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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 4 months ago

Note

OMG no way are you going to write an AU of Daemon's visions at Harrenhal??? I know its AAAAAGES away from where you are in the current story but desperate hos wanna kno ;)

Ask, and ye shall receive!

until i bleed myself dry

Note: This is technically using the characters/characterisation I have established in my terms of endearment series, but really you only need to know that the Reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister and that, instead of marrying Laena, he spent a decade ho-ing it up in Pentos before coming home and getting dazzled by his niece before deciding to wife dat gurl.

WARNING: Please note this is dark, dark stuff. Discretion is advised. Please use your judgement wisely before engaging.

Triggers: graphic depictions of violence, violence against children, character d*ath, MAJOR hallucinations, sexual scenes including visibly underaged character/s.

There is something fucking wrong with this place.

Daemon feels like a skittish child as he withdraws to his chambers, covers drawn up to his neck like the fabric will keep away the very worst of midnight evils. He does not know if the steady drip, drip, drip he hears is in his head or if the stone ceiling is cracked enough to let through the rain. Knowing Harrenhal, he would hardly be surprised by the latter. Still, the noise only serves to speed the racing of his thoughts, turning them fearful as he has not felt since the weakness of his youth.

In this moment, he curses his own doings. If he had stayed his hand—if he had held his tongue—the boy would not be dead, and mayhaps you would not be so wroth with him. He would not be alone in this shithole of a keep a world away, chilled to the bone and miserable as he thinks of you warm and safe in your bed with the children. Without him.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams.

He knows it is a dream, for he can hear your humming. Soft, sweet, the kind of tune you sing to Daeryx after one of his tantrums. His head lifts from the pillow and he finds himself back in your shared rooms on Dragonstone, eyes finding you in the chair by the hearth. Your hair, unbound, shines like molten amber in the firelight, swaying softly as you tend to business that is concealed from his gaze. Enthralled, he rises, making his way to you.

Drip, drip, drip.

He pauses. That sound… it doesn’t belong here. He calls your name. You ignore him. He moves closer, tentative.

“Come look,” you murmur suddenly, startling him. “Come, kepus.”

His feet move unbidden, out of his control.

Bile pools at the back of his throat, gut curdling at the sight of the boy—the boy—cradled in your lap. You and he are wet with blood, and it drip, drip, drips to the floor, echoing eerily. His eyes are open, face petrified, and Daemon realises that the dark at his neck is not in fact a shadow but a gaping wound, made jagged by the weapon used.

You look up at him, skin shining with sweat and expression exultant. “Look at him, kepus. Look at what you made.”

Memory flashes—he brings his son back down to rest beside his daughter on your lap, two moonshine miracles side by side. “Look at them, kepus,” you whisper, spellbound. “Look at what we made”—and his lungs constrict. You make to lift the child up, but the movement jostles his head off its perch, and it rolls to the ground to stop by his feet. He cannot move. He is frozen, horrified.

You smile, tucking the headless corpse under your chin. Gore pulses against your throat as your chin settles to the yawning maw of the child’s open neck. You rock in your seat, a faint squelch each time your shifting weight disturbs the sodden cushion beneath you.

“I love him,” you whisper, lips pressing to where flesh meets innards. Your mouth comes away red. “I love him so much.”

Daemon awakens with a yell. He swallows once, twice, and then—

He leans over the side of the bed, retching violently. When it is over, he curls up on his side, shaking, staring at his hands. They are wet with blood.

It does not take long for terror to settle in his bones like a longtime companion. It follows him each day, in every waking moment, manifesting in strange visions that he knows—he knows—must be untrue, cannot possibly be real, and yet… And yet. There is a sort of verity in them.

Dark Sister feels like a leaden weight at his hip as he stalks the keep, a reminder of his earlier encounter with Rhaenyra. Only she was not the Rhaenyra he knows, and instead a strange sort of blend of child-queen, the face of the girl peering out accusingly from under her father’s too-large crown, exclaiming all manner of hurt as she stepped from the Iron Throne upon which she perched.

“You put me on that throne. And you love me, and you hate me for it. You created me, Daemon. Yet you are now set on destroying me. All because your brother loved me more than he did you.”

And, without warning, he had taken his blade up in arms and struck off her head, a puppet on strings pulled by another. As her body fell, it morphed into the boy again. Jaehaerys. The child he had murdered. He heard your humming even while Simon Strong’s voice filtered through his unconscious mind, alerting him of the raven that just arrived.

The healer woman’s concoctions have helped little. He still wakes to strange noises, still finds himself stalking after his monstrous one-eyed nephew down the halls, only to find that it is himself he is pursuing. He hears the words you yelled at him in that last great quarrel— “get away, leave before you turn on us and murder us like you murdered that boy”—interspersed with the sound of your screams, and perhaps they are the screams you let out when birthing his children, or perhaps they are screams of a different kind, a version of himself making good on the implication of your words, steel in hand and pursuing his love, his life, his blood—

These figments blur with reality to the point that he becomes unsure of what is before him and what exists only in his head to haunt him. He comes to dread the resting hours, only to find their horrors bleeding into daylight. Whatever strange power has come to roost in his mind serves only to bring him torment.

Perhaps this is why he is not immediately suspicious when he comes face-to-face with you once more.

You stand by the window, the dim light filtering weakly over your bare form. Your back is to him, curls spilling to brush the tops of your buttocks. Their gentle sway—the barest kiss to your skin—is tantalising, and his mouth dries even as he watches your neck crane, sly smile tossed back over your shoulder at him.

“Daemon,” you beckon. Like a cuntstruck fool, he is helpless to resist the call.

His hands settle to the familiar divots of your waist, up and up and up to cup the fullness of your tits. You lean into him, a quiet huff of pleasure escaping as his fingers squeeze and his lips fall unbidden to the slope of your jaw. He inhales deeply, stirred even now by the simplicity of your scent, a throbbing line straight to his groin. You turn in his hold, nose nuzzling against his chin.

“You were right,” you say, eyes shining. ��You were always right.”

He is under some enchantment, surely, for he is incapable of coherent speech. All he can do is feel the satisfaction heat his veins, allow it to tug at the corner of his mouth. I knew it, he thinks. I knew her will would bend eventually.

You speak still, even as he backs you toward the bed. “Papa was weak. Rhaenyra is weak. Only you are the true blood of the dragon.”

You shift backward onto the mattress, legs parting invitingly. The split of you opens, revealing flushed folds and the teasing glimmer of want, shining slick for his hungered gaze.

“Fearless”—your hand trails down your belly, fingers tracing around your pearl—“brave”—you venture lower, pressing teasingly at your cunt, your lip caught between your teeth—“strong.”

Daemon drops to his knees before you, tongue licking through the spill and catching on your finger. He bullies it out of the way, arms locking around your thighs as he gluts himself on the sweet tang of you, senses clouding and narrowing to a singular point of existence. You grip his hair, the arches of your feet digging against his back.

“It is not my place to question you,” you breathe, twisting and writhing with his ministrations. He watches your face, enraptured by the toss of your head and the shape of your lips as they form moan after moan. Your release is quick, a final sobbing yelp followed by a flood of slick warmth. When your eyes reopen, they are blazing with reverence. Reverence for him. Your knees flex up, your lower half folded almost to your chest. Your cunt contracts, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. “I live to serve you, my king.”

His head feels heavy as he rises just barely to crawl over you. He frowns. When he lifts his hand to extricate yours from his hair, he finds not flesh, but cool metal. A crown.

“My king,” you coo below him.

Your surroundings are changed. It is not the meagre offerings of Harrenhal that frame you now, but the sumptuous trimmings of the king’s chambers in the Red Keep, only brighter, more lavish than they ever have been. Jewels sparkle at your throat, in your hair, at your wrists. The sheets are molten gold against your silver-pale, and you wind your hips up at him provocatively, catching his cockhead against your opening.

“You belong on the throne, husband,” you say, fist closing around his shaft and pumping once, twice. You lead him back to the core of you, nudging him just inside. “Uncle. My love. And I belong at your side—at your feet—under your body.”

“My queen,” he gasps, driving forward with a grunt, and oh, he has missed you, missed this, missed the clutch of your walls like a mother’s embrace and the sound of your breathy cries as he plunges deep. Plunges home.

“My king,” you call out, rising into him with unrestrained abandon, precious gems clinking frantically with each fevered hitch of his hips against yours. “My lord. My master. I was made for you.”

“Yes…”

“Chain me to this bed, my king.” Your spine arches toward him, hands grabbing for his own and leading them above your head. He takes this for the encouragement it is, pinning your wrists to the pillow and rutting harder. You shout, elbows flexing to no avail. “Give to me my purpose. Give me your heirs.”

He is helpless to stop the noises escaping his mouth, feral and uninhibited, fucking with near painful intent. You take it all, curving yourself deeper, holding yourself more open so that he may lay claim to his conquest. As only a king can.

“And when I have birthed one,” you say, though now it is more a prolonged keening sound, “give me another. Never stop. Oh! Make me—make me take it—”

He does not know if he is imagining it or if it is happening before his eyes, but he can see it: ruling the Seven Kingdoms, sitting the Iron Throne the way his brother never could, striding down the halls of the keep as the commons bow and scrape to their sovereign, bursting into his chambers after small council to find his queen, to find you where you always are, naked in his bed and belly round and leaking milky white between your thighs, for it is his kingly law that the only part you play here is this, waiting for him to find you and fuck you and fill you and keep you, his little niecewifequeenpet—

He snarls, pulsing and burning. You squeal as he pushes past onslaught and straight to violence, bodies colliding so forcefully that his bones ache and his brain feels like jelly wobbling in his skull. What leaves his mouth can only be bestial in nature now. “I’ll make you—”

“Yes, make me take it until I cannot. Until my cunt is ruined by you.” He feels his end rushing up with every word you wail, his joints locking and grinding and gut roiling with the anticipation of it. “Until my womb is destroyed. Until I bleed myself dry, my king. Only for you.”

“Wha—”

The horror of it escapes him, for it is too late: the release crashes on him like a tidal wave, shoving him below its surface and imprisoning him in its current. He makes a noise like a wounded boar, chasing through the high despite the alarm in his mind, so at odds with the soaring rhythm in his loins.

You laugh, tilting welcomingly to receive him. “Make me bleed, my king. Make me bleed like my mother.”

It is enough to chill the heat in his blood to ice, destroying any semblance of enjoyment. But he cannot stop the unsteady eking out of what remains of his peak. He tries, but he cannot stop.

“No,” he says, a contradiction to the enthusiasm of his flesh prison. “No, no, I cannot. No—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, a strange quality to it. A duality. It crystallises into something comprehensible with every word that comes from your lips. All at once, it is not your voice he hears, but something much higher, younger, blending and overlapping with the cadence he recognises. “You already have.”

He looks down as he makes his final groaning thrusts, only to feel his stomach drop through the floor. Your thighs are soaked in blood, his cock sluicing a path through it all the while. All that flesh covered in red, and he glances up, only to see that you are gone, you are replaced by someone so small, so frightfully small, and he realises you are not replaced, it is you, but it is a you he has not seen for well over ten years, eyes wide and frightened and gleaming like game stuck through by an arrow and taking its final breath.

Daemon rears back, but it is too late. You begin to cry. A dark patch spreads out from underneath your broken body, from where he had torn your fragile opening apart. What have I done? he thinks.

“It hurts, kepus,” you say. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fixed to stillness by revulsion. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

“But you did,” you insist, childish pout despite your obvious agony.

Your hands reach out, and he leans away, too horrified to touch you—and he doesn’t know if it is you or he that he is more afraid of in this moment—but you are not searching through the air for him, no. Instead, a bundled weight is settled in them, and you bring it into the crook of your arms, gripping it as though it is the most precious of objects. You smooth the fabric from the top of it to reveal a tiny head of silver hair. The babe gurgles and roots at your flat chest, absurd and awful.

“This is what you wanted,” you say, eyes filled with betrayal. “Am I going to die now, kepus?”

Your Grace…

He shakes his head, but he is no fool. You are too little to withstand the sheer volume of blood you have lost if the bedding is anything to go by. He feels it stain his legs. He feels it drying on his cock.

“Your Grace?”

“I will, though. I’m too young. You’ve killed me.” The babe begins to suckle, and you cry harder. Your body isn’t built for this task, not yet, not like this. He wants to protest, to tell you that this is not his work, cannot be, for he has and would never do something so foul, so wholly inhuman, that the you he has gotten with child has only ever been a woman grown, but it is like you know his thoughts for you scoff and say, “You’re lying to yourself. I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He stares down at you, immobile, unable to even think. The metallic scent of your life leaving you fills the air, floods his nostrils with stinging heat.

“… Your Grace?”

Daemon jolts, blinking. Ser Simon Strong looks back at him. “Is the duck not to your liking, Your Grace?”

All at once, you are gone. The king’s chambers are gone. He is not even within his dank chambers at Harrenhal. Instead, he sits at the table in what passes for the dining hall here, a plate full of food steaming before him. The smell makes him ill.

“There’s also goose, if you’d prefer…”

He swallows, trying to ground himself in the present. Voices waft all around him, but he finds it difficult to pay attention.

“I’m not hungry,” he says shortly. It sounds stronger than he feels.

A pause, and then—

Simon clears his throat, turning to his companions. “I was saying, given the rather dire news…”

Daemon tries to concentrate. He does. He knows the others are speaking of matters of utmost importance. Of Rook’s Rest, of his nephew, of the war. But his mind can only turn over his encounter—his vision? His nightmare? Or is it merely truth finally unveiled to unworthy eyes?—with you, the last of your words haunting him near to madness.

“I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He has grown restless here, revolving between the frustration of securing an army from those who see naught in him but the very worst and the torment of these terrible visions that seek him out at their pleasure, heedless of his duty or desire. Tedium or terror—when he is entrenched in one, he wishes for the other, and there is always a sick sort of irony in the granting of said wishes. In truth, he is able enough to tolerate the resistance of these riverlanders, insulting as it is. The phantasms that pursue him have almost become too much to bear.

What is worse? The accusations from the mouth of a juvenile Rhaenyra, full of admonishments for the way he’d so thoroughly undermined her claim before she ever got the right to exercise it? The condemnations from Viserys, a retracing of steps trod so long ago, brought to life once more and forcing Daemon to relive the very worst of his brother? The boy’s laughter darting through the stone halls, an ominous prelude to the sickening sound of steel sawing through skin and the rolling of his head, landing always at the feet of the one responsible for his fate?

They are all bad enough as they are, but for the simple fact that they do not surprise him. Monster, they call him, and he wears the name well. In most all aspects, he is a monster. But never has he thought himself monstrous to you.

He has come to despise the sight of you here, sometimes docile and worshipful, sometimes angered and raving. Sometimes you appear as a siren come to lure him to iniquity, and like a fool he always falls into the trap. Other times, you are battered, caged, a shell of yourself. No matter how it begins, the end is always the same: bloodied, beaten, fading from the world, and it is always his hands he finds the cause of it in. A new reminder every time of all the ways he has thought of taking you, owning you, keeping you. Always, he thinks to save you—to protect you. Always, he destroys you.

Just as he thinks himself finally driven to the edge of all reason, the Rivers woman beckons him to the godswood.

“When you came here,” she says, “you were a closed fist. You wished to bend the world to your will. But you’ve discovered, I think, that… this world will not be governed. There are omens here for those who seek them.”

She pauses. The air seems to whisper, to creak in the dark. Daemon suppresses the urge to shiver. Her eyes move to him, an odd little quirk to her mouth. Amusement, he thinks. Or pity.

“You do not scoff?” she asks.

How can he, after all he has seen here? He has been brought to the very edge of sanity by these omens. What irony, it is, after the great complaints he has made of superstition in past weeks (and months, and years).

“I’m no longer inclined to,” is his short reply.

She laughs. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

She stops before the heart tree and turns to him, expression solemn.

“Do you wish, then, to learn what is given to you?” The answer must lie in his face, for he cannot do anything but stare, silent, tense. “All your life, you have sought to command your own fate”—she takes his hand—“but today, you are ready.”

