hands resting lightly upon the pommels of their swords. Lannisters never entered a room as beggars, even when they came to offer. They carried themselves as if the realm belonged to them by right of coin alone, and perhaps, in some ways, it did.

Tyland approached the throne, bending onto one knee in a gesture of deference so practiced it seemed rehearsed.

“Your Grace,” he said smoothly, his voice silken, composed, the careful cadence of a man who knew the weight of each word. “House Lannister sends its regards and gratitude for your hospitality.”

Viserys inclined his head, offering a polite but tired smile. “Lord Jason is always welcome in King’s Landing. I trust your journey was a smooth one.”

Tyland rose with ease, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve before responding. “As smooth as can be expected, Your Grace,” he replied, his tone measured, carefully polished. His sharp lion’s eyes flicked toward Vysaria, the glance so brief it might have been missed by anyone who wasn’t already used to it. But Vysaria was used to it. Men had always looked at her this way. Assessing. Weighing. Calculating. But he did not address her. Not yet.

The conversation unfurled in its usual, tedious fashion—pleasantries wrapped in politics, the ritual exchange of words that meant little and deals that meant everything. Trade routes, shipments of gold from Casterly Rock, the status of naval agreements with Driftmark. It was all necessary, of course, but none of it was why Tyland had come.

And, as expected, it did not take long before the conversation shifted. “With the king’s permission,” Tyland said smoothly, his expression one of carefully measured interest, “Lord Jason wished for me to extend not only the regards of our house but also a consideration.”

A hush settled over the court. Vysaria felt the shift before it truly happened, the way the lords along the edges of the chamber leaned in slightly, their interest sharpening like a blade being drawn. Tyland turned his gaze fully to Viserys, but the weight of his words pressed toward her, settling over her shoulders like something inevitable, something long decided by men who had never once lived in her skin.

“House Lannister, ever loyal to the Crown, would be honored to strengthen our ties to House Targaryen.”

The words hung between them, gilded in courtesy, but beneath the polish lay the truth. A marriage proposal.

Vysaria did not shift, did not tense, did not react. But her fingers curled slightly at her sides, hidden in the folds of her gown. She had known this moment was coming. The lords of Westeros had been waiting for the right time to press their ambitions upon her, to maneuver her into a match that served their designs, not hers. The whispers had begun long before Aemma lost her last child. Since the day Vysaria was born, the lords of Westeros had spoken of her as something to be placed, secured, controlled. With every failed pregnancy, every stillborn babe, their voices only grew louder. No second son. No spare. The court had not forgotten it for a single moment.

Tyland Lannister stood tall, confident in his words, speaking as though this was the natural order of things—that a princess’s hand was not hers to wield, but a thing to be bartered, bargained, and best spent. Across the hall, a shadow stirred, just at the edge of the firelight. Unmoving, but present. Daemon. Watching. Waiting.

Vysaria had heard enough. Her voice was smooth when she spoke, cutting through the chamber like a polished blade.

“If Lord Jason is such a man of great standing,” she said, unhurried, unimpressed, “then why did he send his younger twin to beg for a princess’s hand?”

Silence settled over the great hall, thick and expectant. Then, after a beat, the quiet snickers began—stifled but unmistakable, rippling through the gathered lords and courtiers like the rustling of silk. The kind of laughter men tried to swallow but could not quite contain.

Tyland faltered. The carefully crafted ease in his posture stiffened, his mouth opening only to close again as he struggled to recover. “My—my lord brother is a busy man, Princess,” he managed after a beat, his words suddenly less polished than before. “His duties to Casterly Rock keep him occupied, but his intentions—”

“Are best spoken through another’s lips?” Vysaria interrupted lightly, tilting her head just so, her violet gaze unwavering.

This time, the laughter was less restrained. A few outright chuckles rang through the chamber, some hastily muffled behind goblets of wine or gloved hands. The scent of warm wax and polished wood mixed with something sharper—the air tinged with amusement and quiet derision. The nobility of King’s Landing thrived on spectacle, and here, before them, a lion of the Westerlands had stumbled.

Tyland’s jaw tensed, his composure fraying at the edges. His hands, which had once rested so easily at his sides, curled subtly into fists, though he forced himself to remain still. He would not embarrass himself further by rising to her bait.

Beyond the laughter, beyond the murmured whispers exchanged between lords who would retell this moment before the night was done, there was something else. A presence. Unmoving, but there. Not at Viserys’s side, nor standing with the court, but in the spaces where the torchlight wavered, where the shifting glow of the flames did not reach. He had not spoken a word, but his presence coiled through the hall, felt more than seen. Shadows flickered over his silver hair, his form lingering at the edge of the gathering, as though he were simply another specter cast by the dim firelight. Watching. Waiting.

And then, from the dark, he laughed. It was quiet, low, but unmistakable. A single breath of amusement that might have been lost in the hum of the hall had it come from any other man. But it did not. It came from Daemon.

