#expansion bolts for steel

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

FIXDEX & GOODFIX wish everyone Happy Lantern Festival 2023 🎉

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 14: Peril

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.3K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

Time itself moves sluggishly as the spawn descend upon the petrified, screaming miscreants that share your cell. Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, fighting your ribs like striking bolts of lightning. You steel yourself against the rising panic, wrapping yourself in unflappable poise and watch for your opening.

As soon as the wave of spawn crashes and parts, you squeeze Hecat’s hand to signal her it’s time to move and bound through the gap. The corridor is a catastrophe, the stones painted in fresh crimson, bodies of guards ripped open, with their raw innards spilling out like gruesome garlands wreathing the walls. Hecat pales at the sight, dry heaving, but you’ve long become acquainted with such nightmarish affairs.

You tug Hecat along behind you, bare feet smacking the stone with such force it sends jolts of pain charging up your legs as your bones shudder with the impact of every step. That is nothing compared to the acute, explosive pain stabbing your chest with every inhalation.

Hecat stops, acquiring a shield and sword from a fallen guard. The blood makes the stone slick, and every step must be taken carefully. You cannot afford to fall. A stumble will almost surely mean death. Spawn that have finished their meals are starting to take notice. Hecat deflects them with her shield, stabbing with her sword when she has an opening and keeping you safely behind her.

The passageways are labyrinthine, confused tangles of convoluted twists and turns that sometimes double back or arrive at dead ends unexpectedly. Tears are creeping out of the corners of your eyes, dallying down your grimy, red cheeks from the agony radiating from your ribs with every expansion of your lungs. Panic starts to crumble the blanket of calm, surging through you as you frantically dart through the shadowy, disorienting hallways. The angry army of thudding footfalls of the spawn in pursuit echoes through the corridors.

Bounding up a dim stairway, the hilt of a dagger peeks out from between the joints of armour, nestled into the corpse of a guard. You yank it out with a quick tug, but time is not on your side this night. A spawn grasps your ankle, its clawed fingers sinking into your flesh and jerks you off your feet. Your head bounces off the stone slab stair, peppering your vision with black sparks of dazing pain. The only thing you can see through your muddled sight is those glowing eyes. You lash out with the dagger and sink it deeply into the socket. As soon as you’re released, Hecat is already towing you back to your feet, pulling you up the stairs and into the next room.

The milky eyes and pallor of bloodless bodies greet you. The undead in this part of the prison seem to roam, unsure of their orders, but as soon as the thudding of your heart is heard, their heads snap in your direction. They swarm around you like enraged bees. Despite Hecat’s exhaustion, she is unwavering. Her sword slashes through the air, shield deflecting the snapping fangs and shredding claws.

You feel the pangs of irritation at your uselessness. Your magic, once your greatest weapon, is now a prison in its own right. The vampires press in closer, surrounding you like a pack of ravenous wolves, their movements orchestrated by an unseen hand, but they don’t move to attack further as they corral you.

“What are they doing?” Hecat pants with wild eyes, frantically searching for an escape.

“I don’t know.”

A red aura shifts around the spawn, the same one Cazador used to control Astarion’s sibling during their midnight visit to your camp. They part for a tall, pallid figure that appears seemingly from the shadows.

“Nice to see you again, Sorceress,” it speaks. You recognize that voice, and your heart arrests in your chest, sinking into your stomach.

Aldous.

Your mind reels, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. No. He is dead. You watched the life be abducted from his eyes yourself. Yet, he stands before you, pale as death with glowing crimson eyes. His face splits into that repellent smile, and his cackling resounds off the walls.

“That one.” He points at you, “She is to be taken alive. The Tiefling matters not.”

“What the fuck,” Hecat breathes.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Sorceress,” Aldous laughs, hysterical and bone-chilling. “And your fanged friend. I cannot wait to drain you dry in front of him.”

A harrowing scream tears from your throat, a melody of rage and sorrow as Aldous disappears in a burst of red, drawn home by his unknown master. Grabbing Hecat’s hand, you eye a door and dash toward it with renewed vigour. The vampire’s claws and fangs pierce your skin as you burst through the legion. You stab and slash with reckless abandon, sinking the dagger into anything that attempts to halt you.

Hecat and you stumble into the room and try to close the door on writhing arms and legs. Hecat lashes out with her sword, severing limbs from bodies obstructing it until it slams shut and locks.

“Help me!” Hecat yells as she throws a table over. You help barricade the door with whatever is available.

“They want you?” Hecat snaps, levelling the sword at you, “Who the fuck are you, dragon girl, and why the fuck do they want you alive?”

You’re doubled over, hands on your thighs, trying to inhale as much air as your lungs can possibly take, but the splitting pain in your side hampers your ability to catch your breath.

“I don’t know,” you retort venomously, eyeing the sword and Tiefling.

“That one knows you,” she hisses, shifting her stance and getting ready to strike. “Who the fuck is he?”

“A dead man,” you sigh, pushing your hair from your eyes. “I killed him. Apparently, it didn’t stick.”

“You’re a murderer?!” She gasps, bringing the steel blade to your neck.

“Yes,” you growl, unbothered by the threat.

Hecat laughs, withdrawing her blade, “I would not have thought you possible of such a heinous crime.” She winks, “I like you even more now.”

You cannot help but choke out a pained laugh, but it’s more of a groan than anything. You look around. Waxy moonlight floods the room from a small window. It’s the first window you’ve seen, but bars in a crisscross pattern make escape impossible, and the wood door is starting to splinter and crack under the barrage rattling it on its hinges.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere makes your skin prickle as the dam of suppression is released, and the Weave returns to you in an overwhelming deluge. You don’t have time to wonder why or how, and you don’t much care. The Weave causes the air to crackle, abuzz with powerful energy, and you fill yourself with it. You grip the iron and allow the potency of your draconic fire to spill out of you with a daunting laugh you cannot stifle. The bars heat, whine and wail, glowing white-hot and oozing, and Hecat thrusts her sword into the gooey mess of molten metal to clear your path.

The moon hangs high in the sky, casting an eerie glow upon the building, and the air is brisk as you clamber onto the roof. You cast Shatter, crumbling the stone around the window to block the pursuing spawn.

“That’s some potent magic you have there,” Hecat grins. “I’ve never seen anyone melt metal with their hands before.”

Her words of praise float over you as you eye the raging war of the courtyard below. Some guards remain alive, fighting another horde of spawn descending on the grounds. From the height, you can see beyond the solid walls surrounding the compound, and your feet move unconsciously, eyes skipping over the landscape - searching, searching, searching…

There.

“We could jump,” Hecat says hesitantly, peering over the edge.

“No,” you bark with a smile. “We fly. Follow me.”

You cast Fly, taking her hand and soar into the air. Hecat yelps at the suddenness of your movement and clings to you. You cannot quite reach your target before your feet hit the soft, muddied terrain. Spawn trample the ground, careening toward you like a blight on the land. Hecat stands in front of you, but you are muzzled no longer.

“Detono!” You howl, and the wave of crackling energy bowls the spawn over.

You cast Fireball and rain blazing death, warping the fire into flames that burn blue, bending it to your will. Your fingers dance in the moonlight, under stars that envy how bright you burn. Hecat stands at the ready, prepared and reinvigorated, but with unfathomable rage, you don’t miss. With every step, every twitch of your fingers, every syllable that brushes off your tongue, you are violence, you are slaughter, you are death incarnate.

It feels magnificent. Exhilarating. You are so wonderfully, splendidly fucking alive.

Whatever spawn remain have begun to retreat, much to your displeasure, disappearing in puffs of red mist, back to whatever hole they crawled out of.

“Kamena!” Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ground, and pressing you tightly to firm, sculpted muscles. You would do anything to stay in this embrace but the pain in your ribs forces a pained cry from your lips, and Astarion jerks away from you.

Hecat screams, charging forward with her blade levelled at Astarion before you have time to explain. Astarion dodges swiftly and has one blade to Hecat’s throat and the other pressed firmly to her stomach before you can blink.

“Astarion, don’t,” you wheeze, shaking your head. “She helped me escape. Hecat, this is my friend.”

“Friend?” Hecat barks as Astarion releases her with a skeptical frown, and she reels back. “You failed to mention that your friend is also a fucking vampire.”

“Astarion is a person,” you growl. Without the adrenaline rocketing through your veins, your injuries and weariness have begun to take their toll on your body, and you stumble.

Astarion catches you, “You’re injured?”

“Her ribs are broken, I think,” Hecat replies for you. “The guards did not treat her well.”

“Shadowheart!” Astarion bellows and slightly lifts the hem of your shirt, revealing the edges of mottled blue, black and yellowing bruise expanding up your side. “Good Gods, my love.”

“I’m fine.” You bring Astarion’s eyes to yours, gazing into the scarlet sea you have longed to swim in. It almost makes it past you, but your brows furrow, “Did you just call for Shadowheart?”

A hand lays on your shoulder, and blue magic laves away the cutting pain in your side, “This was supposed to be a nice, boring vacation,” Shadowheart tuts, nose rising into the air with a snort. “I should have known better than to think you might be able to keep yourself out of trouble.”

“Shadowheart!” You pivot, wrapping your arms around her. “Gods. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” She drawls, returning the hug gently.

“Where is the wizard?” Astarion asks, “We should get her home. She smells terrible.”

Shadowheart chuckles with Astarion as you frown at them. “She really does. If I can smell her, I can’t imagine how bad she smells to you, vampire.”

“Be glad you can’t,” Astarion wrinkles his nose at you but sweeps you off your feet and into his arms, kissing your forehead.

“Take her home,” Shadowheart instructs. “I’ll wait for Gale.”

The conversation between them starts to sound far away as lethargy drags at your mind.

“What do we do about this one?” Astarion gestures to Hecat.

“Leave her with me,” Shadowheart concludes with a tinge of threat. “She can bring me up to speed on exactly what in the Hells is going on around here while we wait for Gale.”

“She helped me,” you murmur. “Be nice, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart smirks, “Aren’t I always nice?”

“Wake up.”

“No,” you grumble, forcing your eyes open.

“Yes.” Astarion purrs with cold breath on the shell of your ear that sends delightful shivers down your spine. “You are not crawling into our bed smelling like a flophouse latrine.”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body tightly to him. He tries to tug you away half-heartedly between his grunting protests, but there’s no real force behind his playful pulling.

“Now, you smell, too!” You chime as he sets you back on your feet and starts drawing a bath.

“Naughty girl,” Astarion smirks, chuckling.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the gilded mirror. Your hair is matted and dingy with grime. Filth streaks your face, dulling your complexion. Your shirt, once a pale blue, has been rendered brown, stained with dirt and blood that’s both new and long dried.

Movement behind you catches your eyes, whisking them away from your reflection. Bottles of oils float through the air, appearing to move on their own as Astarion pours oils into the water, and notes of lavender, sandalwood, and vanilla arise with the steam. This is something you’ve never gotten used to. Objects seemingly floating, as if picked up by a breeze and carried aloft of their own free will.

“Odd, isn’t it?” Astarion says, moving your hair and bringing you back from your contemplations.

“What?”

“No reflection.” Astarion’s cool fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms, allowing him to peel the disgusting garment from your body, “Objects moving on their own, a ghost underdressing you.”

“A little,” you admit. “I just don’t understand how you always look so fucking perfect all the time.”

“Oh,” he giggles, turning you around, hooking his fingers in your waistband, and crouching. “Do go on.”

You put your hands on his shoulders, leaning some of your weight into him while he strips you, lifting one leg at a time, “I missed you."

“I missed you, too. Very much.” He says, taking your hand in his, “Come. Into the bath with you before it gets cold, and you chastise me.”

Climbing into the steaming water is like climbing into a sun-soaked dream. How very odd is it you can forget how your skin feels when it’s clean. As you slough off the dirt, blood and filth, the pads of your fingers do not recognize the buttery softness of your skin without the grainy texture.

“Tilt your head back,” Astarion instructs. He pours hot water over your head, fingers gently detangling your matted hair, lathering it with soap.

The bruise extending up your side is still faintly visible, staining your skin in hues of blue and yellow, and your fingers skate up, poking and prodding.

“What happened in there?” Astarion brushes the backs of his fingers gently down the marbled skin.

“The guards had a bone to pick with me,” you shrug, trying to cover the solemnity of the conversation with a pleasant smile. “I don’t wish to talk about it right now, Astarion.”

“Kamena…” Astarion sighs with a sullen shake of his head.

You press your fingers gently under his chin, bringing his eyes to yours. Gods. When he looks at you, it is not a glance. It is a song, a message, a constellation of promises wrapped in scarlet, and you never want to look away.

���I’m not running, Astarion.” You assure him, “I will tell you all about it, but tonight, can we just be us?”

Astarion smiles, nodding his understanding, “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Astarion’s fingers massage your scalp as he washes the soap from your hair, rinsing it until the water finally runs clear.

“Do we have wine?” You ask on a whim.

“Gale does,” Astarion grins momentarily, but his lips press into a thin line. “Is this celebratory drinking or “it’s better to forget” drinking?”

You wince at the question. You know it’s not exactly the healthiest way to deal with your problems. You are tempted to lie to him but force the truth from your lips, “A little of both?”

“I can live with that, I suppose,” Astarion nods, helping you stand and wrapping a plush towel around you, patting you dry. You smile as he dotes on you, “I know where the wizard hides the good stuff. I will go raid his cellar.”

Slipping into one of Astarion’s shirts, you light the fire with naught but a thought. It feels good to have your magic back after being deprived of it for so long. You grip the Weave, pulling the mystical essence from your blood and bones, and it feels like taking a deep breath after you didn’t realize you were holding it. Fire spurts out of your palm, and you fashion it into a ring, forcing the flames to move unnaturally as they chase each other around in a never-ending loop.

You lift the flaming ring above your head, hovering between your palms like a fiery halo, and force it to expand and contract simply because you can.

“Did no one ever teach you it’s dangerous to play with fire, Sorceress?”

“Perhaps for the untrained, Rogue,” you smirk, snap your fingers, and the halo bursts like a firework, pinpricks of fire whirling around you.

You let the fire ebb and die out slowly, relinquishing your magic with a sorrowful sigh. The Weave fills you with life, comfort and peace. Without it, you’re thrust back into a stark reality. Astarion hands you a glass, and you grab the bottle and wink as you drink deeply. The wine is a crisp white wine, buttery with hints of vanilla. It sparkles on your tongue and fizzes down your throat, and you cannot help but close your eyes at the pleasure of it all after drinking brown-tinged water for a week.

“Shall we sit, or would you prefer to keep standing in the middle of the room?”

“Gods,” you smirk, handing the bottle to Astarion and trotting over to the bed. You flop onto it gracelessly. “Let’s drink in bed! I’ve been sleeping on stone for a week, and this is lovely, but it’s missing something.”

“And what’s that, my dear?” Astarion cocks his head handsomely with a boyish smile that tells you he knows exactly what you think it’s missing.

“You!”

“In that case,” Astarion giggles and removes his shirt. He thrusts the wine bottle into your hands. Your fingers fumble to catch it, senses entirely possessed by him, “We might as well get comfortable, yes?”

“Yes,” you breathe, swallowing thickly.

Astarion saunters around the bed, discarding pieces of clothing along the way. He makes it look casual, unpremeditated, but it’s maddeningly slow.

“You’re a tease,” you mutter under your breath, sipping the wine and slipping out of your shirt.

“I am not!” He chuckles, “You’re just exceptionally impatient. Good things come to do who wait, sweetheart.”

“Do they?” You quirk a brow at him, “I’m not so sure about that. Do you have proof of this notion?”

“I waited two hundred years for you.” Astarion purrs as the bed dips under his weight, and he presses his body against your back, wrapping his arms around you.

“I love you,” you murmur, craning your head to look at him, slipping your fingers into his hair.

“I love you, too. I should not have let the wizard talk to me into leaving you in there so long. I—“

“Not tonight, Astarion.” It sounds like a whimpering plea, “Please."

“Right. Apologies,” he rasps, lips against your neck.

“Have you been eating?”

“Always so worried about me,” his lips twitch into a smile. “I’m fine.”

Perhaps he is fine, but you are most certainly not. Suddenly, you’re impacted with a deep-seated need to feel that intimacy, that descent through the branches of his veins. You want to bleed into him, your soul and his, intertwined as one. The intensity of the emotion catches you off guard.

Are you chasing the bloodless daze that his feedings provide? Are you hoping it will lay a shroud over the dread sinking your stomach? Is this another way to run?

Maybe.

But you are so good at running.

“Would you like a nibble?” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the hint of anticipation from your voice.

Astarion jerks his head up, pushing your shoulder until you’re lying on your back and looking up at him with an arched brow. He regards you thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea tonight.”

“Why?”

Astarion rifles his fingers through his hair, “You are well aware of the effect you have on me when I feed on you. I cannot promise that once your blood dawns on my tongue, your skin under my fingertips, I won’t lose myself in the need to make every inch of you mine.”

You wrap an arm around Astarion’s neck carefully, kissing along his jaw. You whisper in his ear, “So make me yours.”

Astarion shudders amorously as you ghost your lips over the ridge of his ear to the tapered tip. He grabs your waist with a low, rumbling growl, pulling you into his lap to straddle him. His desire for you pressed firmly against your already slick sex. Astarion looks deeply into your eyes, holding you still as if trying to figure out if you’re in your right mind.

You’re trying to figure out the same thing.

He catches your lips in his, gentle at first but with progressively more ferocity. He groans into your mouth. It radiates down your spine, stealing your breath, and a chill rushes through you, settling in your core. Your heart flutters with desire, the increasing drumbeat of it making its way between your thighs.

Astarion’s hand grips your hips, undulating them, his cock sliding between your folds, brushing up against your swollen flesh. You have been so fundamentally deprived of his affection that every touch sends shivers over your skin, every slide of his tongue against yours makes you want to sigh, and every groan steals the air from your lungs.

His fingers tease the peaks of your nipples, and you throw your head back and gasp. Astarion kisses up the column of your throat, his free hand cradling the back of your head, fingers twisted in your hair.

There’s but a moment of clarity. You are running headfirst, barrelling into anything that might hope to make you numb - him, pleasure, alcohol, bloodlessness.

Astarion’s fingers glide between your lips and sweep over your sensitive pearl, and coherence is lost in a white-hot rush of pleasure. You melt, draping your arms over him and biting his shoulder to hush your cries. His lips trace along your neck, and you roll your head to the side. His fangs sink into your flesh, and he growls, deeply and lofty, his chest rumbling against yours as if thunder was rolling through it. Your essence trickles through his veins like a gentle rain as he draws in methodical sips, savouring every drop.

Your hips buck as he continues his ministrations. You yearn to feel that decedent stretch of your walls as they envelop his cock, and he knows it. Astarion encourages you to lift your hips, pressing the swollen, blunt head of his cock to your entrance, and you sink down his length as he rubs against all your ridges so exquisitely that it makes your vision blur.

You don’t even notice his fangs retreat from your neck as his lips mould to yours to dampen your unadulterated breathy moans. You close your eyes and fade in and out as your head spins around with pleasure so intense you cannot think straight. The woozy fog of blood loss only adds to your dwindling reason and logic. With every pump of his hips and every roll of yours, you are walking on the fine edge of paradise.

But there’s something not quite right in his movements. They are tactical, methodical, and too perfect. You drive your eyes open, blinking away that haze of ecstasy. When you look into Astarion’s eyes, he’s not looking back at you. He’s looking past you as if through you, but his body knows this dance well enough, and he continues to go through the motions even when he’s a million miles away.

You go rigid, halting all movement in a split second, and your heart seizes, bound by the flash freeze in your chest. It jolts him back to himself, and he blinks rapidly, almost confused.

“Astarion,” you purr, concealing the hurt in your voice. Why didn’t he tell you? Why didn’t he say something as he promised he would? “Let's stop.”

“No,” he protests, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“It’s okay, my love.” You cradle his cheek, trying very hard not to move a muscle until he tells you, “Tell me when I can move.”

“I’m sorry,” he looks away from you, brows downturned, rubbing his eyes. “I want this. You. I was there, and then I just… wasn’t. I don’t know what happened.”

“Healing is messy. Isn’t it?”

“You are a gift,” Astarion folds his arms around you, hugging you close to him, and you try to hug him back, but it’s admittedly awkward when he’s still inside you, and you’re trying your best to keep yourself still. He laughs, “You can move, Kamena. I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’re still inside me,” you retort, almost as if to alert him to this fact.

“Yes, that’s considerably obvious, but thank you for pointing it out,” he chuckles as you relax slightly. “Do you think we could stay like this? Just for a little bit? I find it… strangely helpful.”

This is new. Not unwelcome, but definitely new, “You want to sit here with your cock inside me, and what, chat?”

“Precisely!” He chimes happily, leaning back with a grin, “I’m so glad you understand, darling. Hells. Do I have some stories for you! Do you know how hard it is to break into the government buildings here? They are locked up tighter than a patriar’s purse, but I do love a good challenge.”

You can’t help but burst laughing at his carefree attitude, the way he’s still rock hard inside you, talking about committing crimes as if you were sitting at a table sharing stories over dinner and drinks. This is not typically how you remember him reacting, but this… this is progress, and you will take it.

You groan, “Why were you breaking into the civil buildings, Astarion?”

“How do you think Gale knew where to find and nullify the device suppressing magic at the prison?” Astarion drawls, pleased with himself. “That man is terrible at stealth. Even worse than you. He complained about his knees the entire time! Gods. I am centuries older than him, and you don’t see me bellyaching.”

“How utterly annoying! I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” you giggle at how he smirks with a wily glint in his crimson eyes. He definitely considered it. “In that case, you’re going to have to take me on a date where we break into this government building that gave you a hard time. This is something I must see.”

“You cheeky little minx,” he laughs. “I would love nothing more.”

The murmur of voices, clinking of cutlery on the tableware, and smell of what is surely Gale’s cooking drift down the hallway as you approach. Astarion follows closely behind, his hand at the small of your back. He has not stopped touching you in some fashion since you returned, as if he’s worried that you might disappear.