Gentle pressure at his wrist, and something in him knows to move past her, to take those final few steps so that he is close enough to make out the details of the face carved into the wood. His arm raises by itself, acting on its own power, or perhaps some higher power, his fingers brushing bark and the hot pulse of… blood? But he has no time to truly question it for—

He is flying—

No—

He is a raven, staring at the face of a pale-haired man with a wine-dark stain on his face and he flies into the forest, towards an army, only there is something wrong with the soldiers, they are blue and their eyes glow ice-cold and their breath is frosted with death and their bodies carry the look of corpses stood upright once more—

And then the dragons are dead, all of them, the ground wet not with water but with blood and he walks through it, falls straight into the ground and he is drowning, steel plate armour dragging him down into the depths and he looks up at the sky—

A red comet bursts through the air, hot like fire, and he sees eggs embroiled in flame, a girl sat in ash cradling the bodies of three newly-hatched dragons, a whisper of a memory on the air, “we are the only ones able to bring the fire to life… It is the secret”—

And he is before the Iron Throne, suddenly silent.

Rhaenyra stands before the seat. Viserys’s crown is in his hands. She moves toward him, down the stairs of the throne. He hears her speak.

“From my blood…”

But she does not finish. A roaring conflagration engulfs her and she screams, twisting and warping before him, burning, only not, because you step from the flames, unburnt, voice mingling with that of your sister’s, a haunting echo.

“… come the Prince Who Was Promised…”

You are before him, taking the crown from his grasp and retracing the steps your sister took, and then you are stepping over a charred body, Rhaenyra, oh gods, and ascending the steps. You sit. You lift the crown. You place it on your head.

“… and his shall be the song of ice and fire.”

He is on his knees now, right on that final step at your feet. He feels the warmth of you as you bend forward, your palm caressing his jaw. You look otherworldly in the shadow, backlit silver and gold and wearing a king’s accoutrements far better than any of your predecessors.

“You know what must happen now, Uncle,” you say gently, kindly. “You know what you must do.”

He bows his head to kiss your ring—the seal of the king—no, the queen—and then wind is whistling in his ears, chilling him to the bone and spraying his hair about wildly, so much so that he can barely hear the words yelled at him by the boy sitting astride Vhagar.

“You have lived too long, nuncle.”

—and he wrenches away, panting, body collapsing before the heart tree like a puppet with its strings cut. The world comes back to him in fragments: the scent of dirt and woodlands, the sharp sting of cold, the ache in his muscles that has since settled like sludge at the bottom of a river, ever-present and persisting. Finally, finally, he withdraws with hands washed clean, free of his many sins.

At last, he has come to the crux of it. At last, he understands.

He sits at the base of the tree, stunned and overcome, as faint words slither on the breeze, a final knell from the liminal space of prophecy. Your name. A cheer.

“Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

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arabellasleopardcoat · 1 year ago

Text

Lookalike (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Inside the highest tower of the Red Keep, lives a girl with long silver hair...

Warnings: Oh man. What a trip. Rapunzel, innocence kink, daddy issues, cursing, mature language. Light groping, kissing. Daemon, and all his usual warnings. Manipulation. I tried to make it whimsical. You know, a fairy tale.

Requested: Yup. For the bingo. Daemon + retelling of another story. Posted it early because I couldn't sleep last night so I stayed up finishing this.

Once upon a time, in a far away land called Westeros, lived a King and a Queen. The Queen was a beautiful woman, with hair made of spun silver and gold.

The King and the Queen had a daughter, a bright girl called Rhaenyra. They loved her deeply, but as many powerful men behind him, the King could not help but wish for a son.

When the Queen had carried Rhaenyra, her pregnancy had been harsh. She had struggled to fall with child, and when she had, she had been sick the whole time. The Queen was not too sure if she could withstand another pregnancy.

“My love, I need my heir.” The King said to her. “You must help me and try again.”

“But husband, you know we cannot. The Maester said pregnancies were too rough on me."

“If I can't have my heir, I fear I will lose my throne!”

So the Queen decided to try again. Soon, she was with child. Yet, the Queen could feel something was different, this time. She got twice as large as she was when she was carrying Rhaenyra, her body ached even more. Only the hottest baths could soothe her abundant pains.

“This pregnancy is not normal, not normal at all.” Said the Maester, when examining the Queen. “I fear the delivery will be hard.”

And hard it was. For there was not one baby but two. A girl and a boy, a moon and a sun. The parents only found out when the Queen was unable to deliver the baby, and the King, believing it to be his precious heir, ordered the Maester to cut her open.

Wailing into the world they came, shrieks so loud they rose half the Red Keep. Every bell in the city was toiling for them. The King named his heir Baelon. The girl, the little moon, was forgotten. That was you.

Too young to know it then, your first hours were spent in your sister's arms, both of you forgotten in favor of the new heir. But it was barely hours at all when your little brother passed away.

At the funeral, the King was the picture of despair. His Queen was dead by his hand, his heir lasted no longer than a day. Now a father to a baby girl he didn’t know how to care for, and an unruly maiden.

Perhaps, sensing his despair and hoping to offer some words of comfort, and Arryn cousin took you from him and gasped:

“By the Sevens! If she is the very image of Aemma as a babe.” No one took in consideration that this Arryn cousin was not, in fact, older than the Queen.

“Is she?” The King asked, on the verge of tears. Your father could not stop remembering your mother’s face, as the Maester aided your entrance into the world. Her cries haunted him even in his sleep. He was turning into a decaying corpse, from inside out, guilt rotting him alive. “Rhaenyra, come here.”

“Father?”

“Does she look like your mother?”

Your sister squinted at you. You yawned, a toothless, sweet thing. Rhaenyra wasn't very knowledgeable about babes, but she liked you. You had grabbed into her finger the first time you had seen her, tiny fingers turning into the most adorable rings.

“She has her beauty.” She answered, politely. The King hummed, an idea sparkling into his head. Soon, the highest tower in the Red Keep was being repurposed, and the Hand relocated.

Nine and ten years later, that brings us to you, in a continent named Westeros. Inside it, Seven Kingdoms. Inside them, a city called King's Landing. Inside the city is a castle. In the castle, a tower. In the tower is a room. In the room, a girl. You.

You stared at your reflection, squaring your shoulders. You gave yourself a big smile.

“Father, I want to try claiming a dragon.” You repeated to the mirror, before shaking your head. “No, no. Too disrespectful. Lord Father, I was wondering if I could go and try to claim a dragon?”

The reflection did not answer. You frowned. You didn't like groveling, but you weren't too sure of what else you could do. Perhaps, sending him a note would be better.

As the youngest sister of the heir to the Iron Throne, you had led a sheltered life. Even more so, as the spitting image of his late wife, according to your father. When looked in the right light, your eyes were the same shade hers had been. And the way you spoke did resemble the short, clipped speech of the Vale.

No one dared question those things, even though your accent had been ensured by your father by providing you with tutors only from that region. The King was very protective of you, set on expiating his guilt over the death of your mother by ensuring your safety.

All of your care had been provided by him after her death. Viserys knew nothing about child-rearing, but refused to let any servant touch you beyond the wet nurse. You grew into a child, and your father didn't even know how to cut your long, silver hair.

Years passed, and soon you learned to take care of yourself. Used to long hair as you were, you never thought about cutting it. Instead, your mind was preoccupied with more urgent matters. For example, how could you get out of the Red Keep.

Sometimes, your father's protection turned overbearing. Unlike your older sister, you were not allowed to leave the castle. Nor had you been allowed to partake in the activities other young ladies did. The only way you had managed to know the world around you had been through your books and observations.

Your rooms were in the tallest tower in the Red Keep, ensuring you would be kept safe from intruders and even invaders, if such a thing ever came to pass. You had double the guards Rhaenyra and Viserys did. Instead of providing his new Queen with a sworn shield, he had chosen to devote all the Kingsguard to you.

While you knew your tower had been used for other things before, it had clearly been refurnished. Now, it worked as a castle of its own, inside which you had a tiny kitchen, bathing quarters, rooms, and a library. The idea was that you would never need anything outside it. A tiny universe, just for you. You had plenty of space for your books and trinkets, but it made for a lonely existence.

Each time there were unknown men roaming the Keep, you got sent back to your tower. Your father didn't like the idea of you being married off or corrupted by them. You were too precious, too good. He had said that when the day came, he would find you a good match. One that, you suspected, would keep you close to home. Perhaps Aegon, or one of your cousins in the Vale.

If you married at all, of course. Your father had gone through a phase of encouraging your faith in the Seven, in the hopes of you deciding to be a Septa. If you did, the King would be most pleased, for it would mean you would never suffer the same fate as your mother.

You wanted neither. What you wanted more than anything was to see the world, do the things Rhaenyra told you happened outside the Red Keep. And according to you, it would all get started if you got your own dragon.

With a dragon, you would be protected. Your father always used your lack of one as an argument for denying you the experiences ladies your age had. Your egg had not hatched, but if you claimed one, you would surely be allowed to leave.

Unfortunately, what was required to be able to bond with a dragon had been deemed too dangerous for you. King Viserys had banned you from the dragon pit, arguing that dragons could be unpredictable.

Today, you had been sent back to your tower due to an impromptu visit from your Uncle Daemon. You knew the man by reputation only, by how much he angered your father. If there was one person who you were prohibited from speaking to, it was him.

You had heard the rumors, of course. A few years back, after your mother's passing, he had taken Rhaenyra to a pleasure house. Whatever had happened inside was between her and him. To your father, though, it was enough to keep you away from him.

Smile. Square your shoulders. Try again to assert yourself. You eyed your reflection once again, wondering how you could convince the King to let you try to get a dragon. Outside, something scraped against a rock, again and again. Curious, you went to the window.

On the very base of your tower, there was a man hopelessly attempting to climb upwards. He was very dashing, sporting the same silver hair you did, only much shorter.

“Who are you?” You asked, slightly frightened. In truth, you were not used to strangers being so close to you. Your father always said men were dangerous, and that outside the Red Keep there were aberrant creatures, mean and ruthless, that hurt young maidens for their enjoyment. “Step away from my tower, or I shall call my guards!”

The man ignored you, choosing instead to stab a sword between the rocks that made up your tower. You screamed, alarmed.

“Stop that! That's not allowed, you are damaging my tower.”

The man ignored you, trying to use his sword to climb. He grunted in exertion. You ran towards your chambers and filled a jar with water. Then, you ran back to your window and dumped it on his head.

The man shrieked and fell down the few meters he had managed to progress. You laughed, startled.

“Aren't you a fearsome thing?” He muttered to himself. Then, he looked up at you, with the most purple eyes you had ever seen. “Please, Princess. Help me out.”

“Why should I? You are an intruder.” You glared down at him, not even entertaining the notion, but deciding to play along regardless. In truth, you were curious about him. And starved for companionship.

“I am being chased.” He screamed up at you, frantically looking behind him. “Please, help me.”

You leaned down towards your window, bracing your arms on the edge of it.

“Bad business, that.” Your voice was cheery and woefully uninterested. This was the most exciting that had happened to you in years, you were not about to stop it. But at the same time, you did remember all of your father's warnings. There were people out there that were not kind.

“Damn it, you are just like Aemma. Pair of cynics.” He cursed, and started to try to retrieve his sword. Your eyebrows raised.

“You knew my mother?”

The man looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand. He squinted at you. His bone structure reminded you of someone.

“I did.”

Your mother. A cynic. You smiled. No one had ever told you about her, not beyond all those polite things everyone said about the dead. How kind she was, how beautiful and learned. It did nothing to make you feel closer to her, these empty platitudes. They were generic, they could be talking about any woman.

Your father never went beyond that, either. The Aemma he talked about was an idolized version of her, a woman frozen into a perfect state of likeness to the Mother. He didn't allow anyone to contradict him, not even Rhaenyra. When you were younger, she had told you your mother had been hesitant about having another pregnancy, and struggling to carry another baby to term. Your father had banned her from visiting you during the next six moons.

But this stranger was speaking of her as if he knew her well. Your heart ached to know more about your mother, know the real her. It was enough to help you make your choice. You gathered your hair and threw it down the window.

“Come up then.” You ordered.

The man looked at the mass of hair in bewilderment. He touched a strand of it, fascinated by the way it picked up the light. He did not move.

“Use it as rope. You won't hurt me.” Were all men so dumb? Surely, if this one was so slow, he could not be a threat.

“Of course. Magic hair. Fucking Viserys.” The man started to climb. He got quickly inside, panting with exertion.

“You know my father, too?” Your body tensed. This, you did not like. What if he was one of the men that were supposed to visit the castle today? One of those who corrupted and hurt young maidens?

Your heart started to beat harder and harder. You tried to convince yourself he might not be a bad man. Perhaps, he had met the King through your mother. Regardless, you turned away from him, keeping your voice and posture deceivingly calm.

“Would you like some water?” You did not wait for an answer, starting to move towards the kitchen. You reached into a cabinet, as if searching for a cup.

The man followed. You could hear his footsteps on the stone floor.

“I do know your father.” His voice was strange. As if he were realizing he was making a mistake but couldn't pinpoint why. Uninterested, you took out a cup. “He is a great King.” He added, hurriedly. Just in time for you to grab a pan, turn and smack it against his head as hard as you could.

The man dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. You hiked up your skirts and rushed to his side. Kneeling by him, you took a closer look at his sword and grinned. You had seen it before. In your books. That was Dark Sister, Visenya's sword.

You had caught Daemon Targaryen. What better proof to show your father that you were not helpless? You tied him to a chair and gagged him for good measure. Then, you pushed him inside your bathing quarters. Only then did you call for a guard.

“Could you summon my father? I need him.” The guard bowed, but didn't speak. Most of them didn't. Your father said they weren't allowed to.

Despite not receiving an answer, you knew your father would be here soon. He always came when you called. You placed a kettle in the fire. Before it could boil, King Viserys was already there.

“Dear.” The King kissed your forehead. You tried not to wrinkle your nose at the smell of herbs and milk of the poppy. Your father always smelled like a medicine cabinet. “As beautiful as your mother, like always.”

You smiled.

“Father. Tea is not ready yet, but sit.” You pointed to your small parlor. When you were a child, the two of you had used to pretend you were a great lady, hosting tea parties there. It had been how he had taught you courtly manners.

The memory was bittersweet. Your father was good to you. He had raised you as best as he could, loving you more fiercely than any of his other children. It was not your intention to upset him, but you knew this topic would do exactly that.

“Were you lonely, my heart?” The King settled on one of the loveseats. You sat across from him.

“I did miss you.” You gave him a coy little look. “But I asked you to come for something else.”

“Do tell.”

“Father. I think I am ready to claim a dragon.” You rushed to say, almost tripping over your words. Already, you could see how his expression was clouding over, a storm raging behind his eyes.

“You know you are not.” The King answered, sternly. “It's too dangerous.”

“I can handle myself.” You fought for your tone to remain even. If it came out too angered, your father would say you were hysteric or having a tantrum, and refuse to take you seriously. So was the curse of being a woman.

“My heart, you have never stepped out of this tower.”

And you had not. But what did dragons care about one's knowledge of the world? You had read about dragons bonding with babes, sharing their cradle with them. To claim one, being well traveled or wise was not required. One had to be chosen, that was all.

You raised your hands in the air, palms up, as if placating a beast.

“I don't want you to get upset, Father. I wanted to prove to you that I am capable, too.” You got up and opened the door to your bathing quarters. “Do not be scared.”

The bound Daemon was still gagged, inside the tub. This time, though, he was awake. Upon seeing his brother, he immediately started screeching and squirming, making up a ruckus.

“Shh.” You said to him, kicking the tub a little. He was turning out to be a very annoying guest. “As you can see, Father, I caught him.”

“And you put him in the tub.” The King said, perplexed.

“He was dripping water all over my floors.” But your explanations fall on deaf ears, since your father has already moved on from his shock. He grabbed Daemon's shirt, forcing him to sit upright.

“Haven't I told you this tower is out of limits?” The King barked at him. “I will throw you into the deepest, more dark and humid dungeon I can find, and then I will…”

“Father.” You did not like being ignored. Daemon was a secondary concern, you just wanted to know if you were allowed out now.