Vysaria did not bother to hide her satisfaction. She turned slightly, expecting to see the disapproving look she had grown accustomed to from her father, a mild reprimand for speaking so boldly, for playing this particular game with an edge too sharp. But when she met his gaze, Viserys only watched her, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He made no move to scold her.

Tyland cleared his throat, attempting to salvage what dignity he could. “The offer remains a generous one, Your Grace,” he said, this time directing his words solely to Viserys, carefully avoiding Vysaria’s gaze. But the damage had already been done. The court had already seen him stumble. The laughter had faded, but the moment still lingered, thick as the heat of a dragon’s breath. And somewhere in the shadows, Daemon was still smiling.

Viserys leaned forward, adjusting his grip on the arm of the Iron Throne. “Ser Tyland,” he said, his tone thoughtful, almost contemplative. “It is a curious thing, is it not? That your lord brother, in all his standing, in all his duties, could not be troubled to present this offer himself.”

Tyland opened his mouth, scrambling for the right words, but Viserys continued before he could find them. “Of course,” the king went on, “I understand that the affairs of Casterly Rock are demanding. As are the affairs of the realm.” His gaze flickered across the hall, taking in the nobles who had quieted in anticipation. “Which is why I see no reason to entertain marriage proposals through secondhand messengers.”

A murmur swept through the gathered court. Tyland’s hands curled tighter, his jaw setting. Vysaria allowed herself the smallest flicker of amusement.

Viserys exhaled, waving a hand in tired dismissal. “The hour grows late. I believe we’ve heard all that needs to be said.”

Tyland hesitated, then bowed low. “As you say, Your Grace.”

The Lannister envoys withdrew, their golden lions dimmed beneath the shadow of dragons. As the chamber stirred with quiet whispers and the lords began to move, a flicker of movement at the edge of the hall caught Vysaria’s eye. Not a noble departing, not a knight shifting his stance, but something else. The space where Daemon had lingered was no longer occupied. The shadow that had stretched just beyond the reach of the torches had slipped away, silent and unseen, except by her. Her gaze followed the path he had taken, but he was already gone.

Viserys exhaled, settling back against the cold metal of the throne. “Well,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. “That went about as well as I expected.”

Vysaria turned her head slightly, allowing the smallest flicker of amusement to pass between them. “Did it?”

Her father didn’t look at her, but she caught the way the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely.

The chamber slowly began to empty, the lords and courtiers murmuring amongst themselves as they drifted from the hall. Some exchanged knowing glances, others concealed smirks behind their goblets of wine, and Vysaria could already hear the whispers beginning. The Lannister envoy put in his place. The princess' sharp tongue. The king's indulgence. She remained at her father’s side, though the moment the last of the Westerlands delegates had disappeared beyond the towering doors, she exhaled softly, rolling her shoulders as if shedding the weight of the conversation. Viserys, still seated upon the Iron Throne, ran a hand down his face and sighed. “You always find a way to turn these things into a spectacle.”

Vysaria tilted her head slightly. “Would you have preferred I simpered and thanked him for his most generous offer?”

Viserys gave her a pointed look, but there was no real heat in it. “There are ways to be diplomatic without making a mockery of a noble house.”

She hummed, unconvinced. “I wasn’t aware the Lannisters were so easily wounded.”

At that, her father huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Be careful, Vysaria. You may have won this exchange, but lions are not known to forget slights.”

She knew that well enough. But she also knew that no matter how well she spoke, no matter how politely she handled the lords who paraded their sons before her, it would never be enough.

Still, she did not argue. Instead, she inclined her head. “Are we finished?”

Viserys hesitated for a moment, studying her as if searching for something—regret, uncertainty, doubt. But Vysaria gave him nothing.

Finally, he waved a hand in tired dismissal. “Go.”

She did not need to be told twice. She turned on her heel, and the heavy doors of the throne room shut behind her, sealing the chamber away, but the weight of it all still clung to her shoulders. The murmurs of the court would follow her long after she left, weaving through the halls like whispered ghosts. Vysaria did not slow her steps, did not allow herself to dwell on the lords who had watched her, measuring her as they always did. She had won this round, but there would always be another.

She moved through the dimly lit corridors with quiet purpose, the sound of her footsteps softened by the thick stone beneath her. The Red Keep was alive in the way it always was after courtly matters—servants moved briskly, messages were passed in hushed tones, and the air carried the faint scent of wax, parchment, and evening embers.

Her chambers were a welcome sight, the carved wooden doors standing tall and undisturbed. The guards stationed outside bowed their heads as she approached. She did not acknowledge them beyond a flicker of her gaze before pushing the doors open. A gust of cool air met her at once. The balcony doors were open, sheer curtains billowing with the evening wind, the scent of salt and distant fire drifting in from the Blackwater below. The golden light of the setting sun painted the sky in streaks of orange and deep violet, stretching beyond the rooftops of King’s Landing.

And there, lounging in her chair like he had every right to be there, was Daemon.