You stop dead in your tracks when you see the back of Hecat’s head, sitting at the table, shovelling whatever gruel Gale provided into her mouth and nodding as he recounts tales of your grand adventure in the Underdark. It takes substantial effort not to tell Gale to shut his trap. He does realize that you met this person in prison, right?

Shadowheart sees you first, leaping from her chair and dashing over, sweeping you into a tight hug, “Gods. You smell much better,” she giggles when you groan and squeeze her hard enough to expel some air from her lungs, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you nod, but you haven’t been able to take your gaze, etched with skepticism off Hecat.

Shadowheart whispers, “She had nowhere else to go. Gale invited her.”

You snort, “Of course he did.”

“I’ve been watching her closely,” Shadowheart sniffs. “And I will continue to do so.”

You suppose the woman was instrumental in your escape, and perhaps, for now, you should give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Sit,” Astarion instructs, pulling a chair out for you. “I will get you some food.”

You arch a brow at him and give him an almost imperceptible shake of your head. Although anything will be better than the stale bread and dried meat the prison served, whatever Gale has fashioned resembles wet dog food, and your stomach, as hungry as it is, flops in your belly.

Astarion kisses your temple, “Trust me.”

You sit, and Astarion gathers fresh fruit from the fridge, cutting it up in deft, precise movements. He glares at the knife spitefully, assessing the edge and rolling his eyes. You would giggle, knowing he’s judging Gale for the state of his knives, if you were not so flabbergasted that Astarion is preparing your food.

Hecat’s voice breaks you from your astoundment, “You clean up nicely! I almost forgot what colour your hair was under all that crud.”

She, too, looks substantially different without dirt smudged on her face, “I could say the same about you,” you retort a little too sourly.

Hecat smiles, not catching the venom in your voice, “Your friends are very nice.”

“Yes,” you give Gale a sideways glance, and he looks bashful. “Gale is very generous and trusting.”

Gale’s face flushes red, and he clears his throat, putting a finger in the collar of his robe, and pulling it away from his neck like the garment is restricting his breath.

Astarion places a bowl of perfectly diced fruit before you. He sits, dragging his chair close to yours so he can keep a hand resting on your thigh. You don’t miss the way Shadowheart glares at him with unspoken bitterness.

“Dear Shadowheart already gave me quite the berating,” he shimmies his shoulders as if he enjoyed it.

He actually might have.

“Not enough of one if you ask me.” Shadowheart scoffs, her eyes narrowed and blazing with acidity.

Hecat arches a brow, confused at what is going on, and you’re not about to lay out your life story for some stranger you met in prison, so you push the conversation forward.

“Aldous is a vampire,” you say far too casually and are met with looks of shock and silence.

Gale and Shadowheart eye Astarion.

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my bloody doing. I am a mere spawn. I do not have the power to turn anyone. Gods,” he shakes his head. “I don’t believe it possible. I disposed of him. Thoroughly.”

“Did you destroy his body?” You ask. Gale almost chokes on his tea at the indifference in your voice.

Astarion nods, “Entirely. There was nothing left.”

“Is that the man who was after you?” Hecat asks, but her eyes are not on you.

They are moored to Astarion, like a shipwreck lying on the ocean floor, irretrievably bound. Astarion doesn’t seem to notice as he typically does not, but these dew-eyed ogles always make jealously flare to life. You place your hand on Astarion, stop yourself from growling “mine,” and instead, settle on scowling.

Astarion is alerted to your discontentment by the heat radiated from your palm. He makes a show of kissing each of your fingers, slow and lingering, trying very hard not to snicker. He finds your jealousy endearing but equally foolish, and perhaps it is.

Hecat does not seem to care or notice. It drives you mad, so you crawl into his lap, placing yourself between him and her gawking orange eyes. You can hear Shadowheart chuckling under her breath. She knows your protectiveness of Astarion all too well.

Astarion remains casual about it as if it’s not unusual for you to sit in his lap during breakfast. He grabs the bowl of fruit you have yet to finish and shoves it into your hands, “Eat.”

You grumble curses under your breath only he can hear, at him and his bossiness, at Hecat, and shovel fruit into your mouth.

Astarion chuckles, kissing your cheek, and purrs reassuringly, “I only have eyes for you, thiramin.”

You know this, but it’s not his eyes you’re concerned about.

A knock on the door breaks you from your brewing hostility, and you nearly answer it as a reflex, but he holds you and shakes his head, “No. Not this time.”

“I’ll get it,” Shadowheart chimes.

Gale accompanies Shadowheart. All three of you are holding the Weave, ready to cast at a moment’s notice. There is an undertone of mumbling, and Astarion’s face transforms into a formidable scowl. His grip on you tightens, and he brandishes a dagger.

“Blackwell,” he growls.

Flames immediately jump to life across your skin, licking up your forearms and through your hair. Hecat is on her feet, her fists balled, stirred by your unease.

Gale returns, looking contrite, wracking his hand over his face, “I’m sorry, my friend, but we must hear him out.”

Astarion is the first to answer, his voice rough and grated in warning, “Absolutely fucking not! I don’t care what information he has or what he has to say, Gale. If you let him into this house, I will kill him. I promise you that. You would not want to get blood all over these lovely floors. Would you?”

“Information?” You ask, placing a hand on Astarion’s as he grips the dagger so tightly his fist shakes.

“Don’t be an idiot, Kamena,” Astarion snarls.

“My son,” you hear Mr. Blackwell’s voice as he sidles up behind Gale as if using him as a shield. Shadowheart has a tight clutch on his shoulder, bristling with fury, “I’ve made a grave mistake. I know I have no right to ask, but I don’t know where else to turn. I... I need your help.”

“Help?” You seethe, fingernails digging into the table to keep yourself from burning him where he stands, shoulders slumped, wringing his hat in his hands. “You want our help?! That’s laughable.”

“You killed him.” Mr. Blackwell mewls, “Didn’t you?”

You do not answer. No one does. Instead, you level him with a glower sharp enough to cut through mountains.

It is answer enough.

“I made a deal,” he continues. “No one would listen to me. No one cared. I was out of options, and then I was approached by a woman while I was at a tavern. She told me she could bring him back. She told me there was a spell that would return him to me. She said the only payment she would ask was that he would be in her service. I... I did not ask questions. I did not know what she was!”

“You godsdamned idiot,” you hiss, clenching your teeth so hard the nerves trill. “You made a deal with a vampire?”

“Nobles,” Hecat scoffs with a disgusted twist of her lips. “All wealth, zero intelligence.”

“I didn’t know!” Mr. Blackwell cries, slipping to the floor into a puddle of sorrow. “She said he would return to me the next night, and he did, but he was not the same. His mother let him in. She was so happy to see him she did not notice or care. She hugged him. He… He bit her! I could not get him to stop. He looks like you,” Mr. Blackwell says sullenly, nodding toward Astarion. “Red eyes, pale as a sheet.”

“I am sure he does,” Astarion beams a fanged, threatening grin at him, making Mr. Blackwell squeak like a mouse caught in a trap.

Questions are whirling through your mind. Why would a Vampire Lord take notice of you? Why would they waste resources – spawn, scrolls or otherwise? Why bother having you imprisoned, beaten, and weakened? There is always a purpose to their madness, but what could you have that they want?

“What could a Vampire Lord possibly want with you?” Gale echos your thoughts, fingers on his chin. “And why bring Aldous back? How did they bring him back?”

“Aldous is easy. Most likely a scroll of True Resurrection. I imagine they turned him because they knew his thirst for revenge would make him easy to manipulate. Vengeance is a powerful motivator.” Your brows furrow, tapping the table with your finger rapidly, “What I don’t understand is what use they would have for any of us. I can’t think of a single relic in our possession that would do a Vampire Lord any good.”

Hecat looks between all of you with a puzzled look. She knows too much now, adding yet another complication.

“Astarion,” Shadowheart prompts him, “You’re the resident expert on vampires. Care to speculate as to why they would go through all this trouble?”

Astarion’s brows furrow and he shrugs, “I don’t have the slightest clue. Vampires are territorial beasts, but I do not think they would go to such lengths when they could have simply attacked me while I was hunting if their concern was territory.”

You give the worn noble on the floor a once over, and you feel nothing but hatred for the pathetically snivelling man. Should you feel merciful? Gods. When did you become so callous? “Did Aldous say anything else?”

“He muttered things here and there.” Mr. Blackwell sighs letting his head drop into his hands, “Something about ruins being the key and a contract, but none of it made any sense. He seemed like he was in a haze, drunk-like.”

Ruins being a key and a contract? It's not much to go on at this point, but you suppose, it’s a start.

“Whoever this Vampire Lord is,” Shadowheart crosses her arms, “They will know exactly who we are. They will not underestimate us.”

“Indeed,” Gale agrees with a curt nod. “We must take precautions, prepare and plan for the worst.”

“Who the fuck are you people?” Hecat asks, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

“Adventurers,” you trample over Gale who is about to spill your entire story, looking him in the eyes with a warning. His mouth snaps shut. “Nothing more.”

It seems your adventure in Waterdeep is just beginning.  

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Shadowheart ❤️

I'm dying to hear all your theories on why a Vampire Lord has taken an interest! 😁

Are we trusting Hecat?

Fucking Aldous 🤬 Hopefully we get the chance to kill him... again.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 66

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 66: The Son of Duty

AO3 - Masterlist

As always, when his brother ran away, Aemond ran after him. 

The scene unfolded on the stone steps of the Sept, a place usually synonymous with tranquility, now transformed into a stage of chaos and conflict, as Aegon broke free from the firm grasp of Ser Arryk Cargyll. His actions were sudden and desperate, a blur of motion as he bolted towards the staircase. 

The only thing Aemond could do was to give chase. He wasn’t about to let his brother shirk his duty like a coward. 

The rhythmic clatter of their boots against the stone steps reverberated through the air, creating a relentless echo that mirrored the intensity of their chase. Each step Aemond took was fueled by a deep-seated resolve, his cloak swirling dramatically behind him as he descended the steps, his eye on his brother as he tried to diminish the gap between them. 

As Aemond raced forward, the howling wind roared in his ears, merging with the pounding of his heart and the thunderous echo of his footsteps on the smooth stones. In the midst of this, a distinct clash of steel sounded. The sharp hiss of blades slicing through the air, clashing like thunder from the sky. 

The perpetual cycle of Aegon’s escapades, always courting chaos with a seemingly insatiable appetite, had long been a source of exasperation for Aemond. His brother’s actions were like a tempest, constantly disrupting the order and stability that Aemond valued. 

His patience frayed, and he surged forward reaching for his brother. 

As Aegon ran across the expansive stone square, the urgency in Aemond’s steps grew. He launched himself with a calculated ferocity, aiming to halt his brother’s flight. Their bodies collided with a resounding thud, sending shockwaves through them as they both tumbled onto the cold, hard stones. The air was momentarily knocked out of him, their struggle continuing in spite of this. 

In a swift reaction, Aegon lashed out with a desperate kick, aiming squarely at Aemond’s chest. The force of the blow was a testament to his desire for freedom, his body scrambling across the rough surface in a bid to escape. However, Aemond’s grasp was unyielding. He snatched at Aegon’s ankle, pulling him back with a strength born of frustration and duty. Aemond’s hiss, a sound mingled with both anger and scorn, echoed through the square as he scowled at his brother. 

“No! Stop!” Aegon howled, kicking his feet and swatting at Aemond.

In the midst of their frantic struggle, Aemond’s hands were firm on Aegon’s arms, attempting to restrain him. Aegon, wild and desperate like an animal cornered, responded with a primal instinct. He bit down hard on Aemond’s hand, his teeth sinking into the flesh with a ferocity that spoke of his need for escape. Aemond, feeling the sharp pain, let out a low growl and jerked his hand back. The sensation of bruised, possibly broken skin mingled with the wetness of Aegon’s saliva made him want to knock his brother out and be done with it. 

He ground his teeth, barely registering the discomfort as he focused solely on preventing his brother’s escape. 

Aegon’s laughter, twisted and almost hysterical, rang out as he flailed on the ground, trying to pry Aemond’s hands off of him. 

For a moment, if Aemond hadn’t known his brother so well, he might have believed Aegon had slipped into madness. But he understood this was just another manifestation of Aegon’s penchant for chaos. 

With a renewed grip, Aemond tightened his hold on Aegon’s collar, his fingers digging in as he fought to keep his brother under control. Aegon flailed and twisted with the desperation of a fish forced onto dry land. 

“I was hoping you disappeared,” Aemond uttered through gritted teeth, his voice a harsh whisper that barely rose above the din of his rapidly pounding heart. The adrenaline of the chase and the struggle lent a ragged edge to his words.

Aegon stilled, panting as he looked up at his brother. As he spoke, his tone wavered between a desperate yearning for it to be true and a disbelief that bordered on denial.“Is our father truly dead?”

“Yes,” Aemond responded, the word heavy with weariness. “And they’re going to make you king.”

As Aemond briefly glanced upward, he became acutely aware of the crowd that had begun to gather, their eyes wide with both shock and intrigue as they bore witness to the spectacle of two boys, unmistakably of Targaryen descent, embroidered in a hearted scuffled amidst the backdrop of two knights locked in a swordfight. 

It would be the talk of the city come evening. 

When Aemond’s attention returned to his brother, he was met with Aegon’s glaring scowl. 

In a defiant act of contempt, Aegon spat at him. The spit hit Aemond squarely in the face, the saliva making an unwelcome contact with his eye. Recoiling as if it burned, Aemond’s hand flew to his face in an instinctive attempt to wipe away the offensive gesture. 

A deep growl of disgust and anger rumbled in his throat, a visceral response at his brother’s disrespect. 

This moment of distraction provided Aegon with a fleeting chance to escape. He clamored to his feet with a sudden burst of energy, desperate to break free from Aemond’s hold. But Aemond was quick to react. 

He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Aegon in a firm, unyielding embrace. Despite Aegon’s struggles, Aemond refused to loosen his grip, determined to force his brother into facing his responsibilities. 

“Are you going to help me?!” Aegon screamed at the spectators. 

He would find no saviors there, Aemond thought. No one would intervene. 

“No!” Aegon yelled, fighting against Aemond’s embrace. “No! Let me go!”

The brothers stood in stark contrast to each other–Aegon, frantic and vehement in his attempts to escape, and Aemond, resolute and unwavering in his hold. 

Nearby, the duel had reached a critical juncture. Ser Criston Cole, with a display of skill, had disarmed Ser Arryk Cargyll. He now stood vigilant, his opponent’s sword in his possession, while keeping his own blade raised and ready, an unspoken warning against any further action from Ser Arryk Cargyll. 

Aegon’s outcry cut through the air, laden with fear and defiance–and so utterly desperate. “I have no wish to rule! No taste for duty. I am not suited!”

Aemond’s response was laced with a bitter irony. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

This understatement belied the bitter stab of envy and indignation that continued to jab between his ribs since he heard of his father’s passing. In his heart, Aemond knew his brother was unfit for the throne, and yet, the bitter truth gnawed at him–it was Aegon, not he, who was destined for it. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth as he continued to swallow his indignation for the sake of his duty. 

A persistent voice mused within him. It should be mine. It should be me that they will crown. 

This thought was both seductive and forbidden, but it was there, the same voice that had made him lay claim to Vhagar–If you want something, you need to claim it. 

In a bid for freedom, Aegon twisted desperately within Aemond’s embrace. He turned and brought his face dangerously close to Aemond’s, his filthy hands clutching the sides of his brother’s head as he continued his fervent entreaties. 

“You let me go, I will find a ship and sail away never to be found,” Aegon promised, his voice laden with a desperate earnestness. “You can have the throne, you can have it–let me go, brother.”

In Aegon’s wide, pleading eyes, there was a silent appeal that struck a chord in Aemond’s heart. 

For a fleeting moment, Aemond found himself on the brink of yielding, tempted by the allure of what could be his. The throne seemed almost within reach, the imagined weight of the crown upon his head, and the prospect of claiming everything Aegon was set to inherit – all due to the mere circumstance of birth order, despite Aegon’s apparent disinterest and unsuitability. He wanted it. 

Letting Aegon disappear into the anonymity of the vast world appeared to be a path of both simplicity and mercy – a solution that would relieve his brother from a burden he did not wish to bear and fulfill Aemond’s deepest ambitions. 

Yet, in the depths of Aemond’s heart, he knew that Aegon was more than just a sibling; he was the legitimate heir, the firstborn son of Viserys Targaryen and the one their mother had toiled to put on the throne. Aegon was the heir, however much he wished it wasn’t so.

Aemond understood that to let Aegon discard his rightful claim would be to dishonor the sacrifices their mother had made – it would be a betrayal not just to her, but of the very essence of their bloodline. He could not stand by and watch Aegon forsake his birthright because he simply did not desire it. 

To be the dutiful son and a responsible brother, Aemond understood that he had to act against Aegon’s wishes–for the sake of what was right. The weight of duty rested heavily upon the both of them, and it was high time Aegon recognized what that duty entailed. It was not something to be evaded or drowned in frivolous pursuits. These responsibilities were not to be taken lightly, nor to be dissipated in the indulgence of a carefree life. 

If he did not want the throne, he shouldn’t have been born first. 

Aemond, bound by this sense of duty and familial obligation, knew he could not in good conscience allow his brother to escape. He had to ensure that Aegon faced his responsibilities, to embrace the role destined for him. 

Aegon’s hand gripped Aemond’s face with a touch that was both desperate and pleasing. His eyes flickered over Aemond’s face, seeming to latch onto the hesitation–the temptation of his offer. A sharp gleam sparked in his eyes, something dark and vengeful. The earlier look of pitiful desperation morphed into a visage of spite and malevolence. 

“Release me, brother, and all could be yours – the throne, the power, Daenera,” Aegon almost sneered, his voice laced with venom. His lips, chapped and stretched, bared his teeth in a grimace that betrayed his true intentions. “Let me go, and I will let you have her – if you don’t, I swear I will drag her down into the same misery that’s been forced upon me.”

The threat hung heavily between them. 

Aegon’s words, edged with bitterness and resentment, painted a clear picture of his disdain for the responsibilities thrust upon him and the lengths he was willing to go to escape them. His expression contorted into outright hostility, as Aemond’s eye narrowed. 

Aemond’s grip on his brother weakened, the hesitation reaching his fingers as they slightly relaxed. He stared at his brother, eye narrowed and sharp, as his heart pounded with a fierce rhythm against his ribcage. For a brief moment, Aemond considered the thought of allowing his brother to escape, to permit his brother the freedom of the path that led to his certain demise.

As the temptation grew, Ser Criston Cole’s sudden presence sharply grounded them in the present. His solid grasp on Aegon’s shoulder, silently but resolutely, declared that the chance for his escape had passed. 

The brief glimmer of hope vanished from Aegon’s eyes, replaced by a clear realization; that he was irrevocably destined for the throne. 

And Aemond, he was destined to serve under him. 

“The Queen awaits,” Ser Criston announced, his voice cutting through the tension.

A shadow of disillusionment crept across Aegon’s features, darkening his gaze with a glint of animosity as he extricated himself from Aemond’s hold. His lips twisted into a derisive sneer, an unspoken indictment against his brother’s actions. 

Aemond braced himself against the accusatory glare from Aegon’s eyes. In withholding the chance of escape, he had imposed a heavy burden upon them both, and he steeled his heart for the repercussions that might follow. Aegon had made it clear that he wouldn’t forget this perceived betrayal. 

Their journey back to the Red Keep was marked by Aegon’s sulky acquiescence. His frustration and bitterness radiated from him, sharpening his movements and posture into that of a defiant child. Each step seemed a testament to his reluctance, with every drag of his feet and the slump of his shoulders an outward display of his displeasure. He held a petulance like a fucking child. 

Aemond could only respond with a weary sigh, his patience thinning.

“You wish to crown me, but I do not want it. Our sister is the rightful heir, not me,” Aegon’s complaint emerged, his voice bordering on a whine. “What sort of brother steal’s his sister's birthright?” 

In a swift reaction, Aemond’s grip found the fabric of Aegon’s cloak, decisively pulling him onward towards the Red Keep, as it loomed in the distance. The sudden movement caused Aegon to falter, his feet momentarily losing their rhythm before he steadied himself, propelled forward by his brother’s insistent tug. 

At Aegon’s other side, Ser Criston matched their pace with a steady gait, embodying a serious counterpoint to Aemond’s growing irritation. His dark features remained composed, brow set in a serious line. 

“You are the King’s eldest, trueborn son,” Ser Criston intoned, his voice a bastion of unwavering belief. “Your lineage is indisputable. The Iron Throne is your birthright.”

Aegon, however, remained unconvinced, his reply slicing through the air with a mixture of defiance and childish petulance. “Then why did our father prefer Rhaenyra to succeed him? He declared her his successor; his intentions were clear that he wanted her to rule, not me.”

Aemond couldn’t help but wonder whether Aegon truly understood the gravity of their situation. With their father, Viserys, no longer alive, their very existence teetered on the edge of a blade, subject to the whims of succession. Their lives hung in the balance on his right to rule. Their half-sister harbored no affection for either of them, and she would see their heads separated from their bodies and displayed on top of the gates of the Red Keep. 

Yet here Aegon stood, the Iron Throne, the crown, the supreme power of the realm within his grasp, seemingly oblivious to the magnitude of his role, willing to let it slip away like grains of sand through his fingers.  

Ser Criston countered, his gaze vigilant as they navigated the city’s streets, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “The King let his fondness for his daughter cloud his judgment. Rhaenyra’s ascent to the throne would spell disaster; her governance would be catastrophic and bring ruin to the realm. She’s a woman with no integrity or honor, and with Daemon Targaryen at her side, she is more likely to burn down the Kingdom than let it prosper.”

His words carried a sharp edge of disdain, rooted deeply in his own convictions. “Whilst any trueborn Targaryen, no Strong can ever hope to sit the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra has no choice but to take your heads if she wishes her bastards to rule after her.”

Aegon’s response was a derisive scoff, his head shaking in disbelief as his hands balled into fists at his sides. 

“Her sense of entitlement was clear when her bastards took your brother’s eye. Rather, she and her offspring believed it was their right to brutalize and leave your brother with lasting scars. Justice was denied to him. And you can be assured that she will be just as unjust if she claims the throne,” Ser Criston persisted, his statements rekindling a deep-seated resentment within Aemond. “She will demand your heads, and even those of your children.”