Yet, your father seems to think the issue was an entirely different thing.

“Oh. Sorry, dear. What father meant is that Uncle Daemon has been very bad.” He gave him a shake for good measure.

“I can tell.” Your tone was flat. “Have I proven myself enough to be allowed to try to claim a dragon?”

The King let go of Daemon. He turned towards you and tenderly started checking you over for injuries.

“I would die if something happened to you.” He answered, evasive. You didn't need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. It was too dangerous. It was a no.

Five more long days went by. Poor you, having to stay all day in your tower. After Daemon, your father had now deemed it too dangerous to allow you to roam the Red Keep. It was the tower and nothing more. All you could do was sing Old Valyrian songs and look out the windows. Sometimes, birds would chirp from above, and you would feel slightly better, as if they were singing with you.

Perhaps it had been your song, what had led him to you. Perhaps it had been his own guilty consciousness for a sin long forgotten, or a sliver of empathy for the lonely girl in the tower up above. Whatever it was, before the sixth day came to an end, Daemon appeared under your window.

“Princess, Princess, let your hair down.” You heard him say. You walked to your window, curiously. Daemon was back!

“Come down if you want to be free.” The Prince ordered. “I do not have much time.”

His words stilled you. Freedom. Your father often said freedom was a dangerous thing. If you let people make their own choices, it was much more likely that they would choose unwisely. That was why you were kept in the tower, safe from the world and bad decisions. As long as King Viserys controlled your life, you would be protected.

But what if you left? What if you ran, jumped out of your tower and made your way to Dragonstone to get your dragon? You imagined a version of yourself, dress fluttering in the wind like a flag as you ran, barefooted in the sand. You imagined yourself feeling the sun in your face, having your first cup of mead or watching a parade.

Then you imagined yourself tripping and falling into the sea. You didn't know how to swim. No one saw the need to teach you such a thing. You imagined yourself at the parade, getting robbed. You imagined a man, trying to hurt you. What if people out there, what if Daemon, were truly as wretched as your father said they were?

Your face must have shown your distress because Daemon, impatient, shouted something more.

“I won't hurt you.” The Prince raised his hands in surrender. “I will not tell you I am a good man, but I will take you to Dragonstone.”

His honesty was what sealed the deal. You threw your hair down, grabbed one of your warmest cloaks, and shouted for him to loop your hair around a branch and not let go.

Daemon obeyed. You jumped, and as your feet hit the floor, you wished to be able to say you didn't look back. But you did. And as you saw the silhouette of your tower getting smaller and smaller in the distance, you couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness deep in your chest.

Noticing how quiet you have gotten, Daemon adjusts your cloak and gives you a grin.

“Do you want to ride Caraxes?” He asks. You match his grin, sadness nearly forgotten. There is a whole world out here, begging to be explored. You can be sad later when the adventure ends.

Caraxes is the most bewitching creature you have ever seen. He is red and serpentine, looking so much like the drawings of dragons you used to do as a child. You nearly scream in excitement.

Daemon whispers to him to stay calm, but Caraxes seems to sense your happiness, for he keeps trying to correspond your loving pets.

“Oh, by the Seven Hells.” The Prince pushes you towards the saddle. “If neither of you stop the tail wagging, we are going to get caught.”

“And we don't want that.” You agree, kissing Caraxes' scales one last time.

Caraxes gives another excited, full-body wag. He seems to be preening under the attention. Daemon must not praise him very much, which is a shame.

“You are such a good boy. So pretty, too.”

Caraxes preens even more. It makes his body shake, tail hitting against the floor in an ominous beat. Daemon groans.

“Enough, enough.” The Prince grabs you by the waist and gets you up in the saddle. You shriek in laughter. Caraxes appears to be happy about it, too, since he starts spreading his wings. “We are going to get caught.”

Daemon jumps into the saddle, hugging you tightly to him. You squirm, unused to the closeness of another human being. When your father and Rhaenyra touch you, it's never like this.

Daemon feels overwhelming, in the best kind of way. His chest is firm, and his smell surrounds you. His arms around your waist hold you tight, but remain loose enough to not hurt you. Your hips fit snugly against his, and make something you can't yet name stir in your lower belly.

It's different. It's strange. You want it to stop. Why do you feel so nervous, as if Caraxes was suddenly dropping down and not barely getting ready to fly?

“Soves, Caraxes.” Daemon orders, careful not to scream in your ear. “Are you alright, little Princess?”

You cease your squirming, hoping that he doesn't notice whatever is different with you.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“You keep squirming as if there were ants inside your bodice. Are you uncomfortable?” The Prince snickers by your ear, pressing a soft kiss right by the top of it. What happens next is impossible to hide. Your body gives a shiver, all of your hairs standing up. The sensation is as confusing as it is pleasant.

“My stomach feels funny.” You complain, knowing that it isn't exactly that, but close enough that he probably won't question it.

“Funny how?” Daemon kisses behind your ear. You make a hurt, confused noise. You have been kissed before, but never there. In your experience, kisses are not this devastating.

“Funny.” You refuse to elaborate because while naive, you are not dumb. This must be precisely why your father wanted you away from men. If they were able to inflict so much pleasure, it was no wonder why maidens let them do whatever they wanted to them.

“Does it hurt, little Princess?” One of his palms goes to your lower stomach, pressing slightly. “Here?”

You squirm. So he definitely knows.

“Yes.”

“Hurts? Or…?” Daemon's hand goes dangerously low, nearly pressing between the parting of your legs. You squirm more. He brushes something that makes you jolt, delighted.

“We shouldn't.” You answer. It would be much more convincing if you were not relaxing into him. He laughs right in your ear, but retracts his hand.

Even with his hands away from your most sensitive areas, you still feel worked up. Your bodice is too rough against your skin, the way Caraxes moves under both of you makes the area between your legs tingle.

You keep your eyes firmly on the sky in front of you. As it starts to change into pinks and yellows, the feeling ebbs and starts to fade. You feel sleepy, so you recline more against Daemon. A tiny yawn escapes you.

“Tired?” Daemon brushes your hair back, much more tenderly than your father would. With your father, the touch is always harsher, more possessive. As if he is always grasping to the last threads of Aemma he can hold. With Daemon, it feels like he is actually touching you.

You hum, soft and sweet.

“Sleep, little one.” He kisses your cheek. “I'll wake you up when we get there.”

The next time you wake up, it is in an unknown bedroom. At first, you panic. The canopy over the bed looks too similar to the one in your tower, and you wonder if perhaps you dreamed it all. Daemon, Caraxes, the flight, your feelings. Then, you get even more scared because the more you look, the more you realize this is not your room.

You get out of bed. You are still dressed in the same dress you were wearing earlier, but your shoes are gone. The door is closed. Fear grips at you. What if Daemon has sold you to someone evil and rotten, as your father says people outside the Red Keep are? What if he is the evil man?

You rush to the door. It opens easily. There is a hallway that looks much like the ones in the Red Keep, but there is no one there. You scream in fear.

Another of the doors opens in the hallway. Daemon, in a sleeping shirt and breeches, runs out.

“Princess!” He hurries to your side. You are crying, you realize, as he wipes away some of your tears. “What is it?”

“I woke up alone, and I didn't recognize…” You sob, softly.

“Oh, little girl.” Daemon scoops you in his arms. “I should have thought of that. I am so sorry.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you look at him, eyes swollen from your crying.

The world had impressed you during the day, but now that the night had fallen, and you found yourself in an unknown castle, you were afraid. What if there were monsters lurking in the hallways? Or if you needed something? What if someone hurt you?

“I do not want to go back there. I am scared.” You rubbed your eyes. Your hands dug into his arm, not wanting to let go of him.

“Do you wish me to keep you company while you fall back asleep?” Daemon asked, gently smoothing your hair down. You must look a mess, and would find it embarrassing were it not for the fact that being alone in such a big place terrifies you. At this point, you would do anything to keep him here.

“Please.” No more words are needed. Daemon doesn't want you to beg, nor does he want anything in exchange. It's comforting.

One of his hands goes to your shoulder blades, leading you back to the room. Daemon tucks you in and sits by your side.

“I'll stay until you fall asleep.” He says, smoothing down your frown with the gentlest touch. Daemon starts to hum in High Valyrian, softly. You know the melody. It's about flames and burning together. Almost against your will, your eyelids start to drop.

“Don't… Don't want you to go.” Your body feels so heavy, as if sinking into the mattress. With great effort, you manage to curl your fingers around one of his.

“Oh, Princess.” He says, interlacing your hands.

“Stay.” You order.

Daemon lets go of your hand, and you whine, awake instantly. You go to sit up, but he shushes you.

“Shh. I am just… Let me.” He slides under the covers, behind you. You close your eyes, trying to relax against him. It's no hardship at all. Now that the candles have been blown, the light is low and Daemon feels so warm against you.

He starts to trace your features. Finger meets brow, temple, cheek. Thumb brushes nose, then lips. Idly, so very idly, his voice mutters near your ear.

“How many mouths has yours kissed?”

The question startles you. You suppose there is no harm in telling him, yet there is a tinge of embarrassment over it, too. It has finally dawned on you what this new, uncomfortable, thrilling feeling is. Desire. You lust after Daemon.

“I have…” You answer, softly. You do not dare speak it out loud. Not when you rather know exactly how far the two of you are. “How about you?”

“I have lost count. Twenty, perhaps more so.” Daemon says it so casually, as if it did not matter at all. But to you, it does. What are you, compared to this man? How could you want him in such a manner, having so little to offer?

“What makes it special, then?” There has to be a reason for him to bother with kissing all these people. Perhaps, to him, all kisses feel as devastating as his does to you.

“The person, I would gather.” The Prince answers, softly rubbing your back as one would do to help a child fall asleep. You frown. It does make sense. You know what love is, after all. Being in love with someone, or at least desiring them, must make it special.

You would like to kiss him, you think. Daemon is handsome, and his touch does not feel as damning as other's do. He has already provided you with pleasure, even if unknowingly.

You make a wish, then. For your first kiss to be special, with someone you like and that knows what they are doing. If not Daemon, at least someone like that.

“Was your first special?” You ask, curious.

“No. She was terrible. Sharp teeth and all.” Daemon moves your hair aside, exposing your neck. You barely get any warning before he is taking a bite out of your nape. For a playful gesture, it's oddly painful. Your body tenses, and you try to fight it, but Daemon's hands are like a vice around your waist. “Like this.”

With no other choice, you ride it out. Pain is nearly unfamiliar to you, beyond small cuts or painful cycles. It's scorching red and hot, making you break into a sweat. Daemon forces you to take, and take, gently holding your hands in his. It's only after that you go limp under him, twitching slightly, that he lets up.

The aftermath of pain is sweet, you learn. Daemon kisses around the painful bite and blows a raspberry behind your ear. Now that he has let go of your nape, you find out that the pain was not so bad. You are not even bleeding.

“You are such a good girl.” Daemon praises. “So strong. I'm so proud of you.”

You preen as if you were Caraxes, delighted to make him feel proud of you. Daemon smiles against your temple, as if amused by you, and presses a little kiss there. It’s so tender, and so loving, a sharp contrast to his earlier behavior. It makes you feel as if you were once again on dragonback.

“Could you kiss me?” The words escape out of your mouth, without any real thinking. You know they are the wrong thing to say as soon as they leave your mouth.

Daemon pulls away from you. A hurt, confused noise leaves your throat, hands desperately searching back for his warmth.

“Oh, little Princess.” Daemon mutters, tone full of regrets. “I should not.”

“Why not?” You complain. You are not used to being denied so. The only times others do not bend to your will, you get what you want by your own means. Case in point, leaving your tower. Your father had said no, so you had ensured it happened by other means.

“I have done…. What I have done to you, why I took you…” Suddenly, it is as if an icy hand has taken hold of your throat and started to suffocate you. Betrayal settles over your features, overpowering it all.

“You are only doing this to piss off my father.” You say, shocked. Daemon raises his hands, trying to interrupt you, but you halt him with an imperious wave. “You had no intention of taking me to the dragons. You sought to ruin my reputation, as you did Rhaenyra's.”

“No, Princess, no.” Daemon shakes his head. You get up from the bed, angered. He does not try to stop you. “I swear I didn't mean for anything untoward to happen.”

“I bet you said that back then, too.” You retort. You have half a mind to do something crazy. To grab the fire poker and smash his head with it, to set the whole place on fire. You want to make him hurt.

“I… I did mean to anger your father.” Daemon admits, still trying to placate you. It only makes you wish to scream and scream and never stop. “But I do think it is a shame not to let you even try. Dragons are your birthright. Denying you is unnatural.”

You glare at him. You are unconvinced of the truthfulness of his words. Your father was right. You were unprepared for the world, and it couldn't show more. Daemon has tricked you as easily as if he were taking candy from a babe.

“I'll take you there regardless. I promised to.” His eyes are pleading, but you do not wish to hear him, or see him any longer. Instead, you sit in front of the vanity and look at yourself.

The long, silver hair. The scared eyes. The night, the first you have of freedom, is spent utterly cold and miserable. You stare at yourself and stare at yourself until you think you are going mad.

Daemon does not say a word. He doesn't leave the room, either. Perhaps he falls asleep at some point, perhaps he does not.

You look at your reflection again. You look at your hair. Silver, like his. The lovely color Daemon loves so much. Long, and braided back, flaunting your maidenhood and youth. Forever your father's little girl, never allowed to grow, to love, to lust.

A braid that long won't allow you to claim a dragon. You are more likely to set yourself on fire or trip on it. It's that thought that gives you the determination needed to do what needs to be done.

In the first drawer of the vanity there are a few miscellaneous ribbons. There is also a pair of scissors. You grab it, and grab your braid. You chop it off. As it falls from your shoulder, you feel a weight lift off from you. No longer your nape is heavy with the weight of all these expectations laying on you.

There is a woman staring at you, from the mirror. She looks like she is getting ready for war, eyes alight with determination. You stare at the contours of her face, mesmerized by what you see. All traces of Aemmas's ghost are gone from your reflection. You look more like yourself than you have ever done.

Daemon is up at sunrise. He may have been watching you chop all your hair off and expose the lovely bite mark that now mars the skin of your nape. He may have been sleeping. Whatever it is, he doesn't say a word about your change of appearance, choosing instead to dress in silence.

“Off we go.” He says, briskly, leading you out of the castle. Daemon points to a hill in the distance. “But after that, you are on your own.”

You are suddenly filled with doubt, the determination you had felt when looking in the mirror dissipating under the morning light. Your stomach clenches. Your legs are sore, unused to the exercise of riding. The bite on your neck burns.

"I do not feel ready to claim a dragon.” You say to him, as you get closer and closer to the hill. You feel like a fool. What if your father is right? What if you end this escapade with nothing to show but a ruined reputation?

“You are.” Daemon answers, barely paying attention. It makes you angry beyond belief. To make your mood known, you stomp over a few leaves, grinding them to dust under your heel. Ugh. Why were you looking to him for reassurance in the first place? It was not like Daemon wanted to help you. He just wanted to make himself feel less guilty over trying to cause a scandal and kill your father from the fright.

“I am not.” It’s almost as if you can hear the voice of your father in your head, telling you exactly why no dragon would bond with you. You are a fool, you are a little girl, you…

“You are a Targaryen.” Daemon interrupts your trail of thought with a squeeze to your nape. Right over the bite. It makes your knees nearly buckle. “You were born ready.”

“But what if it isn't enough? What if they see me, and don't want me? I am not brave, like Rhaenyra, or cunning like you or learned like my father. ”

“They will.” Daemon says. ��Because you are strong here.” He taps your sternum. “And your father is a fool for not seeing it.”

You look at him. Past the guilt, past the acting up to get your father's attention. His eyes are nervous, but they hold the same steely determination yours had earlier. Daemon believes in you, you realize. You look up at the hill and think to yourself, it is time to see if you can claim a second dragon.