He had made himself at home, one arm draped lazily over the side of the plush seat, his legs stretched out before him with all the ease of a man who had never once asked for permission. His dark crimson tunic was unlaced at the collar, the sleeves pushed up with the careless ease of a man who had spent the day on his own terms, unburdened by duty or decorum. His silver hair was tousled from the wind, a goblet dangling lazily from his fingers. For a moment, he said nothing. He only watched her, studying her the way he always did, with that glint of amusement that never seemed to fade.

Vysaria sighed, stepping further into the room, already pulling the pins from her hair. “I don’t recall inviting you.”

Daemon smirked, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t recall needing an invitation.”

Her fingers worked through the silver strands, freeing them one by one. The weight of her circlet lifted, replaced by the lightness of something unbound. She set it on the vanity with practiced care, unfastening the earrings next. “If you’re here to scold me for my performance today, you’ll be disappointed.”

Daemon hummed, tapping his fingers against the goblet. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. It was entertaining.” His gaze flickered over her as she worked, deliberate, unhurried. “You’ve grown sharp, little niece. Too sharp, perhaps.”

She unfastened the clasp at her throat, letting the first layer of her overdress loosen. “And yet, you laughed.”

Daemon exhaled a quiet chuckle, swirling the wine in his cup. “I did.”

Vysaria did not look at him as she moved, removing each piece with methodical ease, untying the laces that bound the weight of court to her skin. The heavier gown slid from her shoulders, pooling onto the chair beside her as she reached for something lighter. Her smallclothes remained, the ivory linen soft against her frame, a stark contrast to the regal layers she had shed.

Daemon did not move. He only watched.

The candlelight flickered between them, stretching shadows along the stone walls, casting a golden glow over the bare skin of her arms, her collarbone, the gentle curve of her back as she lifted another gown from where it had been laid out for her. The wind stirred again, lifting the sheer curtains, sending a cool kiss across her exposed skin. She pulled the new gown over her head, fastening the ties at her side, until her fingers hesitated at the clasp near her shoulder. She tugged at it, once, then again, the fabric twisted awkwardly.

A sigh of frustration escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Daemon rose from the chair in a single, fluid motion. She did not need to look at him to know he was already closing the space between them. She felt it, the shift in the air, the quiet anticipation of something she refused to name. He came to stand behind her, his presence a steady warmth at her back. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he reached for the clasp, his fingers brushing against her skin as he worked it loose with practiced ease.

The tension in the fabric gave way, the stubborn knot undone in an instant.

He did not move. His hands remained where they were, hovering just a fraction too long, his touch lingering against the bare skin at her shoulder. His breath was quiet, steady, but she could feel it there, close enough to be noticed, close enough to be deliberate. Vysaria did not move either. She could have stepped away. She could have turned and faced him, could have shattered the moment before it settled into something neither of them would name.

Instead, she finished dressing. "Thank you," she said smoothly, fastening the clasp properly this time. Daemon said nothing at first, only stepping back, retrieving his goblet with an easy grace before sinking back into his chair. He watched as she smoothed out the folds of her gown, his smirk lazy but knowing.

“We’re dining with the Lannisters tonight,” he mused, swirling the wine in his cup.

Vysaria glanced at him through the mirror’s reflection. “Observant as ever.”

Daemon chuckled, stretching out in his seat. “I only wonder how much more of their pride you intend to strip from them before the night is through.”

“That depends.”

He arched his brow. “On?”

“How much more they intend to insult me.”

His grin deepened, something conspiratorial flickering behind his eyes. “In that case, I suspect tonight will be very entertaining indeed.”

Vysaria lifted a single brow as she fastened the last of her jewelry. “Try not to sulk when I take all the attention.”

Daemon pushed himself lazily to his feet, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. “I’d never be so petty.”

She hummed, unconvinced, as he made his way toward the far side of the chamber. Rather than heading for the balcony, his movements carried him toward the wall beyond her bed, where his fingers brushed over the carved paneling as though searching for something familiar.

Vysaria stilled. “You cannot leave through the halls.”

Daemon smirked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Who said I was leaving through the halls?”

Before she could respond, his fingers pressed against a seemingly innocuous stone, and with the faintest click, the panel before him shifted. A narrow passageway yawned open, dark and silent, leading into the hidden veins of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Of course. Daemon had spent years in the Red Keep. He had always known its secrets.

“Try not to get lost,” she murmured, fastening the last clasp on her sleeve.

His smirk widened. “I never do.”

He did not say goodnight, nor did he wait for her to follow. Instead, he stepped into the passage with the ease of a man who knew exactly where it led, the shadows swallowing him whole as the panel sealed shut behind him. Vysaria exhaled, brushing her fingers over the fabric of her gown, smoothing out the folds. There was still a long evening ahead. She reached for her earrings once more, fastening them one by one, before finally turning toward the door.

The court awaited.

next chapter

All roads lead to war. Read ahead on AO3 (Ch 1–22).