Aegon’s gaze shifted to Aemond, lingering on his scar with a grimace forming on his face. Aemond felt his brother’s attention burn into him as though he was tracing the scar with a blade, igniting a stinging sensation that burrowed into the hollow left behind by the dagger. 

“She’ll show no mercy, not to Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, nor to young Maelor. She will pursue their end with neither compassion nor pause,” Ser Criston added, his tone unwavering. 

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his teeth gritting in silent fury as he took in the knight’s words. These warnings weren’t new to him, nor Aegon; they mirrored the dire admonitions once given by their mother and grandfather, now echoed in Ser Criston’s solemn utterance. 

“You are the legitimate and rightful king, Aegon. You are destined to protect the realm from the dishonor the Whore of Dragonstone and her bastards would undoubtedly subjugate it to,” Ser Criston proclaimed. 

Any of Aegon’s responses seemed to fade into a profound silence, a quiet that spoke volumes more than any verbal response could. 

To Aemond, this silence was maddening, the evidence of his brother’s indifference. He found it utterly incomprehensible that Aegon could have such dispassion towards the immense power and privilege being offered to him, placed within the palm of his hand, a prize for which many had laid down their lives for merely a sliver of its promise. Beyond this, Aegon’s apparent indifference to the danger Rhaenyra’s ascension to the throne posed to their own survival, as well as the welfare and survival of his children, was as perplexing as it was infuriating. It was one thing for Aegon to be indifferent about his own fate, but Aemond thought he should, at the very least, consider the safety of his children, Helaena, and even their mother, acknowledging the sacrifices she had endured to secure his position.

Their march culminated at the formidable Red Keep, where the massive wood and bronze gates swung open to permit their entry, then shut behind them, the sound echoing with a definitive clang that seemed to isolate them from the rest of the world outside. 

Navigating through the expansive courtyard, they made their way into Maegor’s Holdfast. Aemond observed the spots where blood had been meticulously cleaned away, largely indifferent to the macabre display of bodies suspended from the second-story railing, framed by stone arches. Lord Caswell hung suspended, alongside a woman whose blood stained dress bespoke of a different end. 

With a steady pace, they climbed the stairs leading to Aegon’s private chambers. Aemond was consumed with sheer exasperation. His frustration was palpable as he rolled his eye in disbelief at his brother, dramatically collapsing onto his bed with an exaggerated groan. The theatrics only served to amplify Aemond’s irritation. 

Turning to Ser Criston, he issued a succinct command, his voice tinged with urgency. “Fetch our mother.”

Ser Criston gave a nod of acknowledgement to Aemond’s command and promptly departed the chamber. 

His swift exit left Aemond alone, tasked with overseeing his recklessly imprudent brother. Standing with his arms crossed over his chest, Aemond’s gaze was firmly set on Aegon, who lay sprawled across the bed in a manner more befitting a beggar lying in a gutter than a prince lying on silk sheets. The stench that emanated from him was equally unprincely – a foul stench of sour wine and muck. 

Aegon’s chambers reflected the chaos of his existence, serving as a stark illusion of his depravity and utter disregard of order. The room was littered with evidence of his excesses, including various ornamental figures callously dispersed around, phallic in nature and hinting at his sinful habits. A thick, stifling and unpleasant smell permeated the air, a mixture of mold and decomposition that clawed at the back of one's throat. Aemond was almost convinced that the source of the foulness was buried somewhere within the chaotic sprawl of the room, likely buried beneath the clothes that lay strewn throughout the room. 

Observing the scene, the sight of Aegon amidst such squalor struck a discordant note with the grandeur and dignity expected of the heir to the Iron throne. This disparity filled Aemond with a profound sense of irritation. Aegon was more suited for the squalor of Flea Bottom than the throne. 

Aemond, unable to mask his irritation any longer, spoke with a voice tinged with vexation, his gaze sharply fixed on Aegon’s recumbent form. 

“I fail to comprehend your reluctance,” he said, his words punctuated by exasperation. “You behave as though the crown is a curse, yet it’s being offered to you freely.”

Aegon, with his face pressed into his pillow, responded in a voice that was muffled and heavy with exhaustion, the kind that comes from exerting an effort he appeared reluctant to make. “Of course, you wouldn’t understand. You are the perfect, dutiful son. You were always more fit for the throne than I could ever be...”

Aemond’s response was prompt, yet it carried a note of resigned agreement. “Once again, you’ll receive no argument from me.”

“Then why didn’t you let me go?” Aegon’s question was direct, seeking an answer he properly already knew. He sat up on the bed to stare directly at Aemond. 

“You know why,” Aemond replied, his tone firm, the irritation within him simmering just beneath the surface, a sense of fervor igniting in his chest. “I am not the one they wish to crown. I am not the eldest.”

“Rhaenyra is the eldest,” Aegon shot back, his voice charged with a defiant edge. “She’s Viserys’ chosen heir.”

A sheen of unshed tears seemed to build in Aegon’s eyes, as he blinked rapidly to try and hold them back. The corners of his lips subtly downturned, and betrayed his emotions, and his voice had become raspy as he spoke, “No one desires my rule, except mother and grandfather – not even you.”

Aemond’s frustration reached a boiling point. “Do you still not grasp the situation we’re in? Whether she is Viserys’ chosen heir or not, it’s irrelevant. Without you on the throne, our end is certain. Do you wish for our deaths?”

Aegon seemed to wither beneath Aemond’s words, but he continued nonetheless. “Ser Criston made it clear. With Rhaenyra as Queen, we all face doom – Mother, Daeron, Helaena, your own children. All of us. We’ll all be put to death.”

He was acutely aware that Aegon had been exposed to this warning repeatedly throughout his life–the both of them had. Their mother had ingrained this fear in them from a young age. Yet, Aegon seemed either unable or unwilling to understand the gravity, or perhaps simply he didn’t care. 

Aegon’s expression soured, and he seemed to bite the inside of his cheek as he looked away from him. “It’s not fair.”

Aemond’s response was devoid of empathy, his patience worn to nothing. “Don’t talk to me about fairness. You have no understanding of what is unfair. And don’t expect any pity from me – you’ll find none.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened as he glared back at him. “You should have let me leave.”

“Had I allowed you to flee, the Hand would have hunted you down, or perhaps some with far less regard for your safety,” Aemond responded with a tone of sharp realism. 

If they had not found him, Daemon and Rhaenyra would have, regardless of whether he sought sanctuary in the distant Pentos or Lys. And if not them, there would undoubtedly be others, drawn to Aegon’s legitimate right to rule. His brother’s freedom was not a simple matter; it was an entangled web of political implications. 

Though, he would likely have ended up dead in some back alley of some brothel.

Aegon’s response was laced with acerbity. “Don’t pretend to care for my welfare, brother. I am not blind to your ambitions. I know you desire the throne for yourself.”

“I do. I won’t deny it,” Aemond agreed, acknowledging as much. “However, you remain my brother. No matter how vehemently you reject the throne and how fervently I want it, I will not abandon your rightful claim. You will be king, Aegon, and I will stand by your side.” 

Somewhere amidst the complexities of love, the duty of blood, and the distorted sense of honor, Aemond’s words found their place. He did not believe his brother fit for the crown, yet he would offer his unwavering support on the basis of being his brother. It meant something to him. 

Aegon observed Aemond intently, reclining casually on one arm. A crooked smile tugged at the corners of Aegon’s mouth as he toyed with the frayed fabric of his trousers, a glint of mischief appearing in his eyes. “Once I am king, you won’t be able to lay a finger on me.”

Aemond responded in kind, his tone somewhat mirroring his brothers. “That’s unfortunate. I suspect you’ll be in need of a good thrashing now and then, Your Grace.”

In that moment, the reality of their future roles dawned on Aemond with stark clarity. The casual brawls and scuffles would be a thing of the past. Aegon would be more than his brother; he would be his King. Aemond would forever become a subject, bound by the respect and formality due to a king. 

The door swung open abruptly, cutting short any further exchange between the brothers, as their mother entered the room. Relief was etched across her face as she quickly wrapped her arms around Aegon. He, on the other hand, wiggled uncomfortably, seeming wholly unaccustomed to this display of maternal affection. 

“Are you well? Have you been harmed?”

“I’m alive,” Aegon responded, his voice tinged with a resigned heaviness. “Unfortunately.”

She held him out in an outstretched position as she seemed to scan her son’s unkempt state – his skin streaked with grime and bruises forming a colorful array around his weary eyes, the scrapes on his hands and knees, the dirt that clung to his skin. She released him, her face  a complex mixture of worry and mild reproach. 

Aemond barely concealed a smirk at her reaction to Aegon’s pungent odor, as she wrinkled her nose at him, brushing her hands together as though brushing off the dirt. 

Alicent swiftly took charge of the situation. “I’ll have the servants prepare a bath for you. Archmaster Orwyle will see to your injuries.”

Aegon irritably brushed her hand off his face as she caressed his cheek and retreated back to the bed, where he proceeded to rumple the sheets further as he cocooned himself within them, muttering discontentedly. “I just want to eat and then sleep.”

“You’ll sleep after you’re bathed. You reek,” Alicent shot back firmly. “We cannot have you looking and smelling like a street urchin.”

Aegon’s response was muffled and indistinct as he buried his face deeper into the bedding. 

Alicent turned her attention to Ser Criston with a sense of command and urgency. “Ensure there are guards at this door at all times, those we can trust implicitly. And have one stationed inside as well. We cannot risk him attempting another escape.”

From beneath the fabric of the bedcovers, Aegon’s voice emerged, muffled yet laced with a petulant sarcasm. 

“Are they going to supervise my bath too? How scandalous, Mother. Why not let them join me, I’ll be sure to entertain them,” he quipped. “Or are you worried I might end my own life before you get to crown me?”

“Aegon,” Alicent reprimanded, her expression shifting to one of exasperation as she pressed her lips together and shook her head, causing her earrings to sway wildly. Her hands folded before her. 

It was Ser Criston who eased the tension by responding with a nod, affirming his compliance. “As Your Grace wishes.”

“Thank you, Ser Criston, for bringing him back,” Alicent said, her voice softening as she expressed her gratitude, even as Aegon groaned and rolled further into the bed. 

“It is my honor to serve, my Queen,” Ser Criston replied, before turning on his heels to leave, the brown cloak fluttering behind him. 

Alicent’s gaze settled on Aemond, her hand reaching out to rest on his arm, giving it an appreciative squeeze. “You did well in bringing your brother back and ensuring his safety.”

Her touch lingered for a moment before gently withdrawing. “The servants will prepare him a path. Can you make sure that he makes use of it? The preparations for the coronation demand my attention.”

Aemond’s eye drifted past her, landing on Aegon, who lay in a heap on the bed. He inwardly signed, preferring any task but this–preferring to see Daenera and ensure her wellbeing. “Very well, I’ll ensure he bathes.”

Her hand came to caress his cheek. “Thank you, Aemond.”

Aemond briefly savored her touch, lifting his own hand to cradle hers, gently detaching it from his cheek. He held onto her hand for a fleeting moment, gathering his thoughts. Then, he broached the topic that had been incessantly gnawing at him, its urgency resonating from the deepest recesses of his thoughts. “I wish to discuss the matter of Daenera with you and the Hand.”

As her hand slipped from his grasp, it came to rest against her stomach, her expression tightening at the mention of Daenera. Her lips pursed slightly. “If it’s concerning her confinement, the arrangements are in place.”

“It is regarding her position–”

“Now is not the time,” Alicent interjected, her tone final. “Our priorities lie with the coronation. Stay with your brother.”

Aemond absorbed the dismissal, feeling it fester within the pit of his stomach. Yet, he stepped aside, granting his mother the space to depart, all while his vexation morphed into something fiercer, pulsing with every heartbeat. 

Trusted servants began to trickle in, each hefting buckets filled with steaming water, tipping them into the bath until it brimmed, steam wafting and soap suds frothing on the surface. They busied themselves with tidying the room, gathering the scattered clothing and disposing of any decayed remnants of food as Ser Arryk Cargyll entered, taking position by the door, his commoner garb exchanged by a pristine white cloak that was at the risk of being stained simply by being within Aegon’s chambers. 

“Aegon,” Aemond’s voice broke the monotony, prodding at his brother’s leg while Aegon’s face remained obscured by the pillows. Unmoved and unresponsive, Aegon continued to lie inert, blatantly and willfully ignoring him. “Enough with the childish theatrics, get into the bath.”

“Leave me be, Aemond,” came Aegon’s muffled retort, his words barely pushing through the pillow’s fabric. “I wish to sleep.”

“Stand up,” Aemond insisted, his tone sharpening. “You can sleep when you’re clean.”

Aegon’s head rolled, freeing his mouth. “But my bed will make me dirty again now that I’ve lied in it.”

Aemond rolled his eye.

With a languid roll onto his back, Aegon’s features contracted in an expression of defiance, his jawline creasing as he settled into an even more exasperating pose. He passed a hand over his face to smooth back his disheveled and tangled locks, staring back at Aemond in a deliberate and provoking manner that had Aemond wishing to throttle him right then and there. 

Why did his brother insist on being this childish?

“And what of Daenera?” Aegon hummed, his tone laced with a subtle challenge. 

Aemond’s eye narrowed. “What of her?”

“She won’t take kindly to you being the good, dutiful son usurping her mother’s claim,” Aegon remarked, picking at a broken nail, watching him with amusement. “Do you honestly believe she’ll love you after this?”

Aemond felt a pang in his heart, a mix of frustration and unresolved longing, as he clenched his teeth. He exhaled a heavy, exasperated sigh and shook his head in resignation. “No, she won’t take kindly to it, but in the end, she will be mine.”

Aegon scoffed, a sharp smile stretching out over his teeth, “How pathetic you’ve become, brother, weak with love.”

Clutching a handful of Aegon’s shirt, Aemond’s expression twisted into a sneer, even as Aegon let out a scornful laugh. “You’re hardly one to lecture me on being pathetic and weak. The pitiful one here isn’t me.”

“It’s remarkable, truly, how Daenera’s cunny has turned you from dutiful dog to a besotted, cunt-struck fool. Mayhaps I should have a go; it could just free you of this spell of hers–” Aegon taunted. 

Aemond reached his limit. Seizing Aegon’s collar, he yanked him to the bed’s edge, gripping the fabric tightly in both hands to pull him upright. With a firm hold, he hauled Aegon across the room, dragging him by the scruff of his neck. Aegon’s feet tangled beneath him as he vocally resisted, his protests rising in pitch. Aemond’s grip remained firm as he propelled him into the bathtub, clothes soaked, water cascading over the sides to puddle on the floor with a resound splash. 

Aegon, caught off guard, floundered, wiping water from his eyes in disbelief. 

Before his brother could voice his displeasure, Aemond forced his head under the water, holding him submerged for a tense few moments–one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heartbeats. Bubbles of air rushed to the surface along with the sound of gurgled screaming. The attending servants exchanged uneasy glances, torn between intervening and standing back, uncertain if they were witnessing a fratricidal act. Aegon’s limbs flailed, stirring the water into a frenzy, but then Aemond relented, releasing him to the surface and gasping for air. 

Aegon surged upward, clutching the tub’s rim as he coughed and sputtered, frantically wiping his face. “I am the king, you can’t do this!”

“You are not yet king,” Aemond retorted, flicking his wet hand, the wrist of his sleeve soaked. His gaze shifted to a servant, a woman with silvering hair neatly coiffed into a bun at the nape of her neck. “Ensure that he’s thoroughly washed and kept that way–strip the bedding if you have to.”

“Mother told you to oversee my bath,” Aegon chided, continuously wiping his face, his clothes billowing around him in the water. “Where’s your sense of duty, brother?” 

Seizing a handful of Aegon’s hair, Aemond was on the verge of submerging his brother’s head beneath the water again when Aegon pleaded with him, “Wait, wait, wa-wait! I’ll cease, don’t drown me–mother would never forgive you.”

Aemond gave him a brief, forceful dunk under the water as a warning, then promptly let go. Water cascaded over the edges of the tub as Aegon once again flailed, the puddle on the floor expanding as the level in the tub dropped slightly. Aegon sputtered, blowing droplets into the air before wiping his face. 

Aemond turned, navigating through the cluttered chamber, casting a meaningful look at Ser Arryk, who acknowledged with a silent, determined nod, now responsible for Aegon. 

“What becomes of the son bound by duty when he���s ensnared by a cunt?” Aegon taunted, his voice seeming to travel with Aemond as he entered the hall.

Aemond’s journey towards the Tower of the Hand took him through the corridors that felt like veins of the ancient castle, barely lit and eerily silent. Torches mounted at intervals along the stone walls flickered with a life of their own, casting shadows that danced and stretched, lingering like ghosts. These shadows elongated and distorted, moved across the rough-hewn stone with a strange grace, that was both mesmerizing and unsettling. 

Standing just outside the Hand’s office, Aemond was greeted by the low, indistinct hum of conversation seeping through the door’s heavy and thick wood. The words were unintelligible, blurred into a vague drone by the door’s mass. Opting to bide his time, Aemond pressed his back against the wall, his gaze shifting to the windows of the tower. There, he watched the sky’s palette transition, evening’s colors fading into the embrace of nightfall.

When the door eventually opened, the aftermath of the meeting between the Queen and the Hand was immediately discernible to Aemond. 

Alicent stood poised on the threshold, her movements marked by a certain weightiness, as if the air around her felt like a heavy cloak on her shoulders. Her posture, typically upright and poised, seemed to sag slightly under the burden of her father’s gaze. Even her eyes, which often held a steadfast, unyielding light, now shimmered with the trace of vulnerability and weariness. 

“Aemond…” Alicent’s voice trailed off as she caught sight of him, her expression folding into a frown marked by deep concern. The tone of her voice carried a hint of surprise, as if his presence there, seeking them out in such a brazen manner, was unexpected – and unwelcome.

“We need to discuss Daenera,” Aemond stated, his voice laden with seriousness, indicating the gravity and his insistence on having this discussion now. His gaze fixed on his mother, anticipating her reaction.

“Now is not the time, Aemond,” Alicent responded, her voice tinged with weariness and a sharp note of frustration, as the weight of the day had seemingly frayed her patience. 

From the backdrop of the room, Otto Hightower’s voice cut through the tension, his words carrying the weight of authority and a definitive closure. “Why does she merit discussion at this juncture?”

Aemond was resolute, stepping beyond his mother, whose sigh resonated with exhaustion and a palpable sense of resignation. Despite her evident reluctance, the door to the Hand’s office closed firmly behind them, encapsulating them within the confines of the somber, cold space. 

The Hand’s office was a space that seemed more austere in its solemnity, the only attempt at warmth coming from the modest fire that crackled in the hearth. A heavy tension filled the air, lending it a density that felt nearly suffocating. The shadows, animated by the firelight, stretched and deepened across the room, contributing to the gravitas of the atmosphere. 

“Take a seat,” Otto commanded, his voice resonating with authority as he settled into his chair behind the desk, embodying the role of the Hand with a natural command. 

Aemond, acknowledging the direction, took a seat, while Alicent opted to stand, her posture rigid. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, fingers restlessly twisting a ring, her eyes meeting her father’s in a silent but fierce display of defiance, clearly at odds with the proceedings. 

“What of the Princess warrants a discussion?” Otto inquired, his presence underscored by the orange glow of the fire that seemed to enshroud him, awaiting Aemond’s explanation with an air of expectancy. 

“I wish to address our plans for her,” Aemond declared, his tone unwavering, even as his heart thundered within his chest. 

Otto Hightower’s reply was icy, marked by a lack of amusement. “And what exactly is there to discuss? She’s been imprisoned, has she not?

“She is,” Alicent confirmed. 

Otto’s gaze then snapped to his daughter, his eyes sharp and devoid of warmth. Aemond recognized this look all too well; it was the calculating, detached gaze his grandsire reserved for pawns in a strategic play rather than family members, especially his grandchildren. To him, they were less kin and more instruments in the grand scheme of power. 

“How can you be so certain?” Otto inquired, his voice carrying the note of reproach. “From what I’ve gathered, she’s already managed to break free once. Is this your approach to handling vital issues? Permitting both the heir and an essential captive to elude us? Are we to lose Rhaenys next, and then our heads?”

Alicent’s retort was incisive as she clasped her hands in front of her, her fingernails seeming to press into her skin with visible tension. “The Lord Confessor has since recaptured her, as you well know. We’ve moved her to a more secure location from which she cannot escape.”

“She shouldn’t have been able to escape in the first place,” Otto chided. “Should she prove too unmanageable, we might consider executing her men. That ought to make her more cooperative. And should she remain to be a problem–”

“You surely can’t be suggesting that we have her executed,” Alicent cut in swiftly, her voice a blend of sharpness and frustration. Her lips curled downwards in clear disapproval, her frown deepening. “While I’m not blind to the appeal of decisive action in your eyes, even you must recognize that taking her life would be a declaration of war.”

Aemond’s jaw tensed, the muscles flexing under his skin as his teeth pressed tightly together, striving for composure. The mere suggestion from the Hand of executing Daenera as a punitive measure for her defiance set a fire within him. It was as though he was forced to swallow acid, the idea searing through him.

The notion of allowing her execution, of seeing her treated as a common traitor or witness her head severed from her neck, was intolerable. 

If fate decreed that Daenera’s life must end by anyone's hand, it would be his. And it would be an act of mercy—or deliverance. 

“War is inevitable,” Otto declared as his gaze narrowed into steely slits, reflecting a hardness that matched his words. 

Alicent’s response was one of firm disagreement, her head shaking as she turned, eyes searching out through the window, a grimace of incredulity tugging at her lips. “If it comes to war, we will not be the instigators of violence.”

Otto then turned his sharp attention to Aemond. “Your mother believes she’s acting with mercy by allowing Rhaenyra and Daemon time to consolidate their forces. But it is us, she should show her mercy to, and allow a swift end to the war–”

“It is an act of murder!” Alicent declared sharply, shaking her head vehemently. “We will not be the ones to start this war by sending assassins to slay them in their beds.” 