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zablife · 9 months ago

Text

A Small Favor

John Shelby & Y/n Solomons (Partners in Crime AU)

Summary: Y/n has called John for a small favor…the removal of a dead body from Alfie’s kitchen. Who was the dead man and why was he there in the first place? That might be the biggest surprise of all.

Author’s note: Requested by @darklydeliciousdesires who wanted to know what this duo would do if tasked with disposing of a body. Ty for the wonderful inspo! Also, Rose is an OC belonging to @justrainandcoffee. She is Alfie's wife and an advocate for women. Quick reminder that Y/n is Alfie's sister.

Warnings: language, mention of a dead body and murder, weapons, blood

You sat watching steam rise from a piping hot cup of tea as John paced before you. “I don’t understand,” he said, twisting his cap in his hands.

“What?” you mumbled as you shoved a biscuit into your mouth.

“How did you manage it?” he asked with a note of genuine surprise, though he should have learned by now not to underestimate you.

You only shrugged as he gestured toward the hulking man splayed out before him on Alfie’s kitchen floor.

“Used me knife," you explained in a flat tone.

“Bloody hell,” he exclaimed with a low whistle. John stood over the mangled corpse stroking his chin thoughtfully before gazing back at you with pride. “Carved him up like a Christmas turkey!”

“Serves him right, filthy wanker,” you spat, wiping the crumbs from your lip with a shaky hand.

"Hey, you alright?" John softened momentarily, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.

You narrowed your eyes at him, hating the look of pity you found staring back at you. "You seen the state of him? And you see me?" you gestured toward yourself with a flourish, demanding he acknowledge your victory. When he took a moment too long, you shoved him away. "Course I'm alright," you insisted stubbornly as you settled back into your chair, crossing your arms over your chest.

John let out a long sigh, wishing he'd never asked. Then recalling the trail of overturned furniture and broken glass leading to the kitchen, he changed the subject. "Was he looking for somethin'?" Opening and closing the cupboards as though he might find an answer hidden in the shelves, he called out, "Does Alfie still have that faberge egg?"

“Fuck no!" you vehemently denied. "Sold it ages ago to that toff who wanted it for his dog-faced cunt of a wife. Reckon she eats kibble out of it now or whatever the fuck rich people do."

John snorted out a laugh as he ran a hand down his face. How you could crack a joke at a time like this was beyond all comprehension. Turning back to his search, he opened another door, peering inside with intense scrutiny.

“Dunno what you're expecting to find," you muttered, irritation rising in your throat as you surveyed the room. "Not a sausage...."

John scratched his head as he glanced over his shoulder, “Is that a kosher thing?”

You rolled your eyes before clarifying, “Sausage and mash,” rubbing your thumb against your fingertips. When John still looked at you with a quizzical stare you shouted, “Cash, you daft cunt! If you think Alfie's stupid enough to hide anything of value here, you're a few sandwiches short of a picnic, mate."

He nodded in understanding. “Right, well….don’t matter why that fucker wanted in, we have to get him out.” He stood facing the man in question, removing a toothpick from his pocket and seesawing it between his teeth as he thought.

You quickly grew impatient, eyes darting wildly from the clock on the wall to John’s motionless form. “What are you waiting for? This is your speciality, ain’t it?” you asked in a high squeaky voice, anxious to move things along.

John spun around to face you, “And you’re such a big help sat there like a pudding!” he exclaimed taking a large step to swipe at you before slipping in a pool of the man’s blood.

You raced from the table to catch him, but he was already propelled halfway across the room, finally tumbling over and landing atop the dead man’s barrel chest. “ALLEY CAT!” he roared, face to face with the man’s hideous pallor of death.

Barely containing your laughter, you watched your partner in crime grimace before turning away to suppress a gag. “Smells like cheap whisky and piss,” he proclaimed.

“What do you reckon he smelt like? Bloody roses?” you asked, hoisting him up by the elbow.

John emitted a low growl before brushing himself off. Removing his jacket and tossing it aside, he crossed his arms, mouth twitching anxiously. “Can we get on with it?” he asked with a sigh that sounded like resignation to his fate. “You take one end, I’ll take the other,” he instructed with a nod of his chin.

John began wedging his arms beneath the man's upper body as you took hold of the thick legs which felt like two tree trunks. Hoisting the weight off the floor took a few moments and the body swung precariously between you, grunts and groans passed between you as you struggled to find equilibrium. Eventually you were able to take a few teetering steps backward and out of the kitchen doorway into the hall, but then you realized you didn't know where you were going after that.

“Wait! What’s the plan?” you demanded, knitting your eyebrows in confusion.

John snapped his head toward you, “Are you serious?"

"Well, we can't walk out of the house with him. People will notice," you pointed out.

"Just...keep...going," he instructed through clenched teeth. When you slowed your movements again he warned sternly, "If we stop now, you're going to break my fucking back."

"No...no, I don't like this, Barney," you said, shaking your head.

"You going to fight me the whole way?" he asked, nostrils beginning to flare in frustration.

“Do you want my help or not?” you huffed, dropping the pair of legs you were barely holding to begin with and placing your hands on your hips.

Dropping his half with a thud John laughed mirthlessly. He pointed at you, cheeks rosy with exertion and the tips of his ears beginning to match as his temper ignited. “You asked me to come, you ungrateful horse’s arse!”

"What did you call me?" you asked, rushing him and pinning him to the nearest wall, hand poised over your switch blade.

Just then someone cleared their throat and you both jumped, startled by the noise.

You broke away from John, looking up at a dark haired woman who stood above you in a halo of golden morning light. Her amber eyes were warm and held nothing but concern as she searched your face in wordless communication.

John frowned at you, his eyes darting between you as he wondered aloud, "Who the fuck is she?"

Ignoring him completely, you looked up at her unable to contain the burden of your guilt. You swallowed a lump in your throat as you admitted softly to her, "I didn't want you to see this."

"Is she one of Rose's women or..." he trailed off, watching her descend the stairs slowly and walk into your waiting embrace, placing a tender kiss to your trembling lips. "Do you two know each other?" he asked thickly. "Please, Y/n, I'm so confused," he pleaded.

When you parted, you were still holding her hand tightly in yours. "John, this is Eliana Armstrong."

"And him?" John asked cautiously, pointing at the body. "You know him, don't you?"

You nodded slowly, but Eliana spoke up. "His name is Harold Armstrong,” she said sadly, holding up her left hand to reveal a small gold band on her ring finger.

John's shoulders hunched and his brow creased as he thought.

"Give him a minute," you whispered next to her ear. "Got a nice boat, that one, but he ain't the brightest."

"Oi! M not deaf!” John scowled at you. Then turning to Eliana, he puffed out his chest, ready to defend you. "You had her kill your husband?" he hissed the accusation as he closed the distance in a few long strides. "You had no right to ask that of her!" he shouted, pointing a finger in her direction.

Quickly stepping between them, you placed a hand to his chest to halt his movements. "You've got it wrong," you stated simply.

"He was going to kill Y/n..." Eliana began before you hushed her.

"She told him she was leaving to be with me. He thought he could stop her by..." You stopped to inhale a sharp breath, thinking of the perilous fight you barely survived hours earlier. "Well...you know," you swallowed harshly, not wanting to give details. "I called you cos I knew you'd be there for me no matter what," you explained quietly. John's hands dropped to his sides, fists unclenching as all tension left his body with the shock of what he'd just heard.

"Oh, my God," he said, lowering himself by the banister to sit on the bottom stair. He knew something was off when you opened the door for him, possibly before that, when he heard a slight quiver in your voice on the telephone as you gave the code word for emergencies. His heart clenched in his chest at the thought of you reaching out to him before anyone else, speechless at your show of trust.

After a few minutes of deafening silence you needed to know if John was upset for being asked to clean up your mess. "Will you please say something?" you prodded gently.

John raised his head from where it hung cradled between his large hands, his bright blue eyes observing the body lying before him in Alfie's demolished house. His curious gaze finally resting upon your exhausted and disheveled form, he managed, "Is this why we never shagged?"

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

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#peaky blinders fanfiction #Peaky blinders imagine #john shelby fanfic #john shelby imagine #john shelby x reader #john shelby x you #john shelby x y/n #john shelby

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twoidiotwriters1 · 2 months ago

Text

Date me? —(Ron Weasley xGN!Reader)

A/N: I never write for my boy it's time I change that. Will do a part two if most of you ask for it leaving a comment or reblogging! -Danny Summary: Lazy afternoon with your friend who you're definitely not crushing on. Words: 821

Warnings: This is basically a 'hear me out' one-shot between friends Twoidiots Masterlist

You could always count on Ron to have the best treats. You could also always count on him when you wanted to sit around and do nothing. Today, you two have decided to do nothing in the common room.

Hermione had gone off with Neville and Hannah Abbott to finish some extra work only they would be eager to finish on a Sunday, and Harry was somewhere in the castle with Ginny, which left the two of you with little to do, not that you were complaining.

"What if the Giant has a nice complexion?"

"I'm still not shagging the giant, Y/N," Ron snorted. You had been going at this 'what if' game for hours, first starting with classmates you knew, but now you'd moved on to more... particular options.

"Okay, but what if it's one of the smaller giants?"

"Would still break a leg trying to get it on," Ron laughed. "I'm not shagging a giant, I'm telling you."

"Ron, you're not playing the game right! It's not about being realistic, you just wonder about it sometimes, no need to explain. For example, my pick is Mer-people."

"They're not a bad pick, everyone has thought of it!"

You laugh. "No, they don't! You're just as mental as me!"

"Fine! You want mental, I'll give you mental," Ron's ears blushed a little but he kept talking anyway. "I think if I had to pick, I'd go with Dementors."

You hold back a laugh and answer in a shaky voice. "Is the mo—?"

"Their mouth is huge!" Ron nods, finishing your sentence.

You cackle, holding your stomach. Ron watches you with mirth, also laughing. When the amusement subsides, you wipe your tears and sit up. "Well, but that's almost like doing it with a corpse, isn't it? Aren't dementors like dead people?"

"I have no idea and I don't wish to find out. Besides, you said being realistic spoils the fun."

"True. Sorry to bring it up." You grin.

Ron chuckled, popping a piece of hard candy into his mouth before replying. "I've got another question."

"Shoot!"

"If you had to pick one of us —one of us four, I mean— which one would you date?"

You roll your eyes. "Oh, come on, Ronald, are we circling back to sleepover inquires? That's not even half as fun!"

"Answer the question and I'll go back to the weird ones, then!"

"Fine," you ponder. "Definitely not Harry, he's too thick to understand when someone is flirting with him..."

"All of us are," Ron snorts.

"Well, yeah, but he's the worst," you grin. "And he would find a way to make it awkward anyway, you know he's always reacting in the weirdest ways..."

"Fair enough. That leaves 'Mione and I."

"Well, dating you would mean I would be paying for all the food you ate at our dates, which isn't my idea of fun..."

"Oi! I would have some control, and I wouldn't be letting you pay for everything!" He argues.

"Ah yes, I suppose you'd tip," you tease him. He throws the wrapper of his candy at you, making you chortle. Then you continue to ponder, making a face. "Ah, but then Hermione would never have time for me, would she? It's all school and S.P.E.W., and I have the feeling she'd forget our dates constantly so I'd be basically a fixture on the wall..."

"So it's back to me, then," he smiled with clear satisfaction. "I knew you'd pick me. I'm the looks of this operation."

You snort. "Alright, so who would you pick?"

"Well, can't date Harry because I wouldn't steal my sister's boyfriend, she'd kill me."

"Very wise."

"So I would date you."

You blinked, surprised by his quick decision-making. "What about Hermione?"

"Well, it's like you said, I would only be taking up space in her schedule, and we'd bicker all the time, not that I'd be any better at remembering dates and stuff, but let's face it, I do need attention."

"And you think I'm the right call for that?" You smirked, trying not to sound or look as pleased as you felt.

"Definitely." He mirrored your expression. "You do it all the time already, you come to me when you're looking to have a fun time, so that's something to consider, isn't it?"

"Hm," you nodded pensively. "I s'ppose you're right. Well, how nice of us to pick each other," you joked, trying to rid of the funny feeling in your tummy by playing it down.

"Reckon so, yeah," Ron's smile softened, which only made the butterflies in your stomach go even crazier.

You grabbed a chocolate frog and stuffed it in your mouth, needing to do something other than stare at him. "So," you chew messily. "Harry's life is on the line and you have to french-kiss Umbridge to save him. Would you do it?"

Ron gawked. "Can I do the giant instead?"

Taglist.

@i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @siriuslysirius1107 @aleksosoto @aconfusedslytherin @talksoprettyjjx @23victoria @moonhoonie @raajali @espressopatronum454 @tokkishouse @slytherinnqueen @typicalsolangelolover @Kai-wifey @j-cat @inkandpen22 @theeicedamericano @hamiltonwc @thelastpyle @emilyyyvalenzuelaaa @azura-mist @tomshollandz @cedricisnotdead @letsfly-andbe-free @meetmyblondemuffins @emilyefronhudgens @aggressivevillian @avengersz-biotch @peachyaeger @ieatpanicattacksforlunch @impulse-anchor @mayoforthewin @mikaelsonwhxrebae @sputnik-01 @angelhugsaresweet @slytherinambitious @outofst1le @na1ven3vy @architect-2015 @writingmia @arey0usirius

#twoidiots writing #hp fanfic #ron weasley x reader #harry potter fanfiction #ron weasley

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two-white-butterflies · 7 months ago

Text

coaxed you into paradise - c. 31

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of Daemon, whose loved her all her life.

TW: a dead body, helaena having more lines in this chapter than in the entire House of the Dragons series.

masterlist for this series

Chapter Thirty-One: The Pity

Ser Criston opens the large wooden doors of her room, mere seconds after a member of the guards had told him that someone or something had jumped out of the window.

He sees Alyssa sprawled on the floor, covered in blood. It pained him to see her in this manner, yet his eyes trailed elsewhere - searching for Prince Aelor who should've been crying right now.

Yet he could only hear silence.

A deafening silence that threatened to split his ears in half.

"Alyssa," he opened his mouth, piercing through the thick atmosphere. She laid on the ground, staring at the ceiling - unmoving, covered in purple bruises. "Alyssa," he repeated her name again, kneeling beside her - wrapping his arms around her like a father would his daughter.

The Pity.

"Alyssa," he repeated her name for the third time - hoping for a response. "- where is Aelor?" he asked staring deep into her purple eyes, ones that reminded him of Rhaenyra. Her eyes which were once filled with hope and happiness, were now devoid of any emotion.

Blankly, she points at the open window. Ser Criston paled. The war of ravens and letters have indeed ended, and there wasn't a thing in this world that could remedy a mother's grief.

It was the dead of night when Ser Criston Cole made his descent to the courtyard. There were a dozen servants surrounding the Prince's body, but he made sure to shoo them away. He was with Helaena when he wrapped Prince Aelor with a green cloth.

"Did you dream of this?" he asked, holding the small corpse close to his chest. "It doesn't matter, it's already done." Helaena responded, taking the corpse off his hands and into her arms. Whatever warmth radiated off her body could not bring the dead back to life.

"I've said it countless times, our family wants something that has never belonged to us." Helaena gritted her teeth, opposite to Criston, she could look at the body - she could stare deep into Aelor's crushed face. "- Alyssa will never forgive Aemond, not even in the afterlife." she added with utmost certainty.

Helaena fights the tears that threaten to leak out her eyes. This could've been Jaehaerys or Jaehaera, and she couldn't have done anything to prevent this. "There is tragicness in my dreams, Ser." she opened her mouth, reaching for Aelor's little fingers as if he was still alive. "- because it means reliving the same thing twice." she breathed, finally allowing the tears to leak out of her eyes.

"How will we tell your mother? Aegon?" Criston asks, eyes avoiding the piece of cloth carried by Helaena. "It is their callousness that has led to this, and we'll all pay our dues." she mumbled.

"We'll tell them in the morning, then. We'll keep things quiet, lest the news reach the Targaryens in Dragonstone. Prince Aelor was our bargaining chip to Daemon and Saera. Now, Rhaenyra has taken him away." he gritted his teeth, placing all the blame on his former lover.

"His death will bring more battles than you anticipated." her moony voice trailed off, and they began marching towards the castle. Criston was unsure if that was her observation or her vision. "My grandfather thinks that the war will only be between Aegon and Rhaenyra, but he is wrong - that much I know." she whispered.

Inside the castle were a few Septas waiting for the delivery of Prince Aelor's body. "Then, you must leave, my Queen." Criston pleads.

Helaena gives him a knowing smile.

"We'll pay our dues, ser." she repeated her previous statement, before fading from his view, covered by the Septas.

We all process our grief in different ways. Aegon drowns himself with wines and whores. Helaena keeps to her children and visions, but Alicent does not have time to mourn.

"Prince Aelor was murdered by mercenaries that found their way inside of the Red Keep. It is obvious that this act of terrorism was committed by Rhaenyra's forces." Otto opens his mouth to speak, still at a shock that Aelor died the night before. "- Aemond killed her son and now she has gotten her revenge. A son for a son." he added.

Alicent licks her lips.

It makes her a fool to sympathize with the enemy, right?

"Ser Criston Cole found Princess Alyssa sprawled on the floor, covered in her own blood - obviously shaken." Ser Otto further expanded on his thought. "Where is Aemond?" Alicent inquired. "The damn boy has always done as he pleased." Otto raised his voice.

"His son is dead - his wife is useless." he cursed.

"What is it that you want me to do?" Aegon raised his eyebrow. "A murder happened inside of your castle. Rhaenyra will not chafe her knees. We must force her now - Saera will turn against her. The perfect time for making allies." Otto placed a hand on the table.

Alicent shook her head unconsciously.

In disbelief at the recent turn of events.

"Victory has never been closer to us. If we play our cards right, we'll be mere days until the rebellion in Dragonstone is vanquished." Otto estimated and Aegon nodded his head.

"To war, then?" he smirked.

Four walls, a ceiling and a floor.

None of them were enough to contain Alyssa's grief. A few hours ago, she was taken from her room and moved to a part of the castle that she's never seen before. There was a layer of dust collecting on the windowsill. She hasn't moved for a long time now.

There was hardly anything written about losing a child, more commonly - the child got to bury their parent. It was nature, a parent and a child's life only meets halfway until the former dies and watches from the afterlife.

The same thing couldn't be said for Alyssa.

A knock on the door breaks her free from her thoughts, and Aemond enters the chambers. "Alyssa," his face is a mess - it looks like he hasn't gotten any sleep since he arrived.

Her gaze turned sharply in his direction. "What are you doing here?" her voice leaked with venom, and he takes a step backwards. She has never spoken to him in that tone before. "Is it true?" he asked, praying to the gods that it was just a rumor.

"It is your fault, and yours alone." she could not managed to raise her voice, but the venom remained. "I-I," he could not form his words. A single tear flowed down his eye, before he bolted away - slamming the door loudly.

Aemond was only ten and three when he lost his virginity. It was to a woman almost twice his age, a brothel-madam that Aegon forced unto him. He's never forgotten the incident, the whispers of protest that evaded his mouth - and now he goes to back to it.

"You're back," the woman raised her eyebrows. He collapses into her arms, wrapping her in a warm embrace. 'Coward' he insulted himself. His wife was grieving in Maegor's Holdfast. Aelor was cold in the crypts, and his family was mere seconds away from certain war.

He was here. He was alive.

Of all the people that deserved to die, why was he alive?

Her hands trailed down to his chest, removing his cloak and tunic. Unbuttoning it with ease. "You're safe," the woman whispered - silencing him with a kiss.

next chapter >>

#daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen headcanon #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fluff #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon headcanons #daemon prince #daemonism #hotd daemon

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undergaunts · 5 months ago

Text

It’s Nice To Have A Friend pt.2

Ominis Gaunt x Reader (non-specific gender / house)

Summary: You’re eleven when you first meet Ominis Gaunt. He’s the skinniest, most frail looking boy you’ve ever seen, with white-blond hair and dark circles under his eyes. (or what if you’d started Hogwarts in 1886 as a first year?)

Rating: Mature (not extremely detailed smut but the characters are intimate after turning 18!)

Word count: 3.1k

Read on AO3 or below the cut <3

You’re eleven when you first meet Ominis Gaunt. He’s the skinniest, most frail looking boy you’ve ever seen, with white-blond hair and dark circles under his eyes. For a moment, you think you’ve come across a corpse; his practically lifeless body slumped on the train seat, his wand limp in his hand, the tip shining red.

You watch him, too scared to say anything, in case he really is dead. But you couldn’t find a seat anywhere else on the train, but he has a whole compartment to himself…

Then the train shakes, rousing him from sleep, and he stares straight at you, glowing ice for eyes, which makes you jump out of your skin.

You wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. His eyes flicker, as if searching for something, until they drop to the floor and begin to close again.

Perhaps he was choosing to ignore you, or perhaps…

You clear your throat, and he startles, his wand pointing straight at you, ready to attack at any moment, back straightening and eyes widening. You then you apologise, you hadn’t meant to cause fear, and ask if you can sit with him. Something washes over him, and his demeanour changes. His wand lowered, he nods.

Now, seeing him closer, you notice the almost translucent glow of his pale skin, and the dotted beauty marks across his cheeks.

It’s silent, for a while, teetering on awkward, until the sweet cart comes around. The lady is nice, letting you look at the varying choices, until you spy some of your favourites - Fudge Flies. You’ve got a few coins in the little purse tied to your waist, but before you can even look down, that boy is handing over the money, buying two of everything - enough for you both to stuff your faces.

You tell him he can’t, it’s far too much money, he must need it, to which he shakes his head. He’s got plenty.

So the lady puts the sweets into a box, and leaves it on the seat next to the boy, who finally introduces himself. Ominis, an unusual name, you think, for an unusual boy.

He tells you he is blind - that’s why his eyes look like that. A lot of people are scared of him - that’s why he was sitting alone. He doesn’t sleep much at home - that’s why he’d fallen asleep. His family are insanely wealthy, that’s why he doesn’t mind paying for the sweets.

You spend the rest of the ride to Hogwarts telling him which sweets he’s picked up, helping him open the packaging, and describing the view out of the window, in great detail.

You’re twelve when you decide Ominis is probably, most definitely, your best friend.

You have other friends, of course, but you always gravitate back to the solemn Slytherin. Even behind his ghostly exterior, you are wholly aware of his warm interior. A heart of gold and a tongue so sharp it could knock you flat - but he’d never let it.

He too has other friends - a brother and a sister - and you often find yourselves together, huddled in the secret room Ominis had introduced you to that you all decide is called the Undercroft. You spend hours studying, playing Gobstones and just laughing until you’re all delirious.

Over your first year, you’d watched Ominis put on weight, get more sleep and just be generally happier than that boy you’d met on the train.

But by the time you return for your second year, he’s back to the way he was; sunken in on himself, a shell of a human, so ghostly and empty that you wonder if it’s really him.

It takes time, to coax him back to himself. To remind him he’s back where he belongs. To get him to eat, to sleep, to even smile. It shatters your heart into a million little pieces, and you wish you could tell him how much he means to you, but your vocabularies just isn’t there and you’re far too shy to explain yourself.

So when he finally smiles for the first time in your second year, all teeth, followed by a loud laugh, you decide that you always want to see him like that. You’d spend forever helping him heal. That that is your best friend.

That is Ominis.

You’re fourteen when you realise you have a crush on Ominis Gaunt.

You supposed it had come on, slowly over time. His delicate touches, shy smiles and quick wit did nothing to help with the slowly growing pang in your heart every time you saw him.

He’d spent his previous two summers out in Feldcroft, his friends not allowing him to suffer at the hands of his family. You’d missed them all, terribly, so when they sent an owl, inviting you to stay the last week before heading back to school, you didn’t hesitate.

The four of you spent your time exploring, admittedly journeying to areas your friends’ Uncle had made you all swear you’d not go to. But why listen to him? You wanted to have fun. You’d missed them all.

Especially Ominis.

So when you almost trip and fall over a stack of stones, and Ominis grabs you, almost instinctively, stopping you from hitting the floor, you wonder how he’d managed it.

Then he tells you to be more careful, he can’t have you hurting yourself. And you wonder why it matters.

Then he slips his hand into yours, and you feel a blush creep onto your skin (which you thank the Gods he can’t see). And you wonder why he’s doing that.

Then he holds on tight to you, and doesn’t let your hand go until you return to Feldcroft. And you wonder how it’s taken you this long to realise how you feel about him.

You’re fifteen when you decide that yes, you’re in love with Ominis Gaunt.

It didn’t take too long, from realising you were crushing on him, to realising you were in love.

You can’t be blamed, though. Since he first held your hand, he just hadn’t stopped. Excuse after excuse; he’d lost his wand, you seemed a little tired, you had cold hands, he had cold hands…it never ended, and you never got over the feeling of pressing your hands together.

And then there was your quiet moments for just the two of you in the Undercroft, which had turned from laughing and complaining about school and homework, to hushed tones and honesty, with him telling you about his family; his wretched mother, cruel father and probably the worst of all, his demon-incarnate brother.

You wished you could help him, take all his suffering from him, all the tormented dreams he had, keep them locked, and throw away the key. He’d laughed at this, and thanked you. He tells you that everything you do, every moment you are with him is enough.

The way you are sitting, cross-legged, opposite him on the cold stone floor, so dangerously close, you wonder, if you just leant forward, would he close the gap?

Then he reaches out and takes your hand in both of his, squeezing gently. I love you I love you I love you I love you floods your mind. He looks like he’s going to do it, going to kiss you, and your face heats up in anticipation.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he stands, pulling you up with him, and suggests sneaking into the kitchen for a slice of pie.

And you agree, following him out of the room, even though you feel like your heart had been torn out and left on the floor of the Undercroft.

You’re seventeen when you first kiss Ominis.

It’s an unusually warm, early Autumn day, another painfully boring History of Magic lessons drags by and you watch Ominis as he falls asleep, head dropping into the palm of his hand and eyes fluttering shut as Professor Binns drones on and on about the founding of St Mungos, which, in itself, might’ve been an interesting subject, if it wasn’t for the teacher teaching it.

You let him sleep, as he looks like he needs it - he always looks like he needs it - up until Binns dismisses the class, floating out of the room, following the other students to leave just you and Ominis, alone.

Now that the room is quiet, you can hear Ominis’ soft breathing shake slightly, and his lips purse a little - he’s dreaming - and although you’d like to leave, to wake him and head for the Great Hall for lunch, the sight of your best friend looking so peaceful for once, means you know that you can’t.

So you get comfortable. You untie your school robe, draping it over the back of your chair, and then wander to the shelves stacked with varying tomes, trying to pick one up to flick through, but it’s far too heavy, so you abandon your quest.

You then move to the glass cabinets, full with artefacts and objects that you’d seen before from where you sat, but up close looked far more interesting.

And then you sit yourself down at Binns’ desk, looking over the fairly sparse tabletop. Most professors had notes and diaries with new information and ideas, but not the old ghost. No, you supposed, he’s been teaching for so long, he knows all he needs to.

There is one book, though - Broom History. You’re an avid flyer, so your interest is, for the first time in this classroom, piqued. You skim through the pages, tracing the outlines of the pictures with your finger, much alike you’d seen Ominis do on multiple occasions.

As you think of him, you look up and see him stirring, eyes opening as he rubs away the sleep, yawning, which, stupidly, makes your heart flutter a little.

You begin to say something, mouth trying to find the right words, but before you even can, he’s patting the seat beside him - your seat - and frowning when he finds no one there.

Again, you begin to speak, to tell him you’re right here, you haven’t left him, but then his hand lands on your robe.

He frowns, and you mirror his expression as you watch him.

Ominis grabs the robe, thumbing it slightly, allowing the soft fabric to glide over his skin, before bringing it into his hand, before lifting it straight to his nose, and inhaling.

You squeak - a strange noise you didn’t even know could possibly come from your mouth - immediately making Ominis flinch and turn to you, eyes piercing straight through you.

He stutters, words not coming easily, possibly in an attempt to explain himself, but the sentences don’t finish or end in one place, and your mind is racing a million miles a second, until you catch up to your thoughts, and stand from your chair.

Ominis stops trying to form a coherent sentence, and stills, waiting as you walk over to him. Your heart is in your mouth. You want to ask a thousand questions. Why did he do that? Had he done that before? Did you smell nice? Did he like you? Was he ever going to tell you?

But you don’t ask him a question. You round the table, standing next to him, eyes searching his face for something - you just didn’t know what.

And maybe you find it, maybe you don’t. Instead, you find the courage, finally, to take his cheeks in your hands, and kiss him.

You expect him to pull away, to tell you he just doesn’t feel that way.

He doesn’t.

He leans into the kiss, melting into you, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer, tilting his head to meet your lips at just the right angle.

You pull away first, and he follows you, trying so hard to capture your lips again that you laugh, from deep in your belly, which makes him laugh too. You drop down onto your seat, unable to keep the smile off your face.

You say, sorry, I just had to, and he shakes his head. I should be the one apologising, what I did was rather odd.

No, you move your hands from his cheeks to his shoulders, then one had slips further, to twirl his tie around your finger. It was sweet, endearing. Do I smell that good? which makes him laugh again. My absolute favourite. It’s a wonder you haven’t noticed before.

And then he leans in again, moving his hands from your waist to thread through your hair, and you tug him closer by his tie.

For the first time in years, all feels right.

You’re eighteen when you tell Ominis you love him.

Your final Christmas in Hogwarts had finally come, and most, if not all of your friends and fellow students had returned home, or headed on holidays. Seeing the world before work takes over, one of your classmates had said.

And they were right. Once you’d completed your N.E.W.Ts, you were to fend for yourself. But seeing the world would come later.

So you stayed behind, because behind was where Ominis was, Christmas lights reflected in his pearlescent eyes, hand intertwined with yours, wandering through Hogsmeade as snow slowly began to fall.

You’d spent hours in the little village, and despite the cold, you felt warm and giddy inside, even as you made the cold trek back to Hogwarts.

He cracked jokes, even sang the occasional song, as you reentered the school grounds. You don’t think you’d seen him like this before, as if he was drunk on life. The two of you hadn’t been together all that long, but he’d easily fallen into a level of comfortable that you’d never imagined he could be.

The perfect Ominis you’d always known, was somehow even more perfect in love.

In love, you could only assume. He’d told you he’d liked you since the moment you’d met on that train, and had definitely had feelings for you by the time he’d first mapped your face in his hands.

But in love was not something you’d even dared to speak about.

So when you’re sat by the fire in the Slytherin common room that evening, tucked into the side of him, cheek on his chest as he hums a tune you’ve heard before, pressing gentle kisses to the top of your head, you think you should probably tell him you love him.

So you do.

You’re almost too quiet, but he hears you. He asks you to repeat yourself, and despite the grin spreading across his face already, you say the words again.

And then he kisses you.

You half want to laugh, half want to cry, as he whispers that he loves you too, between kisses, more than you could ever possibly comprehend, and kisses you again, and again, and again.

Until he pulls you on top of him, and you find the kisses go from delicate and loving to ravenous, to where he’s threading his long fingers through your hair, to him grinding up on you, pulling you down onto him, desperate for friction, moaning when he finds it.

We could be caught, you whisper against his lips, and he nods. Perhaps we should move this into my room, I am the only one staying in there afterall, then gasps a little, fearing he’s overstepped, only if you would like to, of course, which makes you laugh, because of course I would, Ominis.

So he takes you, hand-in-hand, his wand guiding the way, to his dorm room. There, already eager, he pulls his sweater and shirt off, exposing his slim figure. You’d seen him shirtless before - and Gods had you had to desperately attempt to force down the bright red flush that had covered your cheeks for even days after - but this time you can reach for him, to touch the soft, pale skin.

And this time pulls you in closer, kissing you again, pulling your clothes from your body, pressing your frames together, just the feeling of your bare torsos sending lightening bolts through your veins.

The way he gasps your name, the way he touches you so gently yet with such determination and focus, the way he holds you, quickly sends you to the brink.