Alicent held her head high as she continued firmly, “Instead, we offer them the chance to submit to Aegon’s rule and swear fealty to him. These are generous terms, and an act of compassion. And we would do well to remember the value of mercy.”

Her words carried a definitive edge, signaling the end of this debate. 

“Concerning Daenera,” Aemond initiated, his voice slicing through the room’s heavy atmosphere with a definitive clarity. “I propose a marriage between us.”

The proposition held a firm, unwavering tone, resonating with a blend of command and an undercurrent of plea, marking it as both an authoritative declaration and a heartfelt appeal–and perhaps his plea was too heartfelt, laden with too much expectation, too revealing of his vulnerabilities. It may have come across as too desperate, too pitiful, laying bare his emotions in a way that left him exposed. The moment these words unfurled, the intense gazes of both Alicent and Otto converged sharply on him, their scrutiny now locked on Aemond’s resolved figure. Bracing for their response, Aemond straightened, his determination palpable. 

“Aemond,” Alicent cautioned. 

“I’ve stood loyally by Aegon, protecting him over the years. I scoured the city to retrieve him, and against his desires, brought him back so that you can place the crown on his head,” Aemond continued, under the keen observation of Otto. “You are handing him the realm – I want Daenera.”

Otto’s state was penetrating, piercing through him with the force of a thousand needles, as cold and barren as the winds of the North. 

 “You are not a child to be rewarded for merely fulfilling your duties,” he stated, his voice reflecting a stringent expectation of responsibility without need for recompense. 

While Aemond’s exterior remained cool and detached, a storm of emotions raged within him. The thought of being denied once again festered within him like an open wound, slowly leeching poison into his bloodstream, tainting his resolve with bitterness. It only made him more desperate, his heart pumping the poison throughout his body – her poison. ‘How pathetic you’ve become, brother, weak with love.’ Aegon’s condemning words echoed in the recesses of his mind, taunting him with a certain clarity that rang true. He was pathetic and desperate and pitiful and weak. A love-struck fool.

And if he could, he would purge this poison from his blood.

But he couldn’t, it had infected the very tissue of his being, poisoned his soul, and so, he continued, “Daemon and Rhaenyra know about the affair, they might conclude that she has sided with us–”

“Rhaenyra would never believe that her daughter would forsake her cause,” Alicent interjected, her tone unwavering in its certainty. 

“Daemon will,” Aemond retorted, his voice laced with the same level of certainty. “He’ll see it as an act of betrayal.”

“How can you be so sure?” Alicent demanded. 

Aemond felt a tightness in his throat as he swallowed, his heart thundering against his ribcage, his bones seemingly constricting inwards. Beneath the surface of his resolve, he was painfully aware that this path was not one Daenera would have chosen for herself–not in this way. The bitter anticipation that he might view him with resentment for making such a choice loomed over him like a dark cloud. Despite these inner conflicts, his yearning for her remained unshaken. 

If the crown was out of his grasp, securing Daenera became his resolve.

His contemplation extended beyond the realm of personal longing. Aemond was keenly aware of the fragile thread on which Daenera’s fate as a political captive dangled. Positioned as a chess piece in the grand scheme of power, she was vulnerable, her safety perpetually at risk. 

Although he believed Daenera’s mother would avoid putting her directly in harm’s way, Aemond was under no illusion about his own kin’s readiness to leverage her precarious position for political gain–or just as easily remove her from the board altogether. 

To him, marrying Daenera transcended the mere satisfaction of his desire; it was a calculated measure to shield her, both from her mother using her for a political foothold, but also from his own side. In becoming his wife, her standing would inherently strengthen, making it considerably more challenging for anyone to justify or enact plans against her.  This union, he reasoned, would offer her a layer of security that her current status as a hostage failed to provide. 

He wanted to keep her at his side, where he could protect her. 

Aemond turned his attention back to Otto, observing the calculative interest that flickered within his discerning eyes. At that moment, he realized that the response he had received was not a direct dismissal but rather a test. Otto was prompting him to articulate the tactical benefits of the proposed marriage, presenting it as a challenge to justify its strategic value. 

“Daemon harbors suspicions,” Aemond explained. “He’s aware of the duration of our affair and he’s apprehensive about the depth of her feelings towards me.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression measured, devoid of any hint of astonishment or disbelief. It was unclear whether his grandfather was fully aware of the affair’s intricacies, its duration, or its intensity, and he refrained from inquiring. 

“And to what extent has this affection blinded you?” This probing question seemed to pierce through him, causing his heart to constrict as his mother observed him with a discerning gaze. “Don’t be a fool, Aemond. You cannot marry her.”

The word echoed in his mind. Fool.

A cunt-struck fool. 

A love-struck fool.

A fool either way. 

“Aligning Daenera with me through marriage would create the illusion of her support,” Aemond continued, detailing his strategy. “It would significantly undermine Rhaenyra’s claim to have her own daughter stand in support of Aegon. Such a move would not only diminish her authority but it might also compel her towards bending the knee. And Daemon would undoubtedly perceive it as an act of betrayal. If anything, it would sow discord.”

Within Aemond, a conflict raged, a dichotomy that tore at his heart. On one side lay the impulse for possession, a deep, shadowy beast craving that sought to claim her entirely. On the other, a genuine protectiveness surged, a compelling need to shield her from harm. A beast and a fool. 

He harbored no illusions that the union with Daenera would be a gilded cage. Yet, in his mind, it was a necessary sanctuary, a place where she could be shielded from the inevitable war. It was a tragic, poetic notion – to encase her in a marriage that went against her wishes, solely to keep her safe. 

Yet, beneath the noble guise of safeguarding her, the more ominous desire simmered. He could not ignore the deep-seated yearning for possession, a whisper in the darkness clamoring for her to irrevocably his, feeding the possessive beast that resided within him. 

In his eye, she was already unequivocally his, bound to him in every manner that mattered. She was, in every sense he deemed significant, his wife. Their marriage had been consecrated in blood and solemnly declared before the flames, and it had imprinted itself upon his soul. The subtle mark on his palm, remnant of these vows, was a reminder that it had been real, that this sacred union had woven them together permanently – one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.

As much as she would refuse it, she had to feel the same–she had to feel their souls intertwined.

As Aemond pondered the impending formalization of their bond, he saw it not as a mere ceremony but as a declaration to the world that she was his. 

“Daenera bears too close a resemblance in temperament to Rhaenyra,” Alicent asserted, her voice terse. “Surely you don’t think she’ll be easily controlled.”

“Wouldn’t it serve our interests better to create the illusion that she stands with us, instead of merely locking away? By binding her to me in marriage, we preemptively prevent her from becoming a political pawn through union – one that could be turned against us,” Aemond countered. As he spoke, he dug his fingernail deeper into the grooves of the armrest, finding a strange sort of focus in the mindless action. “Daenera holds the affection of the smallfolk. Their perception of our marriage and her subsequent support of Aegon will lend significant legitimacy to his claim to the throne.”

“Marry one of the Baratheon girls,” Alicent proposed with urgency, her hand resting on her midsection as she stepped closer to her son. “Bind House Baratheon to our cause through a marriage alliance. We are better served with them than the princess.”

“You have another son,” Aemond proposed dismissively, sidestepping the suggestion laid before him.

Alicent’s reaction was a mixture of astonishment and refusal, her head shaking vehemently as she retorted, “It is out of the question. You will not marry Daenera.”

At that moment, Otto intervened, his voice laden with the gravity of his position, his glare at his daughter both severe and reproachful. “Dismiss your personal qualms about the princess. Emotion should not cloud our tactical considerations–”

“I will not have my son married to that insolent child!” Alicent snapped, her earrings swaying wildly as she shook her head again. “I will not condone it.”

“A marriage would secure her to our side,” Otto countered, his patience seeming to thin. “The sincerity of her allegiance is irrelevant; the strategic advantage it presents is undeniable. The princess will continue to be held captive, at our discretion, for any decisions regarding her fate.”

Alicent’s reaction was one of skepticism, her brow furrowing into a firm line, her lips curling into a frown that spelled clear disapproval. “That girl is beyond persuasion. She’ll surely make her position on this marriage and Aegon’s crowning known.”

“If she proves too difficult, if she refuses to comply, we’ll have her men killed one by one,” Otto stated coldly, his indifference to the prospect of violence evident in his tone. 

“And what of the moment when there’s no more men left to sacrifice?” Alicent challenged, seeking further clarification. 

“By that time, she may well be expecting a child,” Otto reasoned with a chilling calmness, his concern for the moral implications of such actions seemingly absent. He turned his attention back to Aemond, his gaze penetrating, “The betrothal will be announced at the toronation, with the marriage ceremony to ensue sometime after. Daenera’s attendance will serve as a public show of support for Aegon’s claim.”

Leaning back into his seat, Otto adopted a pensive expression, his features reflecting deep thought. “She may oppose the marriage initially, but after the vows are made and the marriage has been consummate, her options will be severely limited. Should she somehow escape thereafter, the legitimacy of the marriage will stand unchallenged. It will be binding, with no possibility of annulment.”

Otto fixed a stern gaze on his daughter, whose expression had turned somber, “Allow not your feelings to cloud your judgment. The marriage alliance between Aemond and Daenera is not only strategic but prudent. It doesn’t alter her status as a hostage; rather, it binds her to our cause in a manner that neither Rhaenyra nor Daemon can contest. We cannot base such decisions on emotion.”

Alicent’s mouth tightened, her lips pressing together as she averted her gaze, deliberately avoiding the eyes of both her father and son. Her earrings swayed wildly with her indignation. 

“As the Queen you’ll oversee the princess’s condition and maintenance. See to it that there’s no negligence allowing her another escape,” Otto instructed, then turned his eyes on Aemond.

Aemond felt his heart contort with anticipation, caught in a tumultuous dance of relief and dread. A sense of restlessness prickled beneath his sin, urging his fingernail to burrow deeper into the groove of the armrest, picking at the wood piece by piece as he sat up taller, keenly aware of his grandsire’s penetrating stare.

“You are responsible for her during the coronation. You must ensure that she behaves appropriately and grasps the role she’s expected to fulfill,” Otto directed. “We cannot afford any public outbursts. Her comfort–and that of her men–depends significantly on her behavior. Impress upon her the importance of her compliance.”

Aemond responded with a brief nod, signaling his understanding without words. 

“Is there anything else on your mind that needs addressing?” Otto inquired, his tone suggesting finality as he began to engage with the documents before him, reaching for his quill and delicately tapping its tip against the inkwell to remove any surplus ink. He looked up, his expression a mix of expectation and readiness to conclude their meeting. 

Rising from his seat, Aemond trailed after his mother, stepping into the hallway’s enveloping silence. The door to the Hand’s office shut softly behind them, sealing off the room with a subtle click. There, they paused, enveloped in a silence so profound it felt almost tangible, allowing the dense air of unspoken words and suppressed emotion to settle around them like the falling of snow. 

The restlessness inside Aemond intensified, a fiery sensation spreading across his chest, his heartbeat quickening into an erratic rhythm that felt unfamiliar. “Where is she being kept?”

Alicent’s gaze met his, her dark eyes stark against the dimness, resembling pools of never ending ink. Her worry seemed to etch deeper lines into her visage, her lips down turned in a subtle expression of disapproval. “Why would you do this?” 

Alongside his growing restlessness, a wave of irritation began to brew within him. 

“Are you so blind with infatuation that you’re willing to tie yourself to someone so…” Alicent persisted, her head gently swaying in disbelief as she seemingly struggled to find the right word to encapsulate her feelings towards Daenera. 

“This isn’t infatuation,” Aemond answered, his tone laced with a hint of scorn. He felt a jolt in his chest as his mother’s gaze bore into him, a look of perplexed scrutiny as if she were seeing him for the first time, her face half-hidden in the encroaching shadows. 

This wasn’t mere infatuation; if it were, perhaps he might have found it simpler to extricate himself from its clutches. His desire for her was intense, desperate, akin to a wound festering and in need of purification. He loved her–and by the gods, he hated himself for the complication that love brought him. 

This affection tormented him as much as it seemed to torment his mother. It was not a path he would have willingly chosen, to be so consumed by her essence that it drove him to defy his mother. A part of him loathed his own weakness–weak with love, how pathetic. He was meant to be stalwart, the dependable son upon whom his mother could always count, steadfast in his obligations. The son who understood his duty. 

Yet, could it not  also be considered his duty to suggest the strategic advantage of marrying Daenera, even if it meant opposing his mother’s wishes?

“What is it then? Love?” Alicent released a huff of exasperation. “She had ensnared you. This isn’t love, Aemond. It’s mere infatuation–a bewitchment she’s woven around you. I beg you to reconsider. She’ll bring you naught but strife and agony.”

Approaching him, Alicent extended her hands to rest them gently on his chest, her expression softening with genuine concern. “I can’t bear the thought of you in pain, and that is all she’ll bring you. You might believe it’s love, but she’ll exploit that sentiment and manipulate your affections for her gain.”

More words seemed to linger at the tip of his mother’s tongue, but she seemingly chose not to give them a voice, as her eyes flickered across his face, big with concern.

“I know my duties, Mother,” Aemond reassured, his voice steady as he covered her hands with his, wondering if she could sense the quick beat of his heart beneath her palm, a heart Daenera had tied her strings around and poured her poison into. He would have to clip those strings, to free his heart enough to do his duty without apprehension. 

If it were within his power, he thought, he would extricate his affection–love– for her, yet he knew such an act would bleed him dry. Aemond was acutely aware that his affection for her was a blade pressed against his throat, threatening to sink into his skin and cut him open. And perhaps, in a twisted sense, it would be a mercy to be undone by her, to have her drain the poisoned blood from his veins and free him from this love. 

Alicent’s hand rose to gently brush against his cheek, her gaze delving into his, pausing at the sight of his scar. An echo of fear, sorrow, and shame flittered across her face as her thumb lightly traced the scar’s perimeter. “You mustn’t forget what has been taken from you.”

“I won’t,” Aemond said, feeling a pulse twist behind the sapphire. “I will never forget.”

“They have taken from us that which cannot be replaced,” Alicent murmured. “If Rhaenyra ascends the throne, she will take more from us–she and her children. They will take everything and more from us. You understand this more than anyone else…”

A sharp lance of pain shot through his scar, radiating into the hollow of his eye with a searing intensity. It felt as though it crawled around the sapphire, burrowing deep into his skull with an icy precision. This agony served as a harrowing reminder of the myriad of transgressions he had endured, a testament to the pain and humiliation he had been subjected to at his half-sister and her bastard’s hands. 

“You are my son, and perhaps my dependence on you have been too great over the years–”

“You’ve never asked too much, Mother,” Aemond interjected, a heaviness settling in his chest at her admission. “I know where my loyalties lie. I will stand at Aegon’s side, and do my duty.”

Alicent offered a soft smile, her head tilting in a gesture of resigned acceptance, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then I place my trust in you to fulfill your duty to your family, even if that path leads you to stand against your own wife.”

Aemond’s throat tightened, his heart contracting with a sharp pang as he fortified his will. “Where have you put her?”

Alicent’s hand dropped to her side, and she exhaled a breath that  bordered on a sigh. “The night is far spent, Aemond. With all that has transpired today, she requires some peace.”

His jaw clenched, as he cast an exasperated glance down the dark hall. 

“Do not delude yourself into thinking she will greet you warmly,” Alicent cautioned. “Let her temper simmer down during the night. You can visit her on the morrow.”

Aemond knew with certainty that a single night would not dull her temper. It would be just as fierce come morning. 

“Tonight, I ask you for your presence.”

Aemond felt an internal struggle, torn between the urge to comb every corner of the Red Keep for Daenera and the duty he owed to his mother. Despite his desire to defy her and venture out in search of the door guarded by gold cloaks, he found himself reluctantly, and perhaps for the better, yielding to his mother’s insistence.

Soon, Aemond found himself seated across from the hearth in the Queen’s private chambers, his gaze fixed on the fire as it leapt and twisted, the encroaching darkness of the night rendering the edges of the room indistinct, save for where the orange glow of the firelight reached. The stillness around them was dense, echoing with the weight of the day that had unfolded in rapid, unforgiving succession–from the somber news of the King’s passing at dawn, through the sealing off of the Red Keep and the detention of the nobility, to the exhaustive search for Aegon through the city.

A sense of unease enveloped him, manifesting in the restless twitching of his fingers. 

“I went to Viserys,” Aemond’s voice broke the quiet, soft yet distinct sound against the backdrop of the crackling hearth. He sensed his mother’s gaze intensify upon him, her brow creasing slightly in concern. “I saw him the night of…”

“Why?” 

“It’s irrelevant now,” Aemond remarked, rhythmically pressing each finger to his thumb in a restless motion. The specifics of his plea to his father, along with Viserys’s response, had ceased to hold any significance–something which his father would take with him to the grave, lost to death. Aemond had found a way to get what he wanted. He didn’t need the blessings of an old, half-mad man. He had secured his future with Daenera. Him, not anyone else. He had forged this path. He was going to marry Daenera before the realm. 

He contemplated sharing the details of his visit with his mother, yet the words seemed to congeal within him, stubbornly refusing to manifest. His request–no, his insistence–on marrying Daenera had already laid bare his vulnerability, his defiance of her wishes only further proof of this. He knew his mother was concerned about his dedication to his duties, about Daenera’s influence diluting his familial allegiance. He hesitated to compound these anxieties with further admissions. 

In a way, driven perhaps by a trace of selfishness, he clung to the necessity of maintaining a facade of steadfastness, an illusion of unyielding determination not yet eroded by his affection for Daenera. And perhaps, in this facade, he would find the strength to fortify himself of her erosion. 

“Did he say anything?” Alicent inquired, her tone subdued. 

“He called me a plague sent to destroy him,” Aemond answered, the memory of those harsh words igniting a fresh pang of hurt. A lump formed in his throat, as palpable and sharp as if he had swallowed the blade of a dagger, now relentlessly slicing him from the inside. He felt the throb within the hollow of his eye, the constant and incessant ache that remained with him since he had lost it. 

“That’s… You must remember, Viserys was under the effects of milk-of-the-poppy,” Alicent observed, attempting to alleviate the sting of her husband’s words. “It is not like him to–”

“You needn’t defend him any longer,” Aemond interjected, his tone brimming with a sharp edge.

Aemond was well aware that his mother had dedicated years to standing by Viserys, embodying the role of a loyal and dedicated wife. She frequently endeavored to protect them from their fathers scorn, holding her hand over them. It was mostly Aegon who needed her protection, having a habit of getting into trouble, but she protected all of them. 

“I’m relieved that he’s gone.”

“Don’t utter such words,” Alicent chided softly. “He is still your father, despite everything.”

“I refuse to grieve for him,” Aemond declared, shifting his focus from the hearth to meet his mother’s gaze. “I feel no sorrow. Why should I? In his eyes, I was a monster–a plague sent to destroy him. He couldn’t even stand to look at me.”

“Your father was a weak king,” Alicent admitted, her eyes finding the fire. “He wasn’t one to face his own shortcomings. But he was a decent husband and father.”

“He failed us. He failed you as a husband. He favored Rhaenyra over us–were blind to the nature of her bastards. He was weak and he never cared for us. You were more of a servant to him than a wife. You needn’t excuse or defend him any longer, Mother.” Every word was an indictment of his father. 

“He has always hated us, his own children,” Aemond argued, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he bit down on it. “He could barely acknowledge our existence.”

“He never hated you,” Alicent countered, her tone infused with a softness born of reflection. She reached out to him, placing her hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Your father loved you, and I will not have you deny him this. He loved you.”

“But we were never them.”

“No,” Alicent conceded, her voice tinged with resignation and sorrow, “We were never them.”

There was something tragic about growing up in the shadows of someone else–more so growing up with the ghost of memory, never being able to measure up or fill that void that was left. None of them were ever truly free of the shadow of Rhaenyra, and his mother was never truly free of the ghost of his father’s first wife. 

Silence enveloped them once more, the quiet of the night punctuated solely by the gentle crackle of the hearth. The stillness seemed to stretch infinitely, a tenuous counterpart to the flickering dance of the flames that cast shadows and warmth into the cool darkness. 

“The hour grows late; you should try to find some rest before morning,” Alicent suggested, standing up and bending forward to plant a tender kiss atop Aemond’s head. The soft rustle of her gown caressed the floor as she moved. “I’ll go see to Aegon, and make sure he has not met with any further mishap.” 

Rising from his chair, Aemond navigated the dimly lit chamber, stepping out into the quietude of the corridor. His mother followed him, the door closing softly behind her. 

“Do not go roaming the halls,” Alicent chided, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “Get some rest, it will be a long day on the morrow.”

His mother turned, and was gradually swallowed by the shadows as she ventured down the hall.

Aemond lingered in the dimness, his heart pounding a fierce, uneven rhythm against his ribcage, each beat resounding with a forceful echo. Restlessness prickled at his fingertips as he turned to walk down towards the grand staircase. 

Instead of retreating to the sanctuary of his own chambers, Aemond found himself wandering through the halls of the Red Keep. To him, these halls were as familiar as the lines etched into his palm, ingrained with such intimacy that he was confident of navigating them blindfolded–or just blind–guided solely by their resonant echoes. Nightly wanderings had become a habit, his footsteps silent as he walked in contemplation. 

As if led by an unseen force, his steps took him to a seldom-used wing of the castle, a section reserved for the grandeur of tourneys and significant gatherings. Instead of the usual desolation of the west wing, a hint of occupancy was revealed by the sight of a solitary guard stationed outside a door, the area faintly illuminated by a lone torch.

Aemond approached without hesitation, his presence commanded enough to earn a tacit acknowledgement from the guard. Marked by the toll of years, the guard’s face bore the signs of time’s relentless passage and what seemed like a wearisome life. With a subtle nod, the guard withdrew, his departure barely audible over the hush, retreating into the shadows that nearly swallowed him whole, leaving Aemond in some semblance of privacy. 

In the quietude, Aemond stood, his senses heightened, attuned to the faintest whisper from beyond the door. Silence reigned, stretching into an almost tangible stillness, until at last, the subtle sound of movement disturbed the calm, a shifting shadow betraying the presence within. 

Aemond shut his eye tightly and leaned his forehead against the cool surface of the door, turning into the faint sounds of Daenera’s movements on the other side. 

Amidst the silence, the mocking echoes of Aegon’s voice weaved with the lingering ghost of his father’s refusal, tormenting him with their scorn. How pathetic you’ve become, brother, weak with love. It’s remarkable, truly, how Daenera’s cunny has turned you from dutiful dog to besotted, cunt-stricken fool…

Aemond was intimately familiar with his duty. The weight of his responsibility had always been clear to him, an immutable fact of his existence. Never once had he wavered in his commitment to his family, in his fidelity to the roles assigned to him. He had executed every task demanded of him with unwavering dedication. Time and again, he combed the city for Aegon, rescuing him from his indulgences, steadfastly supporting his brother’s right to the throne–even as he wanted it for himself. Aemond had swallowed his envy and ambition, endured pain and humiliation for the sake of his family, of their right as Targaryens. 

He had been born a child of duty.

Yet, he now seemed to grapple with the suffocating sense of obligation, a burden that seemed to constrict around him with an intensity he despised. He loathed this part of himself, detested the vulnerability she had exposed within him–how she had caused him to grapple with his obligations, to question the steadfastness of his duty. 

Release me, brother, and all could be yours – the throne, the power, Daenera. Let me go, and I will let you have her – if you don’t, I swear I will drag her down into the same misery that has been forced upon me.

His hands balled into tight fists. 

For a fleeting, lamentable, instant, he had entertained the notion of allowing Aegon to slip from his protective grasp. He had felt the ghost of the weight of the crown upon his brow, had felt the potent rush of authority pulse through his veins, and in that fraction of a heartbeat, he envisioned it all–the realm under his rule with Daenera as his Queen. But like a wisp of smoke eluding capture, the fantasy evaporated, replaced by the starkness of reality, and the face of his duty. He couldn’t forsake his brother, nor could he abandon his mother. 

He acknowledged the inevitable anguish his loyalty would exact from him. 

And anguish it was. 

Daenera was to be his wife–she was his wife. As her husband, he was meant to protect her from anyone who would want to harm her. Yet, how could he choose her over his family? And how could he choose his family over her? Duty emerged as a double edged blade, each decision cutting deeply. 

A harsh, unyielding sensation coiled within him, twisted like a blade slipped between his ribs and into his heart. With every heartbeat, his head throbbed violently. It was as though a lightning storm were raging within his skull, each flash followed by a jolt of pain. He pressed his forehead further against the cool, unyielding surface of the door, his palms now flat against the wood.

Aemond loved her. How terrible it was. He loved her. 

But he was the son of duty. He was a trained hound, duty-bound to its master. 

And what do loyal hounds do when their master calls?

[takonxmz]

wip wednesday

I got tagged by @darlingpoppet ! ty ilysm!!

I am currently organizing these babies in their beds made from galvanized square steel bolted down with expansion screws borrowed from Shufu then wrapped with eco-friendly wood veneer painted in a classy dark varnish to last for a billion years for the one hundred children that Lan-zongzhu's husband accidentally gave birth to which left almost no more space to put them causing havoc and chaos in the otherwise orderly infrastructure of Cloud Re--

editing bc I forgot to tag people @aeoneris @evilhasnever @esmeraldablazingsky @ratheralark @galadhir

[dark-and-kawaii]

Dragons Do Not Fear Blood

Frey x Lofn

Summary: Frey and Lofn engage in a destructive battle, ultimately finding solace and passion in each other's arms amidst the chaos of war.

Notes: This is a small little gift for @astarionposting xoxo

Just like two dragons entwined in the dance of the skies, their love is a powerful force, fierce and gentle, yet capable of both creation and destruction.

They cleaved through the fabric of battle, side by side while their dragons, Aetherion and Rhaela, were the breath of fire and the wings of shadow that cast a fearsome gloom over their foes, setting the world ablaze with a terrifying splendor. The dance of death around them was a grim ballet, enemies falling like raindrops against a crimson shore. Frey, ever so full of himself, reveled in the crimson chorus, adorned in the visceral evidence of his triumphs, all the while blind to the blade that sought to end his own verse.

But as fate would have it, Lofn called forth a bolt of vengeance from the heavens, a conductor orchestrating a symphony of destruction. The assailant was naught but ashes in the wind, a warning to those who dared approach.

Frey’s gaze, sharp as the blade he wielded, swept across the desolate expanse until it found her, Lofn. She was a vision of savage beauty, her once lavender locks now painted in the gruesome palette of war. The blood of their enemies had baptized her anew, streaking her face and matting her hair.

With the confidence of a man who had faced death and emerged unscathed, he strode towards her, his boots indifferent to the crimson mud that squelched beneath them. His heart, a drumbeat synchronous with the lingering echoes of clashing steel and dragon roars, pulsed with a primal desire.

As he reached her, without a word, his hands cupped her face to pull her into him. Their lips met in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a kiss that spoke of power and possession. The taste of iron and sweat mingled between them, the raw scent of blood acting as an aphrodisiac, igniting a fervor that only those who dance with death so intimately could understand.

[trekscribbles]

Backslide Chapter 3

Fandom: Leverage

Cross-Posted: AO3 and FF

Summary:

They stopped Damien Moreau. They put him in jail in San Lorenzo where he'd never be able to hurt anyone else, and Eliot thought he was finally, finally free.

And then Moreau escaped.

And he has one last job for Eliot: to kill his team and anyone else he's gotten close to since leaving.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

It took two days to find Moreau.

More specifically, it took two days to find him without Hardison’s help.

Eliot knew the kinds of places Moreau liked to hole up—lavish hotels, country clubs, scenic mansions. He knew how to follow the trail of drugs and girls and bloody noses until it lead to one of Moreau’s men, who would in turn lead him back to his target. But that was only under normal circumstances, and things were anything but normal. Moreau wasn’t biding his time until his money diverted the attention of local law enforcement. He was out for revenge, and Eliot had only been on the other side of Moreau’s fury—wielding it, directing it, controlling it.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to defend against it.

No, this time he had to change his approach. Their work in San Lorenzo had made international headlines, and if Moreau was going to put out a job as big as the one he’d proposed to Eliot, he would need a fortress to hide in. He would have to lay lower than he was used to.

Literally.

Eliot scowled at the impenetrable doors built into the side of a small hill—the grassed-over top of a retired missile silo, now the only visible part of a converted bunker sunk 200 feet into the earth. It hadn’t been hard to find, when he focused on the facts:

1. Moreau had come to him in person, which meant he was staying near Portland.

2. Moreau would prioritize a long-term base of operations, which would allow him to manipulate from a safe distance.

3. Moreau was used to a certain level of comfort.

4. The kind of comfort and control Moreau needed would require massive amounts of power.

5. Eliot was no Hardison, but he’d spent five years watching Hardison work. He’d picked up more than enough to recognize and track a power drain that large.

Which had led him here. Several hours outside Portland, hidden in a rural expanse of forest and field, surrounded by barbed wire and security cameras. The first had been easy to overcome—the second, he didn’t worry about.

He wanted Moreau to know he was coming.

The hum of a nearby wind turbine filled the air as Eliot waited. He’d already glowered into the camera mounted over the doors, and if his estimates were right, Moreau would be sending up a welcoming committee in just a few—

A metallic clang as steel bolts withdrew, a grind of concrete on concrete, and the doors grated open.

Five men were waiting inside. Four were generic ex-military turned personal guards—shoes, haircuts, stances, all very distinctive—Moreau’s usual reserves of muscle without brains. The fifth, though. He was average height, with short black hair and a smug expression. He wore a three-piece suit without a jacket, showing off the Korth NRX .44 Magnum in his shoulder holster and a $40,000 IWC field watch on his wrist.

Eliot had smashed an identical watch when he left.

He stood without moving, his hands in his jacket pockets, and gave the man a long, slow look. “You’re Chapman’s replacement?”

“Seamus Barrett,” the man said, smirking. “Mr. Moreau is waiting for you.”

Eliot followed the man through the doors—armored steel and concrete, by the looks and sounds of them—and inhaled as they closed behind him. He held his breath for a heartbeat, forcing a sense of calm through his tensing muscles, and let it out.

He was ready.

Barrett checked him for weapons, then led the way into an elevator and pressed the button for the fifth level. The doors slid shut, and they descended in silence while Eliot tracked the time in his head. Twelve hours and thirty-three minutes until Moreau opened the job up to other applicants. Twelve hours and thirty-three minutes to convince him to change his mind. 

The elevator stopped. Twelve hours and thirty-two minutes.

The doors opened, and Barrett nudged Eliot out ahead of him. They walked into what looked like an office building, all cream-colored walls and modern art, complete with digital windows to mimic the view outside. They passed rooms with desks and bookshelves, phones and computers.

Twelve hours and thirty-one minutes.

Barrett stopped in front of a closed door and knocked once, then stepped aside and motioned for Eliot to go in. He did so, taking in the plush red carpet, the huge ebony desk, the wet bar built into the north wall.

“Mr. Moreau is in a meeting,” Barrett said. His goons filed inside, and Barrett closed the door with a self-satisfied grin. “I’m to entertain you in his absence.”

“That so?” Eliot let his arms hang loose, waiting.

Twelve hours and twenty-nine minutes.

The first one telegraphed his punch, and Eliot blocked easily. That put him into range of the second’s swing, but Eliot sidestepped and met the third mid-lunge, twisting to pull him into the second’s path. They collided, and Eliot withdrew to dodge the fourth man’s rush. They were sloppy, trusting in their numbers to overpower him, but unused to fighting in close quarters. It wasn’t hard to use the space against them, putting them in each other’s way while he watched Barrett from the corner of his eye.

“You the local talent?” Eliot asked finally, slamming his fist into the second man’s jaw. He dropped at Eliot’s feet and laid still.

“The talent,” Barrett answered. “Not local.”

Eliot took out another man with an elbow to his face. “Who did you piss off to get stuck on bunker duty?”

“This?” Barrett let out an unpleasant chuckle as Eliot threw the third goon into the bar. “I’m here because I’m the best. There’s no one Mr. Moreau trusts more.”

The final man lunged, and Eliot grabbed his arm and pulled it toward his hip. A jerk upwards—knee met chin—the man went limp. “Really scraping the bottom of the barrel, isn’t he?” Eliot said. “At least Chapman had credentials. Seems Moreau is just trying to fill a vacancy with you.”

“He said you could get mouthy,” Barrett said.

“He knows me.” Eliot took a step toward the center of the room, putting himself before the desk and folding his arms, waiting. “And he’s obviously struggling to replace me.”

Barrett’s blue eyes flashed. “You think so?”

Eliot nodded at the man’s suit. “That costs, what, two grand? But you go without the jacket just so you can show off something no professional would need. Walnut grips? DLC finish? On a .44 Magnum, really? You know what we call that where I come from?” He grinned, playing up his natural drawl. “Overcompensation.”

“That mouth is gonna get you in trouble,” Barrett hissed. “You’re riding on Moreau’s reputation,” Eliot said. “Hiding behind it and flaunting your status. Looks like Moreau gave up on finding lieutenants with brains and settled for the dog with the loudest bark.” Barrett swung. Eliot took the punch on his cheek, rolling with the strike, testing its strength. It hurt. “You’re going to regret that,” Barrett said, stepping inside Eliot’s guard and following with a second hit. He lifted an arm to block it, but Barrett swerved and hit him in the ribs instead. “You may have been useful to Moreau once, but you’re nothing now. You’re dead already—you just don’t know it.” Eliot caught the next jab in his left hand and answered with a cross, holding back his speed, giving Barrett room to dodge. He let Barrett rush him, let him drive them both against the desk, let out a grunt when the impact forced the air from his lungs. He steadied himself with one hand on the edge of the desk before reaching his arms over Barrett’s shoulders, locking him in a hold with his head against his side.  Twelve hours and twenty-two minutes. “That’s enough,” said a voice at the door.

Eliot looked up, blowing hair out of his eyes as Barrett clawed at his ribs. "Moreau." “Eliot. Isn’t this a surprise?” Barrett stilled, leaning as far back as he could in Eliot’s grip, and Moreau chuckled. “Let him go. You’ve made your point.” Eliot released his hold, shoving Barrett away as he straightened against the desk. Barrett scrambled upright, his face contorted in anger, but he stayed silent as he backed out of the way. That was fine—Eliot was done playing. “I’m here to offer you a deal, Moreau.” “Is that so?” Moreau moved past Barrett without glancing at him, stepping over the man Eliot had thrown into the bar, and poured himself a glass of cognac. “What could you possibly have to bargain with?” “Me.” Moreau raised an eyebrow. “The return of the prodigal son?” “As long as you agree to leave my people alone.” “The good old days are never quite what we remember,” Moreau said. “It’ll be better,” Eliot said. “I won’t question you like I used to. I’ll be your retrieval expert, your soldier, your—your assassin. Whatever you want.” “Eliot Spencer without reservations.” Moreau raised the glass to his lips, his expression thoughtful. “Forever?” He supressed a shudder. “Forever.”

“Hmm.” A slow sip, holding out the moment, making Eliot wait while Barrett glared at him from the corner. Then he swallowed, set down his glass, and stepped toward him. “Very well. Shake on it?”

Alarms went off in his head, but Eliot extended his hand to take Moreau’s. “Just like that?”

“Of course,” Moreau said, smiling. “That was the plan all along.”

“You knew I’d make a deal?”

“Oh, my dear, dear Eliot.” Moreau’s grip tightened, crushing Eliot’s fingers. “You’ve become predictable. It’s your friends, you know—your connections. They bog you down, become liabilities. Make you easy to manipulate.”

Eliot gritted his teeth against the pain in his fingers. Twelve hours and nineteen minutes. “Fine. You got what you wanted—just make sure you hold to your promise.”

“With provisions, of course,” Moreau smiled. “If anything happens to me, our deal is off. I have messages set to go out in the event of my untimely death, offering my entire fortune to the intrepid individual who takes down your team. Just so you don’t get any ideas about using your new-old position for nefarious purposes.”

Eliot scowled, drawing a laugh from Moreau.

“You see, Eliot, there’s still so much I can teach you. They say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer, don’t they? You’ve enjoyed the benefits of being the first. Let me show you what will happen if you become the latter.”

He jerked Eliot’s hand up and against his chest, wrenching to put pressure against Eliot’s wrist.

“This is what I’ll do to your hacker friend if you betray me,” Moreau said in a low voice. “Right before I break every bone in his hands.”

He drew back his left fist and drove it into Eliot’s stomach, holding him up by his twisted arm when he doubled over.

“This is for your thief. See how well she likes vents when she has to crawl through them with internal bleeding.”

Eliot sucked in a ragged breath as Moreau nodded to Barrett.

“And we can’t forget our beloved first lady. I’ll let Seamus put a bullet through her heart—a real one. We’ll see who shows up to her funeral this time.”

He released Eliot’s hand and smiled as he staggered into the desk.

“And this,” he said, bending to look up into Eliot’s face. “This is for Nathan Ford.”

He threw an uppercut, putting his hips into the movement just like Eliot had taught him. His fist snapped Eliot’s chin back—his knees buckled—his head hit the desk on the way down, and everything went black.

[breathe2-fr]

Gods in Decay (pt 2)

As Spelldancer and Gloam stepped into the light, they found the circular chamber before them absolutely massive. The ceiling curved into a bronze dome with what appeared to be a crack down the middle, implying that perhaps the roof could open. The outside rim of the room rose to grant elevated seating to a team of imposing Lightning dragons, all being large ridgebacks, sitting hands-folded on their desks. Below where the ridgebacks sat, large windows made up the walls, allowing various Lightning dragons to peer into the room and serve as an audience. Directly in front of the pair of Wind faes was the thunder deity himself - Stormcatcher.

Though not as large as Windsinger, He was an impressive sight in His own right. A massive creature, similar in form to a ridgeback, though with four large mantis-like arms. Lightning bolts danced up the membranes of His wings, which were now folded professionally at His back, illuminating the wall behind Him. He sat, stone-faced, staring down at the faes as they entered.

One of the ridgebacks stood. "Now entering! Spelldancer, Matriarch of the Shifting Wind! And her curator, Gloam! Her clan wishes to immigrate to the Shifting Expanse!" The crier sat back down and folded his arms stoically.

Stormcatcher Himself did not move nor speak, so the floor was theirs to make their case. Spelldancer steeled herself as best as she could, then offered a polite courtsey to the god.

"Great Stormcatcher, Creator of Lightning, Arbiter of Power. Thank you for blessing with an audien--"

"SPEAK INTO THE MICROPHONE! AND SKIP THE FORMALITIES!" Stormcatcher's voice boomed, shaking the walls of the chamber. "TELL ME, WHY SHOULD I LET YOUR CLAN STAY IN MY LANDS?"

She flinched; he was so impossibly loud! She could barely process what he said at first. She wanted so desperately to cover her ears with her claws but stopped herself in time, remembering the warning from their guide. Gloam ducked behind his mother out of fear. If this was considered rude, too, Stormcatcher made no indication of it. Though Spelldancer saw the audience gossip behind the glass.

She paused, unsure what Stormcatcher had meant, when she felt a tap at her shoulder. Gloam pointed ahead to the end of a platform where a strange metal device sat alone, propped up on a stand. The microphone? She walked to it, still unsure with her ground legs.

"Stormcatcher!" Spelldancer raised her voice, but the strange device magnified it tenfold. She adjusted her volume as she continued. "My people are pursued by a horrible monstrocity. We fear we have been targeted by the Shade. Our people are weakened, and my pair, our defender, has been taken by them. Please! We humbly request your protection and ask for permission to lair in the Shifting Expanse."

"AND YOUR LAIR IS CURRENTLY IN THE WINDSWEPT PLATEAU? WHY REQUEST MY AID AND NOT WINDSINGER'S?" Stormcatcher remained stoic. He seemed disinterested at the idea of the Shade, but the crowd whispered amongst themselves, looks of concern pinned in their eyes. It seemed this microphone contraption allowed the crowd to hear her, despite the glass in between them.

"Windsinger could not hear us. We tried, but--"

Suddenly Stormcatcher exploded with laughter. "AH! SO WINDSINGER IS TOO GOOD TO HEAR THE CRIES OF HIS OWN CHILDREN!" The dragon god moved with a twitchiness suddenly that Spelldancer couldn't decide came from his insect-qualities or his electric affinity. The crowd began to laugh along with him. "SEE, THAT'S WHAT SEPARATES US. I WILL ALWAYS MAKE TIME TO HEAR MY CHILDREN WHEN THEY NEED ME. A HAPPY POPULATION IS A PRODUCTIVE ONE."

Spelldancer's eyes traced the ridgebacks in the room, who sat motionless as their deity spoke. She'd never questioned it before, but she suddently felt she knew why Stormcatcher made ridgebacks without elongated ears. But when she scanned the audience, she saw something behind their forced laughter - fear.

"AND EVEN NOW, I MAKE TIME FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE OTHERS. UNFORTUNATELY, THERE ARE TWO THINGS I KNOW ABOUT WIND FLIGHTS." The smile dropped from His face. "WEAK! AND! LAZY! YOUR APPLICATION HAS BEEN DENIED."

Spelldancer's heart sank. Denied? Just like that?

"Sir, I do not understand. Just because we're Wind dragons, we cannot stay?" Surely she didn't hear Him right.

"YOU HAVE YET TO GIVE ME A REASON TO CONSIDER YOU, AND WE ARE ALREADY WELL INTO THIS CONVERSATION."

"W-we are being hunted by the Shade, and we desperately need your--"

Stormcatcher tapped his claw impatiently on the desk in front of him. "MANY DRAGONS THINK THEY SEE THE SHADE, BUT FEW DO. AND IF YOU DID SEE IT, YOU WOULDN'T RECOGNIZE IT. MEANWHILE, WINDSINGER IGNORES THE OBLIGATIONS TO HIS CHILDREN SO HE CAN TRESPASS ABOVE LANDS THAT DON'T BELONG TO HIM. YOU WASTE MY TIME. REQUEST DENIED."

Spelldancer searched her mind desperately. "T-there must be some way I can convince you! We are positive - it has attacked us more than once. The creatures have no shape of their own, their only constant is their oppressive darkness."

"AND WHAT MAKES YOUR CLAN SO SPECIAL TO WARRANT PURSUIT FROM THE SHADE?"

She paused. She couldn't tell Him what she believed. He seemed to have an intense hatred of Windsinger, so if He knew she bore a gift directly from the wind deity… there would be no recovery from that point.

"I do not know, sir. I do not think us any more special than any other clan."

"THEN WHY WOULD I TOLERATE YOU IN MY LANDS?" Stormcatcher cracked a smile, seeming to think he'd cornered her.

Frustration boiled up inside her. This wasn't at all how she'd thought this conversation would go. She'd always imagined Windsinger, despite his grandiose size, spoke in calm, loving whispers. This deity, the god of Lightning, spoke in shouts and booms. He was boisterous, impatient. He surely wasn't evil, but selfish? Definitely. Egotistical? Certainly. He spoke of caring for His children, but even from this conversation alone, she could tell this was a lie. They were his workers, and that's all he cared about.

Emboldened, she responded, "Because I'm able to look you in the eyes, unlike your coward lackies surrounding you!" Every ridgeback, who seemed only half-invested in the conversation to that point, turned in surprise to face her suddenly. The dragons of the audience cast panicked glances back at their deity who did not move. "I can see fear dancing in the eyes of ever dragon in this room. But I am not afraid to do what my people need. I would not have come here if I were, to ask it of a god!"

In truth, she was terrified, but she hoped her bluff would pass. As the Lightning dragons hid fearful glances from Him, Stormcatcher locked eyes with the fae queen, His face like stone. Would an outburst like this see her and her clan exiled from the Expanse? Or… worse?

She continued, "My clan has crossed the Sea of a Thousand Currents and the Expanse itself just to speak with you. We cannot defend ourselves from the Shade. But in exchange for sanctuary in your lands, we will become your servants, as any dragon of Lightning is expected. You will have our loyalty." And she finished with a respectful bow.