Ominis pulls you onto his bed, not letting go of you, not once. He lays you on the plush, far comfier than your own, and whispers sweet nothings, syrupy sweet, words that makes your heart pound.

He makes love to you. He pulls your legs around his waist and holds you like you’re the most precious thing he has ever, and will ever hold.

He makes you see stars, giving in to constellations littered across your eyelids, which, coincidentally, take the shape of the beauty marks across his cheeks.

And when you both finish, he curls himself around you, arms and legs intertwined as he caresses your face, uttering promises of love, forever, until your eyes close, and you find him in your dreams.

You’re nineteen when you marry Ominis Gaunt.

A vague yet threatening letter had arrived in Feldcroft, where you’d been staying with your friends after school had finished, his family informing him he would be expected to return home, immediately.

He’d told you, tears in his eyes, that he knew what they wanted. He was to be married off for the highest bid, to a pureblood witch and her family that he had likely never met, and he couldn’t, because he hated his family, and most importantly, he loved you. He wanted to marry you, no one else.

So let’s marry, you’d said, taking one of his hands, your other wiping away the stray tears cascading down his cheeks. Let’s run away. They’ll never know if we tell no one.

So you do. You leave Feldcroft in the middle of the night, and travel south to Gretna Green, where you marry as the sun sets three days later.

Ominis vows to you, to love you until the day he dies, to be by you side no matter what - and you vow the same.

That frail boy with icy hair that you met the first day, seemingly afraid of his own shadow, was now standing in front of you. Only now he had a smile on his face, his golden-blonde hair that had darkened with age had grown longer and softer, and now, with you by his side, he wasn��t afraid of anything.

#hogwarts fanfiction #hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt x mc #ominis x mc #hogwarts legacy ominis #ominis #ominis x reader #ominis x oc #ominis imagine #ominis x you #Ominis gaunt fanfiction #ominis gaunt x reader #my ff

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cece693 · 11 months ago

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Ultimatum (Rosalie Hale x Male Vamp. Reader)

This has been brewing in my draft section for far too long. I believe it's time this work saw the light of day.

Summary: M/n Swan, now Cullen, doesn't care if he is breaking his wife's heart, but watching how his sister is dying with Rosalie encouraging it makes m/n rethink their whole marriage. He'll be damned if he stays silent and becomes an accomplice to this murder.

M/n sighed once again as his sister's coughing interrupted what would've otherwise been a tranquil day. He was upstairs in his bedroom, staring out into the forest, attempting to forget Bella's deteriorating state.

When she and Edward returned from their honeymoon, m/n immediately knew something was wrong; he could sense the tension between the newlyweds even before they stepped into the house, not to mention his wife, Rosalie, immediately rushing to Bella's side.

While Rosalie hadn't made her distaste towards his sister unknown, watching as she catered to Bella's every need was bizarre. Yet everything made sense when she announced her pregnancy.

Everyone, except Bella and Rosalie, wanted to kill the thing. It had already broken several ribs, and no ultrasound could predict the pace at which it was growing. Hell, Bella already looked dead: dark circles under her eyes, bones poking through almost translucent skin, and no appetite. M/n couldn't bear to watch as his once lively sister became nothing but a corpse.

A part of him hated Edward for putting this death sentence upon Bella. Didn't the telepath think once of using protection, even if the chances of pregnancy were slim to none? And then there was his wife.

M/n wasn't dumb. He knew Rosalie only stuck by his sister's side to ensure the baby would be hers. Bella's chances of surviving childbirth were non-existent, and with how everyone would treat the thing, Rosalie was prepared to become its mother. M/n shivered in disgust at the idea of living alongside his sister's murderer. Worst of all, acting as another paternal figure to the thing that ripped their own family apart.

"Shut it, dog!" Rosalie's scream caused m/n to run to the living room. The family was divided, as usual, with Bella acting as the middle ground.

"Rosalie, stop." Esme exclaimed with a stern expression. "All this fighting isn't good for Bella."

"The fetus isn't good for Bella," Alice spoke, glaring daggers at Rosalie before looking at Bella. His sister looked down at her lap, yet m/n didn't take a step to comfort her. This argument was long overdue.

"Say the word, Alice. Baby. It's just a little baby—"

"That's killing my little sister." M/n spoke from his position on the stairs, his gaze filled with venom as he looked at Bella. She looked worse than when he last saw her yesterday.

"You can't be serious." Rosalie whispered in disbelief. "It's a child—"

"You don't know that."

"M/n." Bella whispered, but her brother shook his head.

"No. I'm done watching you and Rosalie act like this will turn out okay. It won't. Either you miraculously survive or die. Those are our only two endings, with the latter being greater as of late."

Silence befell the room as m/n looked to Rosalie for a sign of awareness. Yet his wife only looked at him with disappointment and anger. "It's my decision." Bella finally uttered, looking at all the Cullens in the room and Jacob.

"Nobody will force me into giving up my child." Rosalie went to stand behind Bella, laying a hand on her shoulder in silent support as the rest of the family looked on in resignation.

"So what was the whole point of you marrying Edward?" M/n sought, not giving up easily. He desperately wanted Bella to see reason. "Sacrificing myself to save you when Victoria created the newborn army? Why go through hell and back only to throw it all away for this? Please, Bella," he whispered almost like a prayer. "There's still time."

Walking over to his sister, ignoring Rosalie's burning stare, m/n dropped to his knees and hugged Bella tenderly.

Feeling thin fingers run through his hair, m/n only grew disheartened when Bella whispered, "I can't do it, M/n. I just can't. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if my baby's life was cut short."

Lifting his head, m/n looked into his sister's determined eyes before nodding and rising to his feet. The room remained silent, the weight of the decision hanging heavily in the air. And while the Cullens believed m/n had changed perspectives, that he would support Bella's decision, the words coming out of the youngest coven member stunned them.

"Then I guess this is a goodbye."

"M/n?" Alice asked, her eyes reflecting confusion and concern. However, it was Rosalie who answered her.

"You're going to leave Bella's side over this? Leave me, your wife?! You can't be serious..." Rosalie trailed off, her hurt expression deepening.

"Rose, you know I love you, but seeing you aid Bella's death hurts me. You've made your choice. This is mine."

Rosalie's gaze hardened, a defensive spark igniting in her eyes. "You can't blame me for this, m/n. I didn't ask for any of this to happen. I'm supporting Bella when everyone's against her. The baby is innocent and I won't apologize for wanting to protect it."

"Protect it?" M/n scoffed, his disbelief evident in his tone. "This isn't about protecting anyone; it's more about your own selfish desires than anything else. If Bella dies, consider me dead too. I can't live, much less love, the person who played a part in her demise."

#twilight #the twilight saga #edward cullen #bella swan #bella cullen #carlisle cullen #esme cullen #alice cullen #the cullens #emmett cullen #rosalie hale #rosalie cullen #jasper whitlock #jasper hale #male reader #x male reader #breaking dawn pt. 1 #renesmee cullen

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schrodingers-deadbitch · 2 years ago

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I've decided to write an actual story based very loosely on my first two post because I'm almost finished all my exams then after that I'm technically finished with school and I'll have a lot of time on my hands so... Enjoy?

Yeah enjoy.

Half A Corpse

Prologue/Summary

There are only a few things Danny could remember from before his life as Daniel Fenton. One of those things would be his real name.

Not that ‘Daniel Fenton’ wasn't his real name, it was. It was given to him by his parents (sister), recognized by the law, and known by everyone else around him. It's the name that he calls himself everyday. It's the name that he claimed and grew into. The name that he chose. His name is Daniel Fenton. But it wasn't his true name.

His true name, a name given to him long ago by a mother who he has long since forgotten. A name being called out by a distant voice filled with both joy and malice. A name that brought him mostly pain but also comfort. A name that, despite how long it has been, still rolls off of his tongue with so much ease. A name that tasted of the sweetest honey and the most deadly of poisons simultaneously. His true name is Danyal Al Ghul.

***

There are a lot of things Danny could remember from his life as Daniel Fenton. A lot of it was either failing English (or just school in general), or fighting ghosts. Some of it is hanging out with his sister and his best friends, (sometimes like actual kids!).

Majority of it was just him hiding. From the GIW or his parents? He didn't know. Most of it was just him protecting. Ghost or human? It didn't matter. It was always just him, alone in his room, in the dead of night. Doing what? Patching up himself after a long night of ‘patrol’; his homework still in his bag. Long forgotten. Why didn't he do it? He was ‘saving it for another day’.

Daniel could remember pain. So much pain.

He didn't remember how it happened. He didn't want to remember how it happened or what had happened. He didn't want to remember anything. He just wanted to forget it all and pretend it never happened. He wants to forget the pain. He wants to forget everything.

He wants to forget.

He wanTS TO FORGET!

HE WANTS TO FORGET!

HE WANTS TO FORGET!!!

He forgot. What happened?

***

His name is Daniel Nightingale. Danny for short. He recently moved to Gotham with his siblings and with the help of his best friends.

His parents? They're dead.

He doesn't remember much from before moving to Gotham but that's ok. He's got a feeling that that's a good thing.

What he thinks isn't a good thing are the leather clad furries and the rich kids who had taken an interested in him and his family. Especially the ones with familiar faces.

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zepp-l1n · 1 year ago

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The Same

Pairing: Daniel Matthews x Fem!reader

summary: Daniel meets someone in the same boat as him at a "Jigsaw victim therapy group" session. fic type - hurt/comfort, post Saw 2, fluff?? warning - 2000s emo x 2000s emo, canon level Saw violence, both reader and Daniel have PTSD, mentions of past drug use, mentions of body scarring from the traps, self harm (??) word count - 1,779 a/n: hiiii! sorry my posting has been kinda off and on for the past few months, but I'm hoping now that school and my personal schedule is a little more chill, I'll be able to write and post more often. <3 (also, what's up with the lack of Daniel fics?)

Group therapy wasn't Daniel's idea. He knew he needed to talk about the things he had gone through and seen, which is why he had originally gone to one-on-one therapy, but when his therapist had suggested joining Bobby Dagen's group he had been very apprehensive. At first, Daniel had been very against the idea. He found Bobby very pretentious and overzealous, and the entire "Jigsaw victim therapy group" to be a scam for Bobby's fan's entertainment. For months his therapist and his mother brought up the group again and again, leading to Daniel finally deciding to go in the hopes of getting them to shut up about it.

Now, Daniel found himself in the room Bobby would rent out for each session. They were all sitting side by side in the formation of a circle, letting each person have a clear view of everyone else. Not one person in the room, other than bobby, looked elated to be there.

Daniel sat in his folded out seat, arms crossed and head turned downward. So far, the entire experience had been uncomfortable. Bobby had gone on one of his regularly scheduled "We should be grateful!" spiels, and multiple people had shared their sob-stories. For 30 minuets Daniel had to endure the same arguments and conversations over and over. He sat in silence, never once making himself known - choosing to sit and pick at his black, long-sleeved undershirt the entire time.

Daniel had been so focused on his own thoughts that when he finally glanced back up, he noticed all the eyes on him. "Daniel?" Bobby called out.

"Hmm?" his reply was short and uninterested.

"I asked if you would like to share your story with the others. Would you?" Bobby asked. The smile he gave Daniel as he spoke made him divert his eyes. Daniel shrugged, not knowing if he truly wanted to. "If you'd like to wait that's okay. Whenever you're ready, Daniel."

The other's diverted their attention to Luba afterwards, taking in her story. Daniel silently listened, just waiting for the session to be over. They continued this way, story after story, until the door swung open, creating a loud noise. In it's opening was a girl, presumably around Daniel's age from what he could see.

"Ah, (Y/N), nice of you to finally join us." Bobby sarcastically spoke.

The teen stepped into the room, waving at a man in the corner that Daniel hadn't noticed before, and continued towards the circle. The silver chain hanging from her belt loops lightly rattled against her black cargo-jeans as she walked his way. "Oh shut up, Bobby. Some of us have lives outside the whole Jigsaw shit." she scoffed, her eyeliner covered eyes glaring at the older man. The girl, (Y/N) as Daniel her Bobby call her, took a open seat a few chairs down from Daniel, giving him a tight-lipped smile and a wave of her ringed hand before turning towards the others.

"Now, now, (Y/N). There's no need for hostility here - we're all the same." Bobby cheerfully stated, causing the girl to roll her eyes. "Here, since you missed when everyone else did it, why don't you introduce yourself to out newest member. This is Daniel." his arm directed (Y/N)'s eyes to her fellow teen.

(Y/N)'s dark-red lips turned up into a forced smile before she spoke. "Hi, I'm (Y/N). I'm the girl who was found a week after a trap that wasn't even hers, half dead and tied to the mutilated corpse of her sister. Nice to meet you!" The smile dropped immediately after she finished her sentence.

"Sorry Daniel. Just ignore her. She's still a little apprehensive to be doing this." Daniel awkwardly nodded at Bobby's explanation. "Good, now why don't we continue..." Daniel couldn't focus on Bobby as he spoke - his attention was solely caught on (Y/N)'s appearance. On top of the jeans and chain, she also had a shirt similar to what he would usually wear. It was red and white, and he could tell it was showing some kind of band-logo, but he couldn't get a clear enough look to tell what band. Glancing down at his own white t-shirt, he caught similarities between the two, finally realizing who it was. "Wrath of the Gods." he whispered.

(Y/N)'s head lightly turned her head, seemingly asking him to repeat himself.

"Your shirt. It's 'Wrath of the Gods' - like mine." he lightly smiled. "You like them?"

She glances down, taking in her own shirt and then his. "Huh... Yeah, my sister, she uh, introduced me to their music a few years ago. This was her shirt actually; she gave me it when she got a new one before the trap."

"Sounds like she was pretty cool." Daniel muttered. By this point, (Y/N) had moved over a seat so they could talk without bothering any of the others.

She smiled before whispering back, "She was."

Now that she was closer, Daniel could see the scarring on her face, neck, arms, and hands. He couldn't help but wonder what she fully went through if that was the result of her trap. It also made him wonder if the same scarring would cascade down her legs and torso too. Did the scarring all look the same; how many were there; were some more gory than others? Hundreds of questions flew through his mind as he looked at her.

"How'd you get them?" Daniel didn't even register the fact that he had spoken.

"Huh?" (Y/N) whispered.

"Sorry, uh, your scars. If you don't mind me asking, how'd you get them? I mean, you don't have to tell me. Y'know, I don't want to cross any boundar-" Daniel's rant was cut off by (Y/N).

"It's fine, Daniel." she sighed, giving him a sad smile. "I got these during my sister's 'game'"

"Your sister's game?" Daniel asked, hoping she would clarify.

(Y/N) looked over at the others, making sure no one was bothered by their conversation, before continuing. "Yeah. My sister was the one being tested. It was my fault, but she was the one who got the consequences." she paused, taking a moment to fully think about how to explain her experience. "My parents died when I was little, and my sister had turned 18 a few weeks before they did. After that, she took me in; became my legal guardian, y'know. She was a nurse too, so a lot of the time I was either by myself or out with friends. When my friend Amy finally got her learners, we went out one evening and ended up in an accident. That led to me being on a shit-ton of pain meds, and eventually I got hooked. It was really bad. Jane, my sister, had access to a lot of pain medication, and I used that against her. I begged for weeks for her to steal me them. She, uh... She eventually couldn't take seeing me so bad, so she broke a lot of rules and brought me some. I guess Jigsaw found out, and he thought I was pulling her down. When he took us, his whole argument in the tape was that I was bad for her, and if she got rid of her baggage - me - then she'd be free and would go places in life. If she didn't get rid of me, she'd die." Once again, (Y/N) paused, collecting herself. "He had us tied together to this weird chair set up. It was on these rails, and in front of either of us were these things I could only describe as 'the open-faced turkey sandwich version of a woodchipper'. She was supposed to kill me - push me into mine. I begged and pleaded for her to just do it, cause, I mean, he was right. I was the only bad thing in her life. She would've been better off without me."

"If she died, and didn't want to hurt you, then how did you end up with all the scars?" Daniel quietly asked.