Stormcatcher paused, seeming to consider His words for the first time in the conversation. "LOYALTY IS THE BARE MINIMUM. BUT I NEED MORE THAN THE MINIMUM." He tapped one of his strange mantis-like arms on the desk twice, and one of the nearby ridgebacks brought a packet of papers over to him. "NO ONE STAYS IN THE EXPANSE LONG WITHOUT PROVING THEIR WORTH. FORTUNATELY, I THINK SOME RECENT CHANGES MAY BE THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY FOR YOUR CLAN TO DO JUST THAT." He picked up a pen and scratched it across the top page, before flipping through and doing the same on some of the others. When he finished, the ridgeback picked up the packet and flew down to Spelldancer on the lower platform, placing the packet on the floor.

Once it was in front of her, Spelldancer saw how huge the parchments were - they were several times longer than the length of her entire body. It made sense with the size of the deity. But she saw at the bottom, Stormcatcher had signed his name on a line. Above his signature was another blank line for her to sign.

"WE HAVE A PROJECT WE NEED A TEAM TO ASSIST WITH. IF YOUR CLAN HAS MORE METTLE THAN MOST WIND DRAGONS, YOU WILL FIND A PERMANENT HOME HERE IN THE DESERT. IF NOT, YOU WILL BE REMOVED."

The ridgeback proceeded to hand her a quill. While it wasn't a Stormcatcher-sized writing tool, it was still quite large. Spelldancer hesitated just long enough for Gloam to hand her his own quill, appropriately sized for a fae. As she took his quill, she looked in his eyes, which bore a sadness she'd never seen from him before. She knew at once - he felt he was betraying Windsinger and their Wind birthright by signing loyalty to Stormcatcher. She nodded to her son and touched his forehead gently before taking the quill.

She signed the top sheet, and several other sheets when directed to. When finished, the ridgeback collected the parchments and flew back up to her deity's upper ring. Stormcatcher didn't even look at the papers before tapping his desk again. Another ridgeback threw a switch at her desk, and the dome-shaped ceiling slowly cracked open. Above them, the claw of the Tempest Spire reached into the clouds while lighting bolts danced between it and the clouds. Working dragons flew overhead despite the perilous weather.

Stormcatcher leaned back and smiled. "Welcome, Shifting Wind... to the Shifting Expanse."

[rainbowbobatea]

A night under the stars✨🥂

“I'm not opening my eyes."

"Shar—"

"No, nope. I won't. I refuse."

Shar grips the helicopter's seat, knuckles white, as the machine soars over the vast expanse of Sydney. The wind whips through her hair, and her heart pounds in her ears. She shoots a glance at Hugh, who's sitting with casual confidence.

"This is crazy!" she yells over the roar of the engine. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Hugh flashes a devilish smile, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. "You said you wanted the grand tour. So, I'm giving you the grand tour, mate."

The helicopter banks sharply, and Shar's stomach drops as they descend. "Oh, hell naw. Please tell me this thing isn't going to crash!"

"Relax, love. The pilot has everything under control." Hugh's voice is calm, but the thrill in his eyes matches Shar's panic.

The helicopter lowers, the city spreading out below them like a breathtaking panorama. "Check it out. There's the Opera House." He points to the iconic white sails glowing in the afternoon sun.

Shar's fear momentarily forgotten, she leans forward, transfixed by the view. "Woah…”

"Bloody beautiful, it is," Hugh finishes for her, his accent warm and familiar.

As they continue flying through the sky, the wind becomes a symphony, howling through the open door. The city's vibrant pulse beats below, a contrast to the quiet comfort of the helicopter's interior. Shar's fear ebbs, replaced by a heady mix of adrenaline and awe.

"Alright, enough of the touristy stuff." Hugh says. "Now I'll show you something really special."

He points towards the emerald expanse of the Royal National Park; the lush greens and blues stretch before them like a painter's palette, untouched by the concrete and steel of the city.

"This is my favorite place to escape the madness of Hollywood. It's like another world down there."

"It's incredible." Shar's breathes, awestruck. "It doesn't even look real."

Hugh chuckles, his eyes never leaving the horizon. "Wait till you see it from the ground. We can go hiking, just the two of us. It's secluded, and—" His words trail off as he glances at her, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

Shar would've laughed if she wasn't so freaking terrified.

Seriously.

This helicopter ride with him is amazing, but the stomach-churning drops and gut-wrenching turns kept reminding her that this was very real…

"Look up, darling." Hugh's voice is warm and inviting as he interrupts her racing thoughts.

Shar's eyes follow his instruction, and she's greeted by a breathtaking sight. The night sky above is littered with stars, each twinkling like a diamond. It's like they've entered another galaxy, far away from the bustling city below.

"It's beautiful," she breathes, her voice a whisper of awe.

As if responding to her words, Hugh leans closer, his breath warm on her ear. "All the shine of a thousand spotlights," he sings softly, his deep voice wrapping around her like a velvet hug, "All the stars we steal from the night sky..."

Recognition hits Shar like a bolt of lightning. The Greatest Showman. She's heard this song a million times, but never like this.

"Will never be enough," he continues, his voice growing more passionate, "Never be enough, this endless sky..."

Shar's heart flutters as Hugh's voice trails off, the last notes of hanging in the air like stardust. She opens her mouth to speak, but Hugh's next words catch her off guard.

"We're back at the hotel, love," he says, his voice returning to its normal, conversational tone.

Shar blinks, disoriented. She glances out the window, and sure enough, the familiar shape of their hotel looms before them. The realization hits her like a ton of bricks – Hugh had been singing to distract her from the flight.

"You sneaky bastard," she says, nudging his shoulder with her own.

“Hey," he laughs, his accent thicker with amusement, "you were the one that wanted a helicopter ride."

Shar freezes, her witty comeback dying on her lips. He's right. She did ask for this. The memory comes flooding back – their conversation at the theatre, her offhand comment about never having been in a helicopter, Hugh's eyes lighting up with that mischievous gleam...

"I can't believe you remembered that," she says, lowering her hands.

Hugh shrugs, nudging her nose. "I like to spoil my girl."

"Even if it scares her?"

"Yup."

Shar's legs wobble as she steps onto the helipad, her heart still racing from the exhilarating flight. Hugh's steady hand on her lower back guides her, his touch both comforting and electrifying.

"Easy there, love," he murmurs, his voice low and warm against her ear. "You did brilliantly."

She shoots him a look that's half-grateful, half-exasperated. "You're lucky I didn't hurl all over your fancy chopper."

His laugh rumbles through her, rich and deep. "Ah, but you didn't. And it’s a good thing you didn’t, or else I wouldn’t be able to accompany you tonight.

Shar raises an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued despite her lingering nervousness. "Huh?"

Hugh's eyes twinkle with mischief. "Dinner, darling. Get ready to be wined and dined in true Aussie style."

They step into the elevator, and Shar lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The adrenaline from the helicopter ride is slowly fading, replaced by a giddy anticipation.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal a luxurious suite. Shar's jaw drops as she takes in the opulent decor, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Sydney's skyline.

"This is..." she trails off, at a loss for words.

"Your dressing room for the evening," Hugh finishes, gently nudging her forward. "Go on, then. Your team's waiting."

"My team?" Shar echoes, confused.

As if on cue, a group of women emerge from one of the adjoining rooms. They're all armed with makeup cases and hair tools.

"Miss Shar?" One of them steps forward, her smile warm and professional. "I'm Zoe. We're here to help you get ready for your evening with Mr. Jackman."

Shar blinks, overwhelmed. She turns to Hugh, but he's already backing towards the elevator, that infuriating smirk still on his face.

"Have fun, love," he calls out. "I'll see you in two hours."

And with that, he's gone, leaving Shar alone with her 'team'.

Before Shar can even say anything, she's whisked away into a whirlwind of activity. One woman guides her to a plush chair in front of a well-lit vanity, while another starts gently combing through her curly hair.

As the hairstylist gets to work, another woman approaches with a tray of nail polish. "For your nails, Miss. Any color preference?"

Shar glances at the array of colors, her eyes drawn to a deep, shimmering gold. "That one," she says, pointing.

As her nails are being painted, Zoe reappears, holding a garment bag. "Your dress for the evening, Miss Shar."

Shar's eyes widen as Zoe unzips the bag, revealing a stunning pink gown. The fabric shimmers in the light, looking both elegant and comfortable.

"It's beautiful," Shar breathes, reaching out to touch the silky material.

Zoe smiles. "Mr. Jackman picked it out himself. He said the color would bring out your eyes."

Slipping into the dress feels like stepping into a dream. The fabric hugs her curves in all the right places, the color a striking contrast against her dark skin. Shar turns to look in the full-length mirror and gasps.

The woman staring back at her is a vision. The dark pink dress shimmers with every movement, the cut accentuating her figure without being overly revealing. Her hair is a crown of intricate curls, and her makeup makes her look like she's glowing from within. Zoe gives a nod of approval.

"Wow, Miss Shar," Zoe says, in awe. "You look…you look-"

"Gorgeous."

It's Hugh. He's dressed in a sharp black suit that fits him perfectly, his slightly wavy brown hair styled in that effortlessly handsome way that seems uniquely his—but it's the look on his face when he sees her that takes Shar's breath away.

"Shar," he finally says, his voice soft with awe, "you look absolutely breathtaking."

For a moment, he seems at a loss for words, his gaze traveling from her face to her dress and back again. Shar feels a blush creeping up her cheeks, but she holds his gaze, drinking in the admiration in his eyes.

"You clean up pretty well yourself, Jackman," she says, aiming for casual but hearing the breathlessness in her own voice.

Hugh chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. He steps forward, offering his arm. "Shall we, my lady?"

Shar places her hand on his arm, feeling the solid warmth of him through his suit jacket.

"Lead the way, good sir," she says, matching his playful tone.

~~~~

As Hugh leads Shar through the dimly lit restaurant, she can't help but feel like she's floating. The dress swishes around her legs, and the warmth of Hugh's arm under her hand grounds her in the moment.

They're guided to a secluded booth in a dark corner, away from prying eyes.

"So," Hugh says, as he gently guides her into the booth, "favorite Mariah Carey album?"

Shar blinks, caught off guard by the sudden question. "Um, 'Butterfly,' obviously. It's a classic."

Hugh shakes his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Nah, love. 'Daydream' is clearly superior."

"What?" Shar scoffs, turning to face him fully. "No way. 'Butterfly' has 'Honey' and 'My All.' It's iconic."

"But 'Daydream' has 'Fantasy' and 'Always Be My Baby,'" Hugh counters, leaning in closer. "You can't beat that."

Shar feels a surge of competitiveness. "Please. 'Butterfly' was her artistic breakthrough. It's when she really came into her own as a songwriter."

"But Daydream-"

"Okay, they're both amazing," Shar retorts, jabbing a finger at his chest.

Hugh chuckles. "Ah, can't argue with that."

Their playful argument is interrupted by the arrival of their waitress, a young woman with wide eyes and a starstruck expression.

"Good evening," she says, her voice slightly breathless. "Can I get you started with some drinks?" Her gaze is fixed solely on Hugh, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "...what would you like, Sexiest Man alive?"

Bitch. Shar feels a twinge of annoyance at the waitress's blatant flirting. She knows Hugh is used to this kind of attention, but it still stings to be so thoroughly ignored.

Hugh, seeming to sense Shar's discomfort, smoothly wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Thank you," he says to the waitress, his tone polite but dismissive. "We'll have a bottle of your best soju, please."

The waitress's smile falters slightly as she finally notices Shar. "Of course. I'll be right back with that."

The waitress quickly returns with their soju and two small glasses. As she pours, Hugh leans in close to Shar, his breath tickling her ear.

"Order anything you want, love. Even the most expensive dishes. This is your night."

Shar glances at the menu, her eyes widening at the prices. "Are you sure? Some of these are pretty pricey."

"I'm sure. Get whatever your heart desires."

"Okay," she says, feeling a bit daring. "We'll start with the premium wagyu beef platter, the combo, and... oh, the black truffle bibimbap sounds amazing.” Shar hands the menu back to the waiter, who takes it and leaves. “Ugh, I’m starving.”

Hugh's eyes soften, crinkling at the corners in that way that makes her heart skip. "Ah, same."

"You're hungry too?"

"Yep, I'm hungry…" Hugh leans in, his wavy hair tickling her neck as he leaned in close. "Hungry…for you."

“Oh please.” Despite the corny line, a giggle escapes her throat. But when she feels his rough palm slide up her dress, caressing her bare skin, she stopped laughing.

Oh, he's serious now…

"Mmmm, watcha got down there, babygirl?" Hugh asks, playing with her lace panties underneath.

"Australia."

A pause. A soft chuckle rings into her ear, his warm breath against her neck. "Ah, is that so?"

Shar nods, squeezing her legs together. Her voice goes high. "Yeah…"

She sucks in a sharp breath, her gaze darting around the restaurant, but no one seems to notice what they’re doing underneath the table. The waitress walks by, but her attention is focused on her notepad, and she doesn't glance their way.

Shar's heart is pounding in her ears as she squeezes her legs together, trapping Hugh's hand between her thighs. His fingers tease the sensitive skin high on her inner thigh, his touch feather-light and deliberate.

"You're so cute when you squirm like this."

He gives her earlobe a gentle nibble. She tilts her head to give him better access, her breath coming in short gasps. "I-"

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of her lace panties, and he groans softly as he finds her wet and ready for him. "Fucking hell, you little minx," he growls, his voice husky with desire. "Feels like you're hungry for me too."

One of his fingers found her clit with such practiced ease, she yelped at how unexpected it was to be touched by someone that wasn’t her own unskilled, shaky fingers. Hugh didn’t slowly work her into a frenzy; he robbed her of her senses with aggressive strokes that were so quick she could barely make sense of the movements until she was dripping down her own thighs.

"Oh, some water please?"

Shar snaps her head up, brown eyes widening as she realizes that Hugh is ordering something while still touching her under the table. Bastard. She tightens around his girthy fingers, biting back a moan as she nods at the waiter too. Two can play at this game.

"And more Soju, please?" Shar innocently asks, squirming.

Hugh smiles, winking. "Yeah, two more of those too, please…"

The oblivious waiter leaves, coming back a few minutes later with a stray of yummy goodness—juicy galbi, its caramelized edges glistening; thick slices of samgyeopsal, fat rendering temptingly; bulgogi, the tender beef slices swimming in a pool of savory marinade.

Just in time.

Flushed face and pulled taunt, Shar had already grinded against his fingers into a flashing white orgasm, giving herself enough time to calm down before the meal. Hugh slips his fingers away, giving it a quick lick before nodding at the food. A cheeky grin paints his face.

"Let's dig in."

Shar nods, catching her breath. "Y-yeah."

Shar's heart was still racing as she watched Hugh expertly flip a piece of galbi on the tabletop grill. The sizzle and aroma of the marinated meat filled the air, making her mouth water.

"This smells amazing," she said, leaning in closer to inhale the savory scent.

Hugh grinned, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Wait until you taste it, love." He picked up a perfectly grilled piece with his chopsticks and held it out to her. "Open wide."

Shar felt a flutter in her stomach as she parted her lips. Hugh gently placed the morsel in her mouth, his fingers brushing against her bottom lip. The meat was tender and bursting with flavor, the perfect balance of sweet and savory.

"Mmm," she hummed appreciatively, closing her eyes to savor the taste.

As they finished their meal, Hugh leaned back, patting his stomach contentedly. "That was delicious. What do you say we walk it off a bit?"

"Sounds good to me."

Hugh's eyes lit up. "Actually, I just remembered. There's a shopping center downstairs. We could explore a bit, maybe find you a new dress for the Australia premiere tomorrow."

Shar's eyes widened. "The premiere? I... I didn't realize I was going to that."

Hugh chuckled, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Of course you are, love. Can't have my date missing out on the red carpet, can I?"

“Oh-oh, right. Of course not.”

Hand in hand, they slowly made their way down to the shopping center, Hugh's hand resting comfortably on the small of Shar's back as they walked. The mall was bustling with activity, shops lining either side of the wide corridors.

As they strolled, something caught Shar's eye. In the center of the mall stood a beautiful carousel, its painted horses gleaming under the lights. Shar felt a childlike excitement bubble up inside her.

"Oh, Hugh, look!" she exclaimed, pointing at the carousel. "Can we ride it? Please?"

Hugh looked at her, amusement dancing in his eyes. "The carousel?“

Shar pouted playfully. "Can we go on it? Pretty please? Come on, it'll be fun!"

Hugh's expression softened, and he shook his head with a fond smile. "Anything for my babygirl," he said, his voice low and affectionate.

"And you have to ride too," she insisted, tugging on his hand.

Hugh's eyebrows shot up. "Me? On a carousel horse? Aren’t I too tall…?”

"Yes, you," Shar laughed. “C’mon!”

With a dramatic sigh that was belied by the twinkle in his eye, Hugh allowed himself to be led to the carousel. They paid for their tickets and waited for the current ride to finish.

As the carousel slowed to a stop, Shar bounded forward, choosing a white horse with a flowing mane. She looked expectantly at Hugh, who was eyeing the mechanical steeds with...fear?

"Your turn," she said, grinning.

With an exaggerated groan, Hugh swung his leg over a black horse next to Shar's. He looked comically large on the small horse, his long legs dangling awkwardly.

"I feel ridiculous," he muttered, but he was smiling.

The ride started with a jolt, and Shar laughed with delight as her horse began to move up and down. She turned to share her joy with Hugh, only to see him wobbling precariously on his mount.

"Hugh, are you okay?" she asked, trying to stifle a giggle.

"I'm fine, I'm fi-" His words were cut short as the horse dipped suddenly, and Hugh, caught off guard, slid sideways off the saddle.

Shar watched in disbelief as Hugh Jackman, the Wolverine himself, tumbled ungracefully onto the carousel platform.

For a moment, there was silence, and then Shar burst into laughter.

Hugh sat up, his hair mussed and a look of utter bewilderment on his face. This only made Shar laugh harder, tears streaming down her face.

"I hate carousels," Hugh declared, but there was no real heat in his words. He climbed to his feet, brushing off his pants with as much dignity as he could muster.

Shar was still giggling as the ride came to an end. She stumbled off her horse, weak-kneed from laughter, and Hugh caught her in his arms.

"Oh man," she gasped between giggles. "That was... that was..."

Hugh shook his head, chuckling. "Let's keep that between us, eh? I have a reputation to maintain."

Still giggling, Shar allowed Hugh to lead her towards the first clothing store they saw.

Shar steps into the boutique, her eyes widening as she takes in the sea of elegant dresses before her. The store is a kaleidoscope of colors and fabrics, each gown more stunning than the last. Sequins sparkle under the soft lighting, silks shimmer invitingly, and delicate lace patterns catch her eye at every turn.

"Wow," she breathes, running her hand along a rack of dresses as she passes. The fabrics feel luxurious under her fingertips, so different from the cheap polyester blends she's used to.

Hugh follows close behind, a gentle smile on his face as he watches her reaction. "See anything you like?"

Shar nods, a bit overwhelmed. "They're all so beautiful."

She moves deeper into the store, drawn to a display of flowing gowns in jewel tones. A sapphire blue dress catches her eye, and she reaches for the price tag, curious.

$1,400

Her heart sinks as she reads the number. That’s way too many zeroes for her. Swallowing hard, she lets the tag fall from her fingers.

"Everything okay?" Hugh asks, noticing her change in demeanor.

"Yeah, just..." Shar trails off, not wanting to admit how out of place she feels. "These are all so fancy."

Hugh's brow furrows slightly, but before he can respond, something else catches Shar's attention. Her eyes lock onto a dress hanging near the back of the store, and she feels her breath catch in her throat.

It's pink. Not just any pink, but the softest, most delicate shade of blush she's ever seen. The dress is a confection of tulle and chiffon, with a sweetheart neckline and a full, flowing skirt. Tiny crystals are scattered across the bodice, catching the light like morning dew.

Shar moves towards it as if in a trance, her fingers trembling slightly as she reaches out to touch the fabric. It's even softer than it looks, like a cloud given form.

"My babygirl would look so pretty in that."

Shar nods, already knowing who the voice is behind her. "Really? You think so?"

"I know so." Hugh's smile widened, creasing the corners of his eyes, as he reached out to pluck the pink dress from the rack, holding it up against her. "It is. In fact, I insist you get it." 

Shar's eyes widened, her breath catching at his words. "Ugh, I don't know, Hugh. It's kinda expensive, and I wasn't planning—" 

But before she could finish, he was already making his way to the counter, the dress draped casually over his arm. "Consider it my treat. I want you to have it, Shar."

She watched, a mixture of surprise and delight coursing through her, as he approached the sales assistant, his presence filling the small space. 

"Hello, how can I help you, sir?" The assistant's tone was a touch too warm, her heart eyes fixed on Hugh as she ignored Shar's presence entirely. 

Without missing a beat, Hugh laid the dress on the counter, his movements confident and assured. Shar felt a rush of anticipation, her heart fluttering as she watched him reach for his wallet. 

Producing a sleek, black credit card, he said, his voice deep and authoritative, "I'd like to purchase this dress, and anything else my girlfriend here wishes to choose. Expense is no object."

Shar's eyes widened at his words. She opened her mouth to protest, but Hugh was already turning to her with a boyish grin.

"Come on, love. Let's find you a whole new wardrobe."

Before she knew it, Shar was being whisked through the store, Hugh pulling dresses, skirts, and blouses off the racks with enthusiasm.

The sales assistant trailed behind them, her earlier warmth cooling as she watched Hugh shower Shar with attention.

"Oh, this would look lovely on you," Hugh said, holding up a sleek black cocktail dress.

Shar fingered the material, feeling overwhelmed. "Hugh, this is too much-"

"No," he interrupted, adding it to the growing pile in the assistant's arms. "You deserve it all."

As they moved through the store, Shar couldn't help but notice the assistant's increasingly annoyed expression. Every time Hugh complimented Shar or suggested another item, the woman's lips tightened a little more.

Good. Serves that bitch right.

After what felt like hours, Hugh finally declared they had enough options. He guided Shar towards the dressing rooms, the assistant struggling under the weight of their selections.

"Try this one on first," Hugh said, plucking a deep emerald green dress from the pile. He held it up against Shar, his eyes sparkling. "It'll look stunning. Trust me, I've worked in broadway—I know a thing or two about fashion."

Shar took the dress, her cheeks warming under his appreciative gaze. "Okay, I'll just be a minute."

She slipped into the dressing room, hanging the dress on the hook provided. As she began to undress, she heard Hugh's voice from the other side of the curtain.

"Can't wait to see how beautiful you look, love."

Shar She stepped into the dress, zipping it up with ease. When she finally looked in the mirror, her breath caught. The dress hugged her curves perfectly, the rich color making her skin glow.

She was about to step out to show Hugh when she heard the curtain rustle behind her. Before she could turn, she felt his presence, his warm breath on her neck.

"Hugh, what are you-"

Her words cut off in a gasp as Hugh dropped to his knees, his hands sliding up her legs under the dress. Shar's heart raced, a mix of excitement and panic flooding her system.

"Hugh, we can't-" she started, but her protest turned into a moan as his mouth found her center. His tongue teases her sensitive skin, lapping at her with soft, slow strokes. Her dress is pushed up, bunched around her waist, baring her to his hungry gaze and seeking mouth.

Well, let’s hope there isn’t any cameras in the dressing room…

"Mmm," he hums, his breath hot against her core. "You taste so sweet, babygirl." His tongue ventures deeper, delving into her folds, lapping at her essence. He sucks gently on her clit, his tongue flicking and circling it, the wet sounds of his mouth on her filling the changing room.

Her legs tremble, bracketing his shoulders as she grips his hair, urging him on without a word. His hands grip her thighs, pulling her closer, his tongue never ceasing its dance. He mouths her, drinking her in, the noises of his appetite spurring her on.

Her breath comes in shallow gasps, her back arching as the pleasure coils tighter within her.

"Oh," she pants, her voice thick with desire. "I–I–"

And then his mouth is gone, leaving her bereft and wanting.

"Sorry for wrinkling it, love," he said, his voice low and husky.

The sound of him brings her back, and she realizes she's standing before him, legs shaky and dress slightly askew. Shar swatted at him playfully, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming in short gasps.

"Die. Just die."

"Not until I give you one last surprise. Close your eyes for me, love."

Shar blinks, still a bit out of breath. "Alright, but you better not eat me out again…though, I wouldn’t mind.”

Confused but curious, Shar obeys. She feels Hugh move behind her, then something cool against her skin.

"Okay, open them."

Hugh stood behind Shar, his strong, warm presence filling the space as she admired her reflection in the mirror. The necklace—a delicate gold chain adorned with a cancer zodiac sign pendant—sparkled against her skin, a thoughtful gift from him. 

"It's perfect, Hugh. I love it." Shar's voice was filled with sincerity as she reached up to touch the necklace, the small gesture conveying her heartfelt gratitude.

But Hugh, always wanting more, always pushing the boundaries of their dynamic, inclined his head, his gaze holding hers captive. "Thank you...Daddy." 

The words slipped from her lips, thick with desire, and Shar bit her lip, a flush rising to her cheeks as she acknowledged his power over her. 

"That's my girl." His voice was a low growl as he pulled her close, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that was equal parts possession and passion.

Shar giggles, the cute laugh she always does, but then sobers up quickly. "Babe…I feel bad. Shouldn't I pay you back?"

A pause. Hugh laughs at first, but then seeing that she was serious, slowly reaches behind himself and produces a large wad of cash from his back pocket. He hands it to, chuckling at her surprised face.

"Every time you say some bullshit like that, I'm gonna give you $100 to spend, okay?”

"But Hugh—"

He hands her another stash, smirking.

"Don't spend it all on one place, love."