"I did it to myself." Daniel's eyes widened at how casually she said it. "She wouldn't push back and put me into the woodchipper, so I did it myself. I put my feet on the edges of the rails and pushed myself forwards into it. I got close enough to cut myself up a bit. I thought I was gonna save her." (Y/N)'s eyes began to water, and she quickly wiped it away. "Jane was always stronger than me, though. She pulled back and kept us at the midpoint. We were there when the timer went off. I guess it was motorized, cause when the timer went off, we moved backwards. Jane went straight into it. There was nothing I could do but sit there and listen to her screams. Jigsaw and his little groupies never came for me. I was supposed to die, so they left me there. For about a week I was strapped to the trap and what was left of my sister, out of it from blood loss, hunger, and dehydration. Some homeless guy eventually found everything and called the police."

"Wow..." Daniel muttered.

"Yeah, I know." (Y/N) hesitantly chuckled. "Since then I've been doing two sessions of regular therapy a week, this, and rehab."

As she finished her sentence, Bobby loudly spoke up. "Alright guys, today was great! It is time we wrap up though. I hope to see everyone again next week, and I hope you have a great rest of your week." The two teens watched as he walked back to the doorway of the room, stopping next to his wife, lawyer, bestfriend, and publicist.

"Well, I guess that's enough trauma dumping for today." (Y/N) glanced back over at Daniel. "Listen, uh, y'know, 'Wrath of the Gods' has a show this weekend. You should come, so we could hang out some more. To be honest, I need more friends who listen to music I like." she laughed.

Daniel grinned, "Yeah, why not?"

"Good, good." (Y/N) mumbled. "Listen, I gotta go, my foster dad picks me up from these things, but I'll see you this weekend."

"Yeah, yeah, see you later." he smiled. Daniel contently watched as she got up, and headed for the door.

As she got closer to the door, (Y/N) turned back around and waved at him. "Bye, Danny."

(Y/N) turned back around and exited, leaving Daniel to sit in the room alone, thinking over what had just happened. "Holy shit." he dramatically exhaled. Maybe coming to the "Jigsaw victim therapy group" wasn't that bad of an idea.

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anonymous-dentist · 8 months ago

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Part Four of the Catboy in the Village AU

Part: One | Two | Three

Growing up on the battlefield, Cellbit's meals consisted of two things: cold mushroom soup, and unseasoned human flesh. No set times, only eating when he had managed a kill. It was a reward: no killing, no eating. Simple, and very effective at turning him into the monster he would grow up to be.

Prison meals were scheduled... more or less. During the second guard's shift outside of his cell, he would be given half a loaf of bread and a rusty metal cup of browned water. That was all he got, because he didn't deserve any more.

Now? Cellbit has gotten soft. His husband likes to cook, and it turns out that Cellbit likes to watch his husband cook. If he's in the kitchen when Roier is, he isn't walking away hungry, and it took the first two years of their marriage for Cellbit to get used to it.

The castle, though. The castle is worse.

Mealtimes are strictly scheduled. Breakfast is at eight in the morning. Lunch is at one in the afternoon. Dinner is at seven. If Cellbit and Roier aren't in attendance, they're to be dragged to the table kicking and screaming.

The food isn't even that good. It tastes like the sweat and blood of the poor oppressed farmers being forced to work for a monarchy that would happily throw them face-first into another war should one start. It's probably poisoned, too. Worst of all, it isn't Roier's, so it's just kind of terrible by default.

So it's always as such: Cellbit and Roier sit at one far end of the table next to each other. The queen rolls her eyes and tries to start a conversation that Roier politely engages in and Cellbit ignores. Cellbit doesn't eat, not even when Roier gives him big sad eyes and does that cute pouting thing he does with the voice and the face and the everything.

Today is no different. The breakfast dish is small, because apparently the Gato Kingdom doesn't do breakfast the way they do back home in the Águila Kingdom. Açaí, sure, whatever. It isn't Roier's cooking, so Cellbit won't eat it.

Roier does the little pouting thing, turning in his seat to face Cellbit and hooking both his hands over Cellbit's forearm. His eyes get huge, and his face gets sad, and he's so cute, Cellbit's heart might burst!

"Gatinho, come on!" he whines. His head tilts, awww. "You're going to starve to death, and you won't even be a handsome corpse. You'll be all-"

He bugs his eyes out and practically unhinges his jaw as he makes an utterly visceral groaning-choking-rasping-moaning sound.

The knights at the door all exchange disturbed looks.

Cellbit wants to kiss his husband now.

So he does. He takes Roier's chin in his hand, and he pulls him in for a kiss that Roier comes away from moaning sinfully enough to make a cleric drop dead.

Cellbit swipes his thumb under Roier's bottom lip, raises his hand to cup Roier's cheek.

"You make the sweetest noises," Cellbit sighs. He smiles as Roier rolls his eyes.

He turns his gaze from his husband to his so-called "sister", who looks two seconds away from coughing up her açaí.

"Speaking of noises," he says, "when were you going to tell us that our prison is haunted?"

Sensing a lost capital-'M' Moment, Roier grumbles and turns back to his breakfast. Per his request, he's gotten a plate of eggs and a small bowl of fruits to eat alongside his açaí. It's not quite breakfast like it is at home, but, well. Nothing about the Gato Kingdom is like it is at home, and it sucks.

The queen's spoon scrapes harshly against the bottom of her bowl as her arm jerks. Some of her açaí splashes up over the edge of her bowl and lands on the lap of her expensive-looking dress, good.

On a dime, all the guards in the room stand at attention. Their armor clanks, and their weapons flash rainbow in the sunlight streaming through the dining hall's enormous stained glass dome roof.

"Okay, first off, this is not a prison," the queen tensely says. She adjusts her grip on her spoon, holding it in a way that Cellbit recognizes from the way he's always held his knives. "This is a castle, and it is my home. Our home, if you ever want to consider it as such."

Cellbit nods. "Absolutely not."

"And that's fair! This is a lot for you! But it's an option for-"

"It really isn't, but this isn't about me and you. This is about whatever happened last night, because, really, if you had told me your castle was haunted, I would have been, like, ten times less likely to try and escape on the way here."

Roier nods and swallows a mouthful of papaya and covers his mouth and says, "It's true. He loves this shit. He's been trying to invent a ghost-in-a-bottle for years."

It's true. Most of Cellbit's potions are his own recipes, because most alchemical recipes require ingredients that only noblemen can afford, and he's been broke for his entire memorable life. He didn't care that he married rich, he didn't want to use Roier or his family's money just for potion ingredients. He can trap faerie essence in bottles for a quick dash of healing, why can't he trap ghosts? It's the next step, obviously.

"And I'm going to," Cellbit insists. "I just need more time!"

"Yeah, well, you've got all the time in the world now," Roier says. "You know. Because you're kidnapped."

He gives the queen a pointed look.

The queen looks two seconds from shoving her spoon into her own eye. Maybe she should do it, it would be more interesting than yet another argument about the lost prince.

She slowly lets out a very, very stressed-sounding breath. And then she smiles, all teeth, fangs and all. (Lucky. Cellbit had his fangs filed down in prison upon being arrested.)

"You like ghosts?" she asks. "Me, too! We have an entire section in the library on the paranormal. I can show you later, if you want."

Oh, ew.

Cellbit feigns interest. He leans forward in his chair and forces his ears to perk up and swivel in her direction.

"Oh, really?" he asks. "You'll have to take me there! And then I can take one of those books and break your skull open with it."

He smiles, all teeth.

The queen's face falls into frustration. Her ears turn to the side; aggression.

"Oh, fuck you!" she snaps. "I'm trying here!"

Cellbit drops his own enthusiastic expression and sneers, slumping back into his seat. His ears turn to the side; aggression.

"Nobody asked you to," he says. "You could let us go right now and we'd all be much happier, I think."

"I can't!" she shouts. She stands, eyes blazing. Her hands slam down on either side of her bowl hard enough to shake the whole table. "You are so stupid!"

Oh, so she's allowed to be angry?

Not to be outdone, Cellbit jumps to his feet and grabs Roier's spoon right out of his hand and stabs it into the table so forcefully it sticks straight up when he lets go.

"I'm stupid?" he laughs. He shakes his head, bares his teeth. "You're the one chasing ghosts, and not even the right ones! Your castle is fucked, and you're more caught up in your dead brother than the demon possessing your house!"

Roier's eyes widen. "Demon? What the fuck?"

"My brother is not dead!" the queen argues. "But he might as well be! He was a genius, and you're- you're just stupid! No wonder it took you so long to break out of prison, you had to wait for someone to think of a way out!"

Cellbit's ears ring. He can't see- is the room shrinking, is that it?

His hands twitch by his sides, long-lost claws flexing.

The queen sniffs and turns to leave.

"I'm going to solve the enigma myself," she snaps. "Since you're too stupid to do it, apparently."

Roier makes some little sound, but Cellbit can't hear it above the noise in his ears.

"You miss your brother so badly, huh?" he feels his mouth say. "Well! Why don't you just fucking join him?"

He's moving before he remembers how, and he's on the floor beneath Roier's body within seconds.

Cellbit screams and claws at the floor and reaches for the retreating form of the queen, and- oh, his face is wet, he can feel it as Roier flips him over onto his back and cups his cheeks firmly.

"Cellbo," Roier says, "enigma, Cellbit. Enigma do Cellbit. Okay? No murder, we can't go to jail. We have to get Richarlyson. And Pepito. Can't do that in jail, right?"

Cellbit's hands scramble to hold Roier's wrists.

"I hate her," he hoarsely says.

Roier nods. "Me, too. She sucks. But. Enigma. There's a mystery, yes? And she thinks you're too dumb to solve it, but we know she's wrong. You can kill her, but that'll be it. But if you prove her wrong, you can do that twice."

Twice. He isn't the prince. And he isn't stupid.

Cellbit sniffs and nods. "I'm- she's stupid. I told her she's stupid. She's too caught up in her own shit. Not very queen-like."

"Nah, she's bad at this," Roier agrees. His thumbs brush the angry tears out from under Cellbit's eyes. "But... so what? When you prove her wrong and we get to go, we'll never have to see her again."

He leans in close and whispers against Cellbit's lips, "We'll get to go home."

Cellbit's eyes flutter shut.

But:

"You're just manipulating me," he mumbles.

"Is it working?"

"...Yeah."

"Good."

'Good', indeed.

But Roier does have a point. Murder would feel good for the moment, but Cellbit would rather die than see his husband behind bars. And. And he needs his kids, he misses them so much.

So. No murder.

But there is a mystery or two at play.

One: why is the queen so convinced that Cellbit is her lost-slash-dead brother? Who told her to look for him, and how did she find him, and how does she know so much about him?

Two: what the fuck is up with the demon in the castle? Because it has to be a demon, no ghost is that powerful. Where did the demon come from, and why hasn't the queen gotten rid of it?

The queen may think that Cellbit is an idiot, but he really, really isn't. He just has a few issues. He's a genius, humble brag, he can solve these mysteries, and he will solve these mysteries. Then he and Roier can leave, and they can get their kids back from Bad, and Cellbit can be with his family again.

All he has to do is not murder the queen.

How hard can that be?

________________

To be continued

#a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose.#catboy in the village au #reminder that cellbo is a VERY unreliable narrator at all times in any au #ESPECIALLY when it comes to dealing with his sister here #meanwhile bagi... she's scheming lol

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up-in-flames-writing · 8 months ago

Text

I feel like we never talk about how hard it is to be a trans immigrant. We never talk about how escaping from a country that persecutes you does not free you from suffering & bigotry.

I may not be able to attend my own graduation ceremony. I worked so hard these past three years to achieve something, to be the first person in my immediate family to finish uni, get a degree, & then be able to actually do something with it, to pick my own life course & not stray from it. I reinvented myself during these last three years so much, from the shy, dysphoric kid with no friends to a man who maybe isn't doing the best in life, but who has a hope for the future. I worked hard to present myself in the best way I could, & yet I won't be able to see the fruits of my labours.

And, sure, the reason is real silly. I can't legally change my name, so the name on the degree will be my dead one, & the Vice Chancellor will read out the corpse of my old self in front of all my teachers & peers, everyone who knew me as Booker, & Booker alone. And they will expect to see a young lady in a dress climb the stage, only to be met with a boy who isn't quite a man yet, who is still forced to live under a girl's name.

And why? Why! Because I am an immigrant who feared for my young life when Brexit was happening, who has been teased & bullied for being an ESL student, who never quite belonged. Because I am an immigrant transman who could be imprisoned in my country of birth for the crime of wanting to reinvent myself, who has to walk on eggshells around the man who reared me because he grew up Polish & catholic & who knows how he would react if I told him I was his grandson & not his granddaughter. I am an immigrant who has to hide behind their parents because who knows how my extended family will react to me, who is still not allowed to tell his cousin, his little sister whom he adores, his real name despite the fact I was her age when I started questioning my own gender & I somehow wasn't too young to be in pain!

I am an immigrant who cannot safely return home, but the country that took me in isn't quite the safe haven either. Because I need a passport to prove that my name has changed, but a passport cannot be issued to me under a name my birth country does not approve of. Because to change myself fully, I need to become a citizen to a country that abandoned my homeland after the war & looked away when it was being subjugated during it. Because I need to know how many of the swans in London belong to the Crown for the state to consider me a citizen of this dying empire, despite the fact I've lived here for so long, I can't remember what my childhood home back in Poland even looked like! I cannot truly remember what my room in that flat in a small, backwater Polish town looked like anymore, except for the bed that we now have in our guest bedroom, & the bookshelf that cradles all of my books on transness & queerness & feminism.

Because I am an immigrant from a country who hates me, I am forced to live in a country that hardly tolerates me, & to live as my true self I have to subjugate myself for the sake of an old empire that lost its touch. I have to submit myself to a personal sort of colonisation, to be able to walk onto that stage at graduation with my real name on the degree. But I can't do that, because I don't have the money, because I spent the last three years breaking my back proving to people that the little girl with behavioural problems who was always bullied, was able to become something greater than the sum of her parts. Because I now don't have the time or the patience to tell you exactly when the Union Jack was created, or at what hour of the day is tea time, & I don't have the time to wait for a passport to be sent to me, only for me to return it to sender with a plea of changing my name upon it.

Because my transmacs friends in college had their names changed at sixteen, while I'm already done with my undergrad & still have to contend with the question of what citizenship I would rather have. Because I will sooner be on hormones & growing a beard than I will be able to change my name.

And in all this I find it so ironic that I was named after an angel, & like everything else in my life, I reject the goodness & the easy way out, I reject the things that once made me, me, to become my own god & rebuild myself out of the scraps left behind by a life of turmoil.

And still I am just some immigrant bitch stealing jobs from good, hardworking Britons, & I'm still just a transsexual fag taking women's rights away, & I'm still just some freak of nature manipulating the kids into sin & immorality. And no matter where I go, where I turn to, I don't feel all that angelic at all.

#booker speaks #booker writes #transgender #transmasc #transandrophobia #transphobia #immigrants #xenophobia

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the-dragon-hearted · 29 days ago

Text

Part 2

There is a universe, somehow, where Silco drowns again.

It's not a quick sort of thing - never is. That time he spent under the waves, tasting the sick concoction of Piltover filth and Zaun's rot, it may have been the longest moments of his life. Vander's hands around his throat didn't help in that regard.

This drowning is... different.

The decay of Zaun's dying streets is still there: the taste of his home akin to a corpse. It's curling up on itself after too much abuse and crying for justice. The stench of Piltover is there too: metals and shoe polish. Smoke too... if he went up to the surface and took a breath he'd smell Vander's last moments of glorious violence.

He doesn't.

He stays in his office below the waves, the river waters twisting the light into geometric patterns that dance around the sad conglomeration of lost souls. He's... drowning, and it fills him with familiar rage. This helplessness. This confusion. The same damn question ripping into his brain like a certain mouse into his late cat.

Why, Vander. Why?

What did he do to deserve... this?

The wily witty one, Mylo, sits at Silco's desk, at its corner. He's spinning a pencil around mindlessly, staring at the fish through the glass. Claggor's taken a seat on the floor, close to the door but out of harm's way should it slam open. He's taken to picking at his sleeves, suffering in the silence that must be drowning them all.