~~~~

Limos. A red carpet. Tons of celebrities and hundreds, upon hundreds of paparazzi lined the event, all the flashes of lights blinding. It's the Australia movie premiere, and she finds herself inadvertently stepping into a whirlwind of attention.

"Who's this beauty?" a reporter calls out, breaking the small talk and champagne-sipping rhythm of the red carpet event. 

The sudden shift of attention toward Shar makes her heart pound in her ears.

Unaccustomed to being the center of attraction, she feels a rush of heat to her cheeks. The question, she realizes, is aimed at Hugh, who stands confidently at her side, oozing charm.

His arm is snug around her waist, possessive yet protective, and he gives the reporter a charming smile. "This is Shar, a…friend I recently had the pleasure of meeting."

The introduction is smooth, and Shar feels a warm buzz from the compliment. Being described as a "friend" makes her insides flutter, and she's keenly aware of the intensity of his gaze.

"And where's Deb?" The reporter follows up, her tone implying that Shar is a mere stand-in. "Is she gonna join your side soon, Jackman?"

Shar's eyes narrow playfully, her sass coming to the forefront. Without missing a beat, she replies, "Probably off giving some director a blowjob so she can get cast. Again."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she realizes her mistake. Her eyes widen, and she bites her lip, tasting the tang of lipstick as her brain catches up with her unfiltered mouth. 

Hugh's eyes widen, before letting out a loud laugh.

Well—who can blame her? This was the fourth time (no joke) someone had asked about Deb's absence, and it was starting to feel like a broken record. Seriously. But she can’t blame him—no one really knows about his secret separation from that elderly leech. And…no one really knows about her and Hugh’s secret relationship as well. So, of course, there’s gonna be questions.

Tons of them.

"My friend is, um... a comedian," Hugh said smoothly, addressing the stunned reporter. "Don't mind her words."

Sensing the need to make a hasty exit, Hugh guided Shar towards the entrance of the big dome venue. As they passed through the crowd, Shar caught sight of Deb who was walking along the carpet as well; the blond bombshell fixed her with a venomous glare.

Shar rolled her eyes in response. She hopes Deb’s blond wig falls off during the red carpet.

Once inside the dark comfort of the theatre, she let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "That was... intense," she muttered, more to herself than to Hugh.

Hugh chuckled softly. "You certainly know how to make an impression, love."

“Yeah…sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize. You weren’t wrong, anyways.”

They found their seats just as the lights began to dim. As the movie started, Shar tried to focus on the screen, but she could feel the lingering tension between them. She wondered if Hugh was upset about her outburst, or if he was just trying to maintain a professional facade.

Her worries were momentarily forgotten when an, um…very hot abs scene came on screen. Shar felt her cheeks flush as she watched Hugh's character, shirtless and glistening, wash himself with water….She shifted in her seat, suddenly very aware of the real Hugh sitting next to her. The one leaning in close breath tickling her ear.

"You can pour water on my abs anytime during a shower."

A jolt of surprise hits her. Then, Shar turned to him, her dark brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "And you can wash my tits anytime in the shower, too" she shot back, smirking in the way Hugh's eyebrows shot up in surprise. His mouth formed a perfect "o."

Ha. Got that freaky Australian back.

For a long time during the movie, they kept glancing at each other, the air between them crackling with tension. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, they leaned in simultaneously.

Their lips met in a passionate kiss, just as the audience erupted into applause at the movie's conclusion.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Day 1 of @silmsmutweek

Pairing: Melkor x Gothmog | Location: Angband

Themes: Smut

Warnings: Weapons use | Death (thralls) | Monsterfucking | Masturbation | Kissing | Oral

Word count: 1.2K words

Summary: The lord of Angband pleasures himself while fantasizing about his Captain and Lord of the Balrogs.

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

A/n: this is the first I have written something of this nature, so here's to hoping it passes muster.

They say the seeds of want and desire take root at the most unexpected moments, and for the most unexpected persons.

This was also true for the High Lord of Angband himself. It was sheer happenstance, truly, when he came upon his servant, Gothmog, sparring with thralls unfortunate enough to capture the Balrog’s eye.

Melkor concealed himself in the shadows and kept to an upper walkway while he watched his servant cut through each and every one of his opponents with a single strike of his great sword. Thralls quailed when they were called forth, the bitter stench of their fear fouling the air. Melkor reveled in it, just like he reveled in the scene unfolding before his eyes. Gothmog showed no mercy. He could not be prevailed upon to offer any. It was who he was and how Melkor expected him to be: hard of heart and without pity. One by one, thralls were pushed forward by an orc guard, and one by one they all fell, until none remained to stand before the High Captain of Angban. It was a glorious sight. Gothmog lifted his sword and let out a great bellow, the sound echoing across the dreary courtyards and darkened corridors of the Iron Prison like a mighty war cry.

Melkor continued to watch while Gothmog moved away from the butchery and freed himself of his bloody armor. Plate and mail and leather were all consigned to a heap. The Balrog huffed and sat on a large flat stone, content to wait until a new suit of armor was brought out to him. Gothmog had no need for such protection, but the image of him in dark steel, chased in fiery crimson, was enough to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. And only lesser beings had cause to fear him. Melkor was no lesser being; he did not fear him, and when he found Gothmog clad in nothing but his own nakedness, he felt something else. Oh, he had seen Gothmog before, on many and more occasions, but never like this, all powerful and proud and fierce and utterly without shame. When Gothmog rose once more to garb himself, his very form rippling with his movement, Melkor experienced a sharp tug in the deepest core of his being.

He knew what it was. That tug was lust—raw and unbridled carnal lust, the kind that threatened to set him ablaze. Fighting it and leaving it unsated was fruitless, for it already had him in a vise-like grip. Dizzy and lightheaded, his entire fana crackling like he had been struck by bolts of lightning, Melkor turned sharply on his heel and departed, silently and swiftly, to his chamber.

It was here, safely ensconced behind doors of thick wood and iron, that he yielded to the heated call of his baser urges. Seated in his great chair, he closed his eyes while his hands worked on undoing the bindings and ties of his robes. They loosened with barely a rustle and fell away, exposing vast expanses of his fana and throbbing cock to his own touch. Melkor breathed deeply while visions of his servant came to him like a great flood.

The Vala saw, as clearly as if he were looking through new glass, Gothmog standing before him. He envisioned himself reaching out and running his eager hands over obsidian and crimson-red flesh. Supple wings would tremble faintly while Melkor continued with his exploration. His entire being grew hot while he stroked his engorged member and envisaged himself capturing Gothmog’s lips with his. The Balrog’s sinful mouth opened beneath his, his tongue pressing against Melkor’s own. And that was not all. He pictured Gothmog himself slowly taking the lead and returning Melkor’s kisses with equal fire and passion. Dark nails would rake down Melkor’s back in such a frenzy that he could almost feel them and their sharp sting, even though he was alone. That pain would mingle with heady pleasure while Gothmog went lower and lower until he was at the apex of Melkor’s thighs. Gothmog’s smile had been quick and cunning, the glow of lust burning bright in his fired gold eyes.

Melkor moaned long and deep, his breath reducing to ragged pants. His chambers grew strangely heated, and the air thickened even as he adjusted himself in his seat and made himself more comfortable.

He was far from done. He now thought of Gothmog and how he would part his dark, sinful lips around Melkor's shaft. Those same lips would become slick and swollen, while his crimson cheeks clenched and hollowed out every time he moved his head. Gothmog would use his warm hands to tighten and release, his strokes as relentless as his hungry mouth. The Balrog would look up at him. Melkor would return his gaze, grunting softly before throwing his head back, his mouth parting in a silent moan. He would brush his hand over thick, dark horns, over coarse, black hair, thinking nothing in Arda was finer, or softer. And there were no words. None were needed for a long time, only the heat of touch and lips and tongue.

More, he would eventually say. Give me more. 

Gothmog gave him so much more. Melkor pumped his length to even more lewd visions while he desperately chased his release. He now conjured up the image of Gothmog swirling his tongue and lapping up the pearly white seed already leaking from his cock. He pursued his daydream still, this time seeing himself showering his captain with praise.

You truly know how to use your tongue. 

Just like that. 

You listen so well. 

Good, now faster. 

His imagination ran riot when it was filled with Gothmog growing drunk on such words. The Balrog's movements went from slow and deliberate to fast and brutal. He shuddered when hands that now positively smoldered gripped his thighs. A spiked tail whipped at the air. Gothmog sputtered, his eyes darting to Melkor’s once more, as if seeking permission.

Yes, Melkor would say. Finish me.

Gothmog would eagerly do what was asked of him. He would go on to finish Melkor, not stopping until his lord’s spend filled his mouth. Melkor moaned again, long and guttural and otherworldly, while he convulsed from the orgasm that ripped through him. He barely felt the warmth of his seed spilling all over his hand and belly. Melkor—overwhelmed and lost in a state of rapture—sagged into his chair, completely satisfied.

His heady visions melted away like mist while his breath slowly returned to a more even keel. Melkor forced himself to open his eyes and look around the room after his hunger had been sated. It was dark and gloomy and empty. There was a sweet silence in the air. The Vala dared to glance at himself. His fana bore the tell-tale signs of his pleasure, but he did not care, for he had never experienced such euphoria before.

Melkor then took a deep breath and pondered long and hard about what just happened. Perhaps, he thought, it would be wise to crush whatever it was that ensnared him, and let it end here and now. It was improper, for he was Lord, and Gothmog was but a servant after all. However, the seeds had already been planted. Melkor could feel them taking root and growing strong within him. Perhaps, he finally concluded, he could explore more in the future.

Tags: @cilil

[cassieuncaged]

WIP Whenever...Again

Excuse me for being annoying since I just did this last week, but I've got a bunch of snippets I'm trying to graft together to finish Love Like Quicksand. Now to actually get a complete chapter written...

No Pressure Tags: @emotionalcadaver, @roofgeese, @confidentandgood, @poisonedtruth, @unpetitoiseau, @illiana-mystery, @emilynightshade89, @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky, @detectivelokis,@socially-awkward-skeleton, @captastra, @voidika and whoever else would like to share!

TW: lightly suggestive, language, etc.

Sleep was elusive as she turned to her side desperately. The expansive bed felt especially empty that night while Ray slept in the guest room down the hall. Tears had dried hours earlier as she drank wine alone at an empty table.

Her guest had decided to forgo dinner after the incident in the stables. Not that she could blame him, mistake or not. However, his words still stung a bruised ego. Especially when all Maggie could think about was his lips on hers.

This was a mistake.

Is that all he thought of her? They were caught in the riptide together, clutching desperately at the other in an attempt to not sink. Was it really so surprising that there was a spark? That maybe they were destined to be together?

Flopping onto her back with a groan, Maggie stared at the dark ceiling. Closing her eyes would only be met with static images of something she couldn’t have. That was such a gnawing feeling, knowing something she desperately craved was forbidden. Ray didn’t feel like the men she normally associated with. He was sleazy or unpredictable; he emanated a sense of safety and comfort that was foreign. Even the way he kissed was gently passionate, handling her tenderly as though she might break.

Feeling her heart skip a beat, Maggie fought the urge to cry desperately into the night. Loneliness was beginning to enrapture her in an endless fog and the sliver of sunlight she’d glimpsed made misery more prominent.

After tomorrow’s rodeo, both he and Gorman would be out of her hair and she could attempt to go on living a somewhat normal life. She tried to focus on the upcoming barrel race and Dolly’s unfettered agility. They both enjoyed being a part of spectacle, which was more than enough to keep a wandering mind occupied.

Suddenly there was a hushed knock at the door, pulling her from a sleepy reverie. Maggie bolted upright before reaching for the light. Sitting silently in the dim glow, the woman jumped as the knock was repeated more sharply. Taking a moment to steel herself, she slid from the comfort of her bed. Wrenching the door open revealed a nervous Ray. His mouth opened before it was immediately clamped shut as she crossed her arms expectantly.

“I can’t say I’m in the mood for any company,” she sighed, wishing she’d slipped a robe on over her nighty, feeling exposed beneath prying eyes.

“I know.” He sighed, running one hand through his hair, “And I’m sorry. I can’t just leave everything I know behind.”

“Ray…” she warned, roles suddenly reversed. “Please…”

“I’m losing my goddamned mind,” he mumbled with an awkward chuckle. Before Maggie even dared to ask what he meant, the man took a round face between both hands before pressing their lips together. It was softer than earlier, searching yet restrained. Small hands grappled with his shirt as the kiss had begun to deepen before she pulled away suddenly.

“Are you trying to break me to pieces?” her lip wobbled as tears were fought. “Because I can’t keep doing this.”

“I know.” A calloused thumb stroked the curve of one cheek, “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want this when you’re all I can think about.”

She remained silent, having been robbed of any cogent thought at this admission. All she could do was hungrily lean back to reignite their passion. Hands knotted around a tan neck as she yanked the man across the threshold, door slamming shut behind them.

It was the idea of being quenched after being parched and searching for so long. To be held against a broad chest and feel a wild heart beating beneath her fingertips felt unreal as Maggie dreamily let herself be walked back to bed.

She’d do anything as long as he held her in his arms.

[rssecurityturnstile]

three arms gates barrier from RS Security Co., Ltd(www.szrssecurity.com) Appropriate for all kinds of public locations that require organized passage of pedestrians, such as scenic spots, exhibit halls, cinemas, docks, train stations, bus stations and other places that need ticket confirmation; locations that require authorized entry such as factory participation, canteen consumption, golf courses, monthly card leisure centers, and so on; anti-static control areas of electronic factories, systems that require stringent security steps such as face acknowledgment and fingerprint recognition. RS Security Co., Ltd primarily produces, establishes and sells access control items, such as tripod turnstiles gate, city flap gates gate, servo motor swing turnstiles door, translation turnstile barrier, drop arm gates barrier, full high turnstile gate, half high turnstiles door, speed gates door and other channel turnstile gate products, and parking barrier, acknowledgment camera, hydraulic bollards, road bocker tripod turnstile gate Integrated electronic tickets, gain access to control and presence, club consumption/catering, anti-static, finger print, palm print, face recognition, iris acknowledgment Integrated application of other series of items; complete stainless steel frame structure, servo motor, separately developed and produced motion; one-way/two-way turnstiles door/ swipe to release the lever button and the upper lever is optional, with Counting function can understand RS485 direct interaction with the computer; three rollers gates door triggers and instructions and alarm prompts; automatic fall of the pole when power is off and manual fall The pole is optional, and it gets the switch signal to open turnstiles gate; it can be equipped with a card reading control part, and numerous units can be connected to the network; it can be geared up with magnetic card and proximity card combination techniques; it can be purchased according to different functional requirements. Do. A completely rainproof box made of alloy aluminum or stainless steel, compared to the city flap turnstile gate servo motor swing gates gate and other pedestrian passage devices, three rollers turnstiles door are more economical. It has a tailored installation user interface (such as card reader, sign light installation, etc) to make sure that the system integrator's control gates gate equipment is simple and convenient to install. The motion of the three-stick turnstile door machine has an instantly changed hydraulic shock absorber. When using the three-stick gates door operation, the noise is extremely small and silent. Effect, turnstile gate bar instantly decreases back to center. The surface of the motion is plated with yellow dichromate. Can be set with gates door machine control, one or two instructions control (set by user). The base is repaired with expansion bolts.

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

[serafim]

@breathofthearth

Ugly fears, old fears that he has held closely to his chest. He has spent many an evening wondering. There are truths, even inconvenient ones, that are not enough to move the world. Not even to save itself. Yet when they arrived at Cosmo Canyon, were granted succor by the wise sages and their kindly glittering eyes behind wiry spectacles and learned enough to discern the truth, Aerith did not recoil from it. The dusty research journals he pored over in the Shinra manor basement were right about one thing: his mother had not been human. Aerith did not gaze upon him and see someone, something different. She held his hands in hers and they spent the rest of their evening under the open sky and its endless expanse of starlight and dust. 

After all that he had borne witness to: Aerith’s stubbornness, her little indulgences, her unfaltering kindness, her growing knowledge of her people and her place in the world, on this Planet and all the responsibilities she bore out of her heritage, Sephiroth knows he should have better anticipated her next course of action– to strike directly at the heart of HQ and address the rumors they had been hearing about Science’s most precious specimen recovered out of the ashes of Nibelheim. 

Shinra has had its fair share of issues with security leaks. People talk. 

If there still existed any chance that Jenova could seek the ruin of the Planet once more, then they needed to stop the creature that had caused the near-extinction of the Cetra hundreds of years before.

What did that mean for unnatural atrocities like him and every SOLDIER that also shared her cells? He never did ask her, and he couldn't shake this particular feeling the more the question weighed on his mind. The same feeling he felt back in Nibelheim. Like someone important was waiting for him to wake up. Someone who he never properly met, but has known him his whole life. An eerie, cold, and unwelcome feeling.

Someone.

Something.

His mother. The Calamity. 

“You’re sure about this?” he asks one last time as they prepare to disembark. The rusting seams of the rattling can truck they have stowed away on seem to groan in response as it shuttles them down the crowded expressway. 

Not too late to turn back, to let humanity find someone, anyone else willing to play hero. 

Despite having been the one to ask, Sephiroth also knows what Aerith’s answer will inevitably be. He steadies her with a light hand on her waist as he releases the lock bolt and the loading door rolls up towards the freight ceiling with a clattering thump. 

The open door gives them a direct line of sight to the Tower. Ground spotlights criss-cross hazy beams of light that illuminate the heavy concrete and steel walls of Shinra HQ through the many layers of mako smog that hug Midgar’s highest peak. Landing beacons blink faintly at the top. Every floor has its fair share of silhouettes, backlit.

Employees, bustling to and fro across the halls. Security officers, Turks, SOLDIERs, salarymen, interns, techs, researchers. Monsters lurk there, too. Some human-shaped, some not. Elevators ceaselessly moving along their pulleys. Up and down. Top to bottom, bottom to top. Mako lines, glowing, pulsating as they course along the underside of Science’s playground in the upper floors. The engine and the drum. 

Would that he could, nothing would be more satisfying than to reduce the entire structure to slag. Sephiroth can only think of one person who truly possessed enough mana to do so. 

“Hang on tight. We’re going to jump.” 

[shedmasteruk]

The best garden sheds for 2023

The best garden sheds for 2023

A garden shed is an invaluable storage solution, which can be used to tidy away everything from plant pots and tools to the lawnmower. They can also double as a workshop, for all those garden DIY projects.

There’s a huge variety of sheds available in different styles, materials, and prices. To help you choose the right shed for you, we’ve put together a list of some of the best garden sheds available.

To keep your new shed tidy, browse our guide to the best shed storage ideas and garden storage ideas. We also have handy roundups of the best shed paints and tips on how to improve your shed.

The best garden sheds in the UK

We’ve rounded up a selection of some of the best sheds available to buy in the UK. The sheds in our list are all made from either timber sheds, plastic sheds or metal sheds.

The measurements featured below are a guide and list the widest, highest or deepest measurements of each shed’s dimensions. Further details such as exact door widths and heights at different points of the roof can be found on our website.

Rowlinson Oxford 4ft x 3ft Wooden Apex Garden Shed with Lean-To

Mercia 6×4 Overlap Apex Timber Shed

The Mercia 6×4 Overlap Apex Timber Shed is perfect for those who are on a budget. A must have for any garden, this shed is the perfect storage space for your garden tools, equipment, furniture, and outdoor games.

With a strong build and durable construction, this shed will keep its contents safe and secure. With it’s compact space-saving design, it’s ideal for smaller gardens. Perfect for those who want to step up their gardening game to the next level.

Palram 6×8 Canopia Skylight Plastic Apex Shed – Amber

Update your garden with the addition of the Palram 6×8 Canopia Skylight Plastic Apex Shed – Amber , a stylish heavy duty addition that allows you to safely store a range of equipment including lawn tools, sports equipment, patio furniture and more.

Built using highly resistant polycarbonate panelling and a rust-free aluminium frame, this shed is maintenance free and resistant to weather deterioration for years of outdoor use. The resilient polycarbonate panels do not fracture, discolour or become brittle over time ensuring that the structure remains durable and tough while inside, your garden gear is kept safe from sun damage thanks to the UV blocking roof panels.

The Skylight garden storage shed is made with a reinforced aluminium frame and flexible polycarbonate panels specially engineered to withstand the expansion and shrinkage associated with weather changes. The panels do not bend, fracture, or discolour over time, giving your things maintenance-free protection for years to come. The unique Skylight roof panels transmit natural sunlight during the day while giving you opaque external visibility for maximum privacy as well as front and back vents for ample airflow. Designed with your outdoor living needs in mind, the Skylight plastic shed will complement your home, enhance your outdoor living space, and organize and protect your things.

Yardmaster 8′ x 6’6″ Shiplap Apex Metal Shed – Brown

The perfect way of adding some extra storage space to your garden, this Yardmaster 8′ x 6’6″ Shiplap Apex Metal Shed – Brown will be a welcome addition to your outdoor space.

Made of high-strength, hot-dipped galvanised steel with enhanced resistance to corrosion, warping, swelling and blistering, this metal garden shed is maintenance-free. The permanent, resin-coated finish requires no touch-ups, rust-proofing or application of any preservatives. Other than the occasional cleaning, it takes care of itself and your belongings.

Designed with lockable handles that are attached with anti-tamper bolts, the Yardmaster metal garden shed provides secure storage on your property throughout the year. A free anchor kit is also included to secure it firmly to any kind of surface.

The Yardmaster 8′ x 6’6″ Shiplap Apex Metal Shed – Brown is made from hot-dipped galvanised steel with a resin coated finish with a 15 year anti-rust guarantee.

Included are 2 translucent roof panels to allow daylight into the unit.

Trentvale 8×4 Metal Pent Shed Dark Grey

If you’re looking for an attractive, durable and low-maintenance alternative to a traditional timber shed, then you’ve found it in the Trentvale 8×4 Metal Pent Shed Dark Grey

Featuring double sliding doors for security, gable vents for better air circulation and fire/rot resistance – you can rest assured that your garden valuables are safe and protected.

OutSunny 8×4 Pent Metal Shed – Green

The OutSunny 8×4 Pent Metal Shed – Green is a stylish way to keep your garden and outdoors tidy and organized.

Duramax Sidemate Plus Vinyl Lean To 4×8 Shed – Grey

The New Duramax Sidemate Plus Vinyl Lean To 4×8 Shed – Grey is ideal for beside the home or garage and offers excellent storage facilities .

Available in one size and clad with the highest quality pvc on a strong steel frame and supports. The Sidemate provides a safe and secure storage space. The Sidemate is manufactured from fire retardant durable pvc. It is also weather and fade proof, it will never rust, rot nor require painting every year.  The wall columns are reinforced with a solid metal structure, giving the vinyl shed a lot of strength and making it easy to hang shelves or garden tools inside.

Power 8’x4′ Overlap Timber Pent Shed (window or windowless) (single or double door)

Made with high grade premium quality timber throughout including roof and floor (no chipboard or OSB).  the Power 8’x4′ Overlap Timber Pent Shed uses 10mm extra thick rustic looking overlap cladding.

The shed can be installed how you want it by allowing you to choose whether to place the doors on the high or low side. All sheds have high grade premium quality timber throughout including roof and floor.

Power Sheds do not use chipboard or OSB unlike many other manufacturers .The Power Pent Shed uses 10mm extra thick rustic looking overlap cladding that is responsibly sourced .

Lock and key, full fixings and instructions included as standard. The shed features include a  heavy duty 28x28mm framing with which double to 56x28mm framing for increased strength, galvanised rust resistant ironmongery, and advanced wood preservative for increased protection. High performance polyester roofing felt is used which makes the shed last longer.

[gutouhua]

pairing. vampire!xiao x angel!venti | rating. mature | wc. 1443 | tags. mentions of yakshas' deaths, depictions of self-harm, low self-esteem, implied one-sided love (from xiao)

〰 Xiao avoided Venti’s gaze, dark lashes quivering—hiding glassy eyes. “There is nothing good about me,” he whispered, a faint tremor lining his voice. “Why do you insist otherwise?”

“Because I know it. Because I have seen it.” 〰

Xiao’s first memories after being turned were a jumbled mess, hazy. Like his siblings, he had no sire to guide or teach him. Instead, they knew only to fight and take on the impurities of each battle, growing madder with each victory and loss. 

Eventually, their minds broke and bodies succumbed. The sun burned their skin, and their crimson eyes turned soft and milky. Bloodlust snapped at them with sharp fangs, jaws wide and ready to swallow destruction—it needlessly demanded war and blood of them. So they drove themselves underground and found solace in their quiet deaths. 

Xiao was not so fortunate. 

And now he was left with nothing but a deep ache within his soul that gnawed at his marrow. Crimson and thirst. Blood—red—was the only thing that made him feel better. The pain had seemed almost unbearable at the time, a burning agony that felt feral in the way it scorched his body, setting it aflame, but now it felt cathartic. 

It healed. 

Dark messy scribbles whirled on his thigh, and ink bled across the pale expanse of his scarred flesh, overshadowing everything like a vengeful eclipse that swallowed the sun and plunged the world into darkness. 

And as it grew wider, stretching the darkness into infinity, Xiao moved faster, fervent madness within each stroke. He pressed hard until the pen pierced his skin and black turned to red.   

But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. 

So he dragged the tip higher, closer to his hip bone—stopping short of his jade-colored tattoo. (A gift from an old friend before he turned and was reborn as something other.) Again, he started off gently, almost lovingly, painting soft black strokes until it enveloped his skin. And it was only until his skin had completely disappeared beneath a sea of black did a numbing calm wash over him. 

It feels better now, I think. 

He loosened his grip on the pen. 

A sliver of white. 

No, wait—

The dread returned: 

—WAIT! 

Red bloomed in Xiao’s vision before he registered the stab, the tip of the pen lodged in his flesh, but the pain faded just as quickly as it came. A sense of desperate relief flooded through him—at least in this way, he could fix what was broken. 

Yes. This will suffice. 

Xiao leaned back on the chair, heavy breaths stilling, steeling himself to face the others when the door flew open. He jerked, muscles tense, ready to fight, but when the scent of honeyed apple wine flowed through the air, he relaxed. 

Then tensed again. 

Because it was wrong, all wrong. Venti shouldn’t have smelled like that—cider wine tainted with iron and bitter karma.  

“Xiao, are you there? I wanted to ask you about—”

That lilting voice came to a halt just as Xiao dropped his pen. It clattered on the floor, sharp, marking the silence in the room.  

Confused, Venti looked at Xiao. Saw eyes red, slitted, fangs bared, a low growl in his throat. And then his gaze fell to his thigh, a mess of crimson streaks and black, but before he can say anything, Xiao is already mumbling apologies: Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—

“Xiao, wait—”

The chair grated against the marble floor as Xiao bolted, ignoring the burning sensation on his thigh. A pained hiss sat on the edge of his tongue as he perched on the ledge of the window, ready to escape, when warm hands circle his wrist, tugging him back into the room. 

“Xiao,” Venti tried again, soft—a sorrowful melody. 

Xiao swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Venti, I-I don’t—” he broke off, eyes shuttered, “I don’t mean to, I mean—I’m sorry.” 

He inhaled sharply, trying to breath past the fear that drowned him; lungs flooding with guilt and shame. And above all else, disgust at himself. 

And then—

What if he’s disappointed in me? 

And why would he not: I am defective. Messed up. I enjoy the pain, and how it makes me feel. I don’t feel right without it. I’m a fucked up and disgusting monster. 

Yet at the same time, he wanted to explain himself. To give a reason, any reason, to Venti. But his tongue felt thick in his mouth, like he’d eaten chalk, and it took every fiber of his being to turn away from Venti as he waited for the worst to happen. 

But Venti simply dropped to the floor, kneeling, and pushed the hem of Xiao’s pants to skate his fingertips at the edges of his thighs with soft hesitancy, reverence, almost, like a worshiper before their god. Then he traced a spot at the center of Xiao’s thigh, a mess that looked vaguely like a wing with patchy, dark feathers. 

“Is that mine?” he asked, a shadow of a smile on his lips. 

“W-What?” Xiao’s voice pitched, still on alert. 

Venti’s cool fingertips traced the shape again. “That looks like my wing.” 

“Oh,” Xiao looked down to see where he was pointing and found something similar to a wing, but not at all like Venti’s wings. The one he’d drawn was an ugly, mottled mass, while Venti’s were a delicate downy white. Soft yet strong.

“It is a wing, yes,” he started slowly, “but it is not yours.” It was too hideous to be Venti’s. 

Venti pouted. “It’s not mine, Xiao? I’m hurt,” he said dramatically, pretending to be in pain. “Then whose wings did you draw? Don’t tell me you’ve met another angel, and you’ll leave me for them?” 

“Of course not!” Xiao’s response was immediate. “Never.” 

“Then  I declare that,” he pointed to the messy shape, “to be my wing.”

Xiao didn’t agree with him, but it was better to acquiesce than to make his angel angry. “If…that is what you wish.” 

Venti smiled and pulled him back into the chair, forcing him to sit, and kneeled once again. Xiao did not like seeing blood—even if it was his—on Venti’s white leggings. He hated seeing that color on him, but didn’t dare to move. 

“May I heal you?” Venti asked. 

Xiao’s eyes flared red again. “What?”

“If you allow me to do so, I’ll heal you, Xiao,” he said again, gently. 

“If you’d like to.” Xiao did not think he was worth the time or energy, but if Venti wanted to, then he would not deny him. 

Venti healed quickly, small hands hovering over his thigh as he furrowed his brows in concentration. Xiao felt a moment of slight pain, a flicker of heat like when one came too close to the flame of a candle, but it was gone in an instance, replaced by Venti’s familiar touch. 

“You’re good inside,” Venti said suddenly, still kneeling when he looked up at Xiao.

“I—“ Xiao’s voice cracked. Brittle and chipped, tiny pieces of hopelessness. “I must be fooling you very well because I am not. I am filled with the rage and fear of my enemies. Their tears and agony.” —and my own— “Cursed to bear it inside me forever like some sort of twisted altar of sin.” 

Xiao avoided Venti’s gaze, dark lashes quivering—hiding glassy eyes. “There is nothing good about me,” he whispered, a faint tremor lining his voice. “Why do you insist otherwise?”

“Because I know it. Because I have seen it.” Venti’s response was firm. No traces of the carefree angel infamous for his drunken antics and songs to be found. “And I will not allow you to say or think otherwise.”

It would be a very cold day in hell when Xiao would believe otherwise, but he nodded slowly anyway. Did it for Venti. 

“Good boy.” Venti stood up and ruffled his head—Xiao did his best to not lean into it. It was more comforting than he’d like to admit.  “Would you like some almond tofu? I told Xiangling to cook some for the New Year’s Eve party since I know you fancy them so much.”

Xiao could feel his cheeks heat; he hoped Venti wouldn’t be able to see his embarrassment in the dark.

“Okay,” he mumbled. 

“Come on then!” 

Venti dragged him out of his seat and down the hall to the dining room. With clumsy footsteps and an increasingly red face, Xiao stumbled alongside his angel with half-exasperation and half-hope. Already, Xiao could hear Bennet’s cries of despair—the poor boy had probably accidentally burned something—and Zhongli trying very hard to speak over the cacophony to talk about a particular event that happened today in Liyue’s history.  

But none of that bothered him. Because right now, he was happy for the soft hand in his own and the sweet apple scent that invaded his senses. 

[wordsbyparker]

A Moonlit Dilemma (Short Story) by Rhonda Parker - October 21, 2021

Originally published at: https://www.wordsbyparker.com/blog/story-a-moonlit-dilemma/

Listen to the full cast audio narration at: https://youtu.be/drSuf0xAJp0

The sound of the poachers crashing through the forest echoed behind Mason. He managed to stay ahead of them but he had a feeling his luck was running out.

Mason had been enjoying a quiet night in the woods, a rare treat for a werewolf in the modern age of technology with fewer wild spaces. His family had lived in the area for generations, and his roots ran deep. His grandfather left him a sizable expanse of wilderness outside of town, covered in a lush forest and teeming with wildlife.

The young man had carved out a small habitat deep within it, a space where he could safely run free and enjoy connecting with nature every full moon. The sanctity of being on private land gave him a sense of security, and Mason was grateful that he hadn’t cleared any land for a homestead. The forest became his refuge.

Mason was careful. He didn’t hunt humans, hadn’t even thought about it since he started living with his wolf nature a few years ago. The forest had plenty of game to keep him occupied and fed. While he owned a car, he never brought it to the woods. No need to bring anything that could lead anyone back to him.

This suited him just fine. Mason had been an avid hiker before, and now that his physical characteristics and abilities were enhanced he could pack his gear and walk from home. The challenge and the exercise were good for him in a lot of ways.

Then the poachers showed up, a blight on the forest and Mason’s monthly excursions. They were unpredictable, less prone to staying in a general area, and better at stealth than a regular hunter. They didn’t want to be caught, so Mason felt like he needed to keep his guard up constantly, often exhausting both halves of himself.

Except for tonight. The autumn wind ran invisible fingers through his chestnut brown fur, gentle and loving. Mason relished the feel of it, took comfort in Mother Nature’s touch. He’d kept enough composure to avoid howling, but he did sigh in contentment. If nothing else, being a werewolf fed his lifelong love for the outdoors in ways his humanity couldn’t.

Unfortunately he wasn’t able to stop the canine roar of a sneeze that escaped his snout. The sound felt like it echoed into the night.

“What was that?” a voice cut into the darkness.

Mason froze, listening and sniffing. Poachers. Once he had determined where they were, he bolted to get some distance between himself and his pursuers.

As he cleared the forest proper, Mason could smell as well as hear a large group of humans. “Great,” he thought. “More poachers?” Then he caught the scent of a multitude of foods, heard the sounds of laughter and playful screams. The town’s Halloween Festival. He forgot all about it.

Now he was caught between a rock and a hard place. Deal with the ignorant humans at the festival, or the ones in the woods that thought he was a good trophy? The odds weren’t in his favor against the poachers.

He didn’t have a choice. Mason steeled himself as best as he could and entered at the edge of the festival grounds.

The smells and sounds were intriguing outside of the fairgrounds, but once inside his senses went into overload. His human brain tried to tell his wolf brain that everything was okay, but animal instinct fought with common sense and reason. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

Once he regained some control, Mason looked around. Most of the people at the festival were in costumes of varying intensity, from basic getups to full-blown ensembles. No one would notice a stray dog in all of this commotion. Right? He shook himself off and started wandering the festival.

Mason usually avoided humans during the week of the full moon. While he knew he could maintain control, it wasn’t wise to risk harming someone. Now he had an up close view of the people from his town. It was entertaining, to say the least. People laughing, joking with each other, comparing costumes and enjoying themselves in general. A few people tried to coax him over with “C’mere, boy” or even a treat, but he played skittish and kept moving.

As he neared the opposite end of the fairgrounds, Mason raised his head and sniffed the air. The kaleidoscope of scents inside the area hadn’t changed much. The poachers might be nearby, but the crowd at the festival should have obscured any tracks he made and thrown them off his trail. At least he hoped it had. He should be able to sneak out of the festival and-

“PUPPY!”

What the-?

Mason yelped as something collided with him, making him stumble back a step or two. He felt something wrap around his neck, and he twisted and pulled away from whatever it was. Once he got his bearings again he looked at what hit him.

An adorable strawberry blonde girl stood there, draped in a purple satiny dress with puffs of pink tulle, her sparkly plastic crown askew. A smile lit up her face as she reached out and patted his head with the awkward roughness of a child. “Puppy,” she said, a thick coating of sweetness and adoration on her voice. Her green eyes sparkled as she looked at him.

Mason thought for a second of growling at her, then decided he didn’t want to scare her. But how was this kid not scared of him?

Oh boy, he thought. This is what it’s come to.

Mason sat down, wagged his tail, and panted. He felt like an idiot.

The little girl, however, was thrilled. “Good puppy,” she cooed as she stroked his fur. She couldn’t have been more than 3 or 4 years old, that age where all animals are trustworthy playmates. Mason wasn’t about to destroy that illusion for her. He endured the attention for as long as he could, then started to walk away. But the little girl followed.

“Come back, puppy!”

Mason tried running a little faster, which only made the little girl more determined to catch him. “Wait! Come back!”

Where are her parents? Mason thought. He didn’t see any adults or teenagers that looked like her family members. Given that the little girl seemed precocious, he had a feeling that she might have slipped away unnoticed. Well, I can’t leave her by herself. And being a pet is a good cover. Might as well make the best of this.

The two of them started walking around the fairgrounds. The little girl reached over to pet Mason every so often, and spoke to him a few times, but mostly she exuded the wonder of a child her age. Mason laughed to himself as he kept a close eye on her. Something would catch her attention, and she went after it with gusto. His protective instinct was out in full force.

Mason was also keeping an eye out for the poachers, making sure they hadn’t entered the fairgrounds. The varied scents of the festival hadn’t changed. So far, so good.

“Well, hey there, little girl,” an oily voice cooed.

Mason snapped his head around. A man dressed rather shabbily was walking towards him and the girl. His salt and pepper beard was scraggly, and his hair looked like it hadn’t been washed recently. Something about the look in his eye set the werewolf’s fur on end, and he knew this was not a man to be trusted. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

The man gave Mason a look, as if he thought the large dog wasn’t a threat. “Easy, boy. I’m just talking to your friend.” Mason put himself between the girl and the man. Her fingers gripped Mason’s fur, and he sensed her fear.

The man pulled a piece of beef jerky from his pocket and held it out to Mason. “Want a treat, boy? Huh?”

Mason responded with a warning – a loud growl, slightly bared teeth. He wasn’t going to let him get anywhere near the girl. He might not hunt humans as a general rule, but he wouldn’t hesitate attacking one to protect her.

The man met the werewolf’s gaze, and he stopped short. Mason felt the girl’s grip get tighter and heard a slight whimper escape her throat. He snapped at the man, flashing his teeth, saliva dripping from his canines. He dared the interloper to move any closer. His muscles were tensed, ready to spring.

The man realized that continuing to antagonize the dog was a very bad idea. “Okay, okay…” he said as he started to back away. Once Mason couldn’t smell him anymore, he relaxed, sitting down and wagging his tail. That seemed to be the little girl’s cue to release her death grip on his fur.

“He was scary.” Mason nodded, then remembered he was pretending to be a dog. He did his best goofy dog imitation, complete with his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.

The little girl hugged his neck, and once she let him go he led her back to the main crowd and hopefully to safety. Now the little girl kept close to Mason’s side, never letting him out of her sight. Sometimes her tiny fingers would wrap themselves in his fur again, unsure of herself, and he tried to keep reassuring her the best that he could.

The crowd was starting to thin out, the guests exiting at the main gates. Mason once again looked for any sign of the poachers, sniffing the air in larger gulps. Until he got out of the fairgrounds proper he couldn’t be sure they were gone, but nothing suggested they were nearby.

“Have you seen my little girl? She’s about this tall…”

Mason turned his head towards the sound of the voice. A woman who looked like a larger version of his charge, minus the princess costume, was asking someone if they had seen her daughter.

As they got closer, Mason barked to get the woman’s attention. She turned in the direction of the sound and relief washed over her face. “Oh, thank God – there you are!” She scooped the little girl up into her arms and held her tight. Mason smiled to himself. Mission accomplished.

“Hi Mommy! I found a puppy!” she said brightly.

“I can see that, Stephanie,” her mother said as she gave Mason a wary expression. He turned the friendly dog look up to eleven. Her face softened. She smiled at him as she set the girl down, and the family resemblance was clear.

“He’s a good puppy. Isn’t he pretty?” Mason closed his eyes as she scratched behind his ears.

Stephanie’s mother roughed up the fur on his head. “Thank you for taking care of her.” She looked at her daughter. “Come on, sweetie. Time to go home.”

“Can we take the puppy?” Mason froze. How was he going to get out of this?

Stephanie’s mother knelt down. “No, Stephanie. He probably belongs to someone nearby. You wouldn’t want to take someone’s dog away from them, would you?”

The little girl looked downcast. “No.”

“Okay, then. Say bye bye to the puppy, sweetie.”

Stephanie flung her little arms around Mason’s shaggy neck, snuggling into his fur. He closed his eyes, wishing he could return the hug or at least say something to her. He thought about licking her cheek, but he wasn’t truly a dog, plus that would be weird. He settled for resting his chin on her shoulder, and his sigh ruffled her hair.

After a few moments, the little girl let him go. “Bye puppy,” she said with more than a tinge of sadness in her voice. “I miss you.” She took her mother’s hand and left Mason sitting there.

The whine in his throat caught him off guard. Mason wasn’t expecting to miss the little tyke. He would remember her name, though. Stephanie. The little girl who wasn’t afraid of the big bad wolf.