Silco doesn't quite care to change that. He's drafting letters to critical players in his game and prestigious business partners (he's sticking his head in the dirt and hoping that if he tries hard enough it'll all go away).

The blue girl, Powder, she has no qualms with breaking the silence, humming away an old lullaby. A pathetic sort of call for Piltover's better nature, a reminder of the siblinghood between Zaun and her filthy brother of a nation. Powder doesn't know that, she just knows it at Felicia's lullaby - perhaps Vi's lullaby. She was too young to remember much of Felicia, surely. She's snatched one of Silco's nicer pens and taken a seat next to her sister, intent on taking that mechanical pen apart. Vi is unnaturally still, staring into space when ever Silco dares to glance at her.

He's glancing at all of them, like a cornered rat. Which is wrong in itself. He's the danger here - likely more dangerous than any enforcer the children could've run into. Yet they lounge, unsure of what else to do and far too shaken to question.

What Silco would give for Vander to kick down the door. What he would give to see that familiar rage burning in the man's eyes as he demanded to know where his children were. Only then would the world make sense again.

Silco would grab Mylo - the boy was the closest - and the knife in his desk was always in arm's reach. Vander would trade himself for one of the children and there the plan would all fall back into place. Vander, helpless. The children, dead. Silco, victorious, his vengeance complete and Zaun's future ensured.

Instead, he's playing office worker with four awkward orphans.

Why, Vander? Why him.

Of all the people - of all the requests -

The door flies open and Silco hates how his heart soars. The children jump to defensive positions in a familiar dance they've all learned from Vander. Big ones protect the younger. Weapons are whatever you have handy. Look mean - look tough. Don't show them you're scared.

It's not Vander, it's Sevika. She's hardly in the room before the exclamation leaves her shocked lips: "Vander's dea-"

She cuts off as her eyes snap to Vi, the biggest and brightest colored of the bunch. It seems even the ever-ready Sevika is shocked silent by this... ridiculous situation.

"Sevika?" Vi manages in desbelief.

Silco's newest enforcer looks to him for direction. Oh, joyous reunions all around. Silco leans back in his chair and throws her a scathing look.

"Sevika, say hello to our guests," he emphasizes, massaging his head.

This is a nightmare, somehow. It should've been the greatest turn of events - a ridiculous stroke of luck from a dead man's foolishness. Instead, it's a weight around Silco's neck, heavier than any hand. Trust. A fickle, dangerous thing.

A heavy thing.

Sevika does not say hello. She takes a long look at all the children and then stared incredulously at Silco, it doesn't take a mind reader to guess what she's asking.

What the fuck is going on, Silco?

He'd like to ask a certain someone the same thing, but apparently, Sevika heralded the news he'd expected and dreaded.

"You have news on Vander," he supposed.

Sevika shook her head with a sharp scoff of disbelief: "Yeah. He's dead. The enforcers just shot him down a few blocks from the Last Drop."

The children take the news predictably. Quietly, though. None of them speak a word, eyes watering but keeping their jaws clenched. Claggor and Mylo sit back down, Mylo laying back on the desk and spinning his pencil once again. Powder sniffles, trying to muffle her cries. Vi stays standing.

Vander's dead.

This isn't a bad joke. This isn't a trick or a trap or an idiotic attempt at... anything. Vander's dead and he left Silco everything.

He's drowning.

It's Vander's fault again. This time though, things are different. Silco fought his way out of that river, blood running down his face and sickness bubbling out of his lungs. A baptism of pain and betrayal - he'd walked away with a purpose: the same determination a gnawing fox has to escape a trap that caught its foot.

Now, there's no determination. There's no direction.

"You wanna tell me what's going on here?" Sevika demands as she saunters into the room and gestures to Vander's four children. Lost and alone and looking to Silco for his answer.

Vi's watching him closely, hands closing into a fist. She doesn't trust him, maybe she knows something. Maybe she's smart enough to recognize that Vander's friends wouldn't take the news of his death with a smile. She's hurting. She's angry. She's moments away from snapping - just like Vander would be in her place, but she stays quiet for the younger one behind her.

"I assume you mean our guests," Silco hums as he looks away from Vander's successor. There is a smile on his face, but it's one of necessity. He doesn't know how to feel so he settles on the reliable guise of amused near-apathy. It keeps him confident and all others unnerved.

Sevika throws him a very demanding look. She thinks he has the answers.

"Vander sent them," Silco muses after a moment, pretending to return back to his work. "It seems I'll be looking after them for the immediate future."

It slips out of him as easily as blood from a head wound. It trickles to the floor and stays there, staining the soles of his shoe with... sentimentality. And yet the moment he says it, the confusion eases.

Sevika is staring at him in disbelief. Mylo and Vi are watching him something... softer.

Relief.

This doesn't change anything - if anything it makes his path clearer. Vander's out of the equation. With proof of his backing, his territory and his sympathizers open themselves to Silco like clams in boiling water. The children are... useful.

They're Vander's. No point in killing them now that the old Hound is dead. Silco's never been one for waste... they'll be capable and useful.

This changes nothing.

"We'll move into his territory tomorrow. His absence will leave certain fools the fester," the order seems to relieve some of Sevika's nerves too. She likes plans of action.

"We're going home?" It's Powder who asks it, hope in her teary voice.

Silco manages a dry chuckle: "If only it could be so simple."

There will be turf wars, at least until Silco utilizes some of his more... useful tactics. Hopefully, Vander's softer alliances will be sympathetic to the children. They'll have to stomach Silco. It's taking a breath of fresh air as his mind begins to churn again: reworking his plans around the children and their painfully reminiscent late Father.

Like he said: they're useful. That's enough.

He can make it mutually beneficial, while not completely forsaking the words on that damn napkin he has half a mind to burn.

This changes nothing.

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rosemaryreaper · 2 months ago

Text

Thanks to @fallout4reacts for the prompt!

So I broke my 1k words or less oneshot rule. Again. Because this became...something. I used this as an opportunity to explore my Sole's relationship with Danse since it plays a role in part two of Rosemary Reaper. But, uh, needless to say, that relationship is complicated.

Anyway, enjoy! As always, I'll eventually post this on AO3 after Tumblr has had it for a bit.

Word count: ~4,300

* * * *

Skin of Theseus (Danse)

“...entire site has been overrun. The door won’t last much longer. Paladin Brandis, sir. It’s been an honor, sir.”

The holotape’s whirring ceased with a soft click, taking the knight’s voice with it. Dust motes, thick and heavy in the light of the window, drifted over remains years past the point of recognition. A tattered orange flight suit hung loosely on filthy bones. Weighted down by a rusted chest plate, the skeleton slumped awkwardly against the wall as if too tired to sit upright. Deep scratches and burns in the wood told the story the tape had failed to finish.

Knight Delaney’s Pip-Boy clunked as she ejected the holotape. She wrapped the accompanying holotags around it before stashing them in her bag. “Well, that confirms it then.”

Careful with the strength of his suit, Paladin Danse swiped a hand through the dust on the chest plate, revealing the winged sword emblem on its front. Delaney wore the same Brotherhood-issue combat armor over her military fatigues. Hers was in notably better condition.

“Knight Astlin,” he said. “She was in my company, years ago. Best marksman I ever saw.”

“She was a friend?”

“Friend” was a difficult word to assign to bones, much less to any Brotherhood soldier. That he had been given the chance to hear Astlin’s voice again was astonishing, certainly, but the sight before him was not unexpected. It was an unspoken assumption that most knights would meet their end in battle, and all of Artemis had been assumed to have met that end nearly four years ago.

Tara Astlin had been his sister. They had fought together, bled together, and placed their lives in each other’s hands. But to call her his friend would have been foolish. It suggested a dangerous level of attachment. Of reckless hope—the kind that sank like a cold stone in his stomach as he stared at the body beneath his hand.

“She was a good soldier,” he said, which was the truth, though a dishonest one. He withdrew from his crouch to cast his gaze about the office. He did not look too closely at the feral corpses, new and old, that littered the room, nor did he look too closely at the way Delaney studied him. “We shouldn’t linger. Note the coordinates of the remains for our report to Scabbard. Scribes will be dispatched to retrieve them for shipment back to the Citadel.”

Delaney cocked her head. “I didn’t think anyone retrieved bodies anymore.”

The spike of anger was bitter and unexpected. He heard the cold in his voice before he could stop it. “We are not raiders—cutthroats and cowards who leave their men lying in the street. The Brotherhood honors its dead. We always—always make an attempt to bring our siblings home.”

She raised her hands. “I was trying to say it’s refreshing to see—if you’d let me get there. Sheesh.”

“You’re new,” he said, a reminder to himself more than her. “Consider this a lesson in the Codex. The last entry in a soldier’s Scroll may very well be their most important, as the manner in which they die holds as much meaning as the manner in which they live. We report their final deeds so that they may ascend into history.”

“So even though Artemis probably didn’t survive…”

“We can still bring them home. If not their bodies, at least their stories.” His gaze fell on the pile of older corpses by the door. Over a dozen decayed ferals at the entrance alone. “Knight Astlin died with honor. She will be remembered by those that come long after.”

These were the words he said aloud. He did not give voice to the anger, still simmering beneath the surface, at how her squad had left her here, barricaded in the room alone. He did not imagine how it must have felt to die with her back against the wall, no one around to hear her scream as the monsters tore out her throat. He did not give voice to these thoughts, to Paladin Brandis’s imagined failings, because to do so would make him a hypocrite. After all, Danse had gotten two-thirds of his own squad killed. He couldn’t rightfully pretend that he would have done any better.

“Have you noted the coordinates?” he asked when the silence stretched.

Delaney held up her Pip-Boy. “Already done. The satellite array isn’t too far. We could check out the next location before—”

A snarl shredded the air between them. One of the corpses twitched to life by her feet. Delaney threw herself out of the way, crashing into a broken display case as the not-so-dead feral lunged for her legs. He shot three lasers into the mutant’s spine. He shot a forth into the back of its head for good measure. It slumped on its stomach with a rattling sigh, unmoving—even after he gave it a solid kick to the ribs to test.

He prodded at the other ferals with the boot of his power armor, silently cursing himself. They had done a thorough sweep of every room in the Recruitment Office except this one. Astlin’s body had derailed him.

It was a poor excuse.

None of the other corpses came to life, which was almost a disappointment. He had the inexplicable urge to throw one out the window. He turned to his knight. “Area’s clear. Are you—”

Delaney was sprawled on the ground, shattered glass and splintered wood scattered around her. Her hand was pressed to her thigh, her teeth gritted as blood trickled from a gap in her armor. “Shit,” she hissed. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He crouched beside her. The string of curses ran through his head with renewed vigor. She was his charge. He should have double checked the room. Now look what had happened. “Did it bite you?” he asked, serious. The chance of infection from a mutant bite was dangerously high.

She shook her head, to his unexpectedly strong relief. “No,” she said through her teeth. “It was the damn display case.”

“Let me see, soldier.”

Blood soaked her fatigues when she removed her hand’s pressure. The wound was deep and jagged, with bits of glass embedded inside. Whatever broken edge she had caught, it had ripped her thigh right open. Not a simple fix.

“We’re not going to the satellite array,” he decided.

Delaney fully bared her teeth in a snarl, not unlike Dogmeat when he snapped at a raider’s heels. It wasn’t a look of pain. She was pissed.

They cleaned and dressed the wound as best they could in the wreckage of the office, but despite the aid of pressure and a Stimpak, blood continued to soak through the bandages over fifteen minutes later. She needed stitches, but this wasn’t the place for it.

Which is how they soon found themselves on the road not east to the satellite array but south to the nearest settlement. It was, uh…a painstaking process.

“This pace is inefficient,” he said for far from the first time.

She glared up at him, also for far from the first time. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

He liked to think he was mindful of his stride in his power armor when there were members in his squad without. He was not one of those paladins who exhausted their men by forcing them to sprint to keep up. At this pace, however, he practically had to shuffle his feet as Delaney limped alongside him. It would take an hour to walk a single mile, and by then it would be dark. There were too many nocturnal creatures that would love to happen upon slow, injured prey.

“We would move faster if I carried you.”

“You’d have to put your rifle away,” she said, breathless from exertion. “We’d be vulnerable.”

“You still have two hands.”

“Two guns are better than one.”

“You’re dripping blood down your leg.”

“I can walk.”

His patience was slipping. “We have very different definitions of walking.”

“We’re not far from County Crossing,” she snapped. “Just leave me alone.”

“This pace is inefficient,” he repeated. She ignored him.

If she were any other knight, he would have ordered her to listen. Hell, if she were any other knight, he would have written her up hours ago—after a harsh reprimanding. Instead, he bit his tongue, because Nora Delaney was not any other knight. She was not truly a soldier, though she had the honor of one. Most of the time.

And it was because she was not a soldier that he stowed his rifle in his scabbard, thrust his arms under her knees and back, and hefted her into the air without a word of warning. To no surprise, this act did not diffuse the situation, but he would not deny the satisfaction that accompanied it.

She thrashed, spitting like a feral cat. “I hate you. I hate you so fucking much.”

Coolly, he said, “You can direct your ire towards any hostiles that cross our path.”

“This is so undignified.”

“On that we agree.”

She would not have spoken like this to him months ago, when they had first met. She had been polite and obedient in the beginning. Since then, she had morphed into the most infuriating woman he had ever met.

He had known her true goal for joining the Brotherhood from the moment he had sponsored her. Everyone did, but it was easier to pretend the combatant who had recovered an entire super mutant stronghold’s worth of nukes was on their side. When she went off on her own for days or weeks without reporting in, Elder Maxon pretended she did so with his permission. When she talked back or disobeyed his orders on a mission, Danse pretended their inevitable success made up for it. Exceptions were made for Nora Delaney, the knight who wasn’t a knight. It simultaneously vexed and baffled him.

His vexation and her disobedience had only become stronger with each passing month. She snapped and snarled like a wounded animal, hackles raised in battle and out. The Brotherhood had yet to find what she searched for, and somehow it had become his problem. Somehow, he had to pretend she wouldn’t leave him behind as soon as she did find it.

They made it to County Crossing before dark. The settlement was barely more than a mutfruit patch and a shack, but it had clean running water, a rarity in the Commonwealth. The farmers allowed them to set up their tent in the roofless ruins of an old house, with access to any supplies they needed.

Anything we can do for General Delaney, they had said. Not for the Brotherhood—they pointedly ignored Danse. For Delaney.

Like he had thought: exceptions.

If he had to count his blessings—and not strangle the source of his perpetual headache—Delaney was calmer with her feet up. She had stayed quiet as they had flushed the last of the dirt and glass out of the wound. Now, as she lay on a camp mattress within the tent, she flashed him a small smile. He wondered if she’d hit her head on the display case too.

“This might be the longest I’ve seen you without your power armor,” she said. “I almost forgot there was a man in there.”

He could say the same of her—and then some. She had stripped out of more than just her combat armor for the occasion—her Pip-Boy, fatigues, and most of her clothes had been cast aside, leaving her in a tank top and underwear. He was accustomed to seeing his team in various states of undress. They normally didn’t smile at him while half-naked in bed, though.

Her legs were quite long.

“We do not have any local anesthetics,” he said, before he could process the thought. The farmers’ medical supplies were sparse. Apparently, the caravan doctor they stocked up from was due to pass by in two days, which didn’t help them now.

Her lips quirked. “Whiskey and a broomstick in the mouth?”

“We do not have those either.”

“More fun for me.” The smile dropped. Almost off-handedly, she asked, “I take it you’ve done this before?”

“Many times. You can trust I know what I’m doing.”

It had taken watching Haylen operate on herself only once for him to realize that having a single medic on the squad was a disadvantage they needed to mitigate in any way possible. Severe trauma was still beyond his abilities to treat, but a minor laceration on the leg was easy enough to suture without assistance.

“I do trust you.”

Trust was a given among his men, so he did not know why it surprised him to hear her say it aloud. She lacked discipline; she did not desire to shoot him in the back—or vice versa. That they would keep each other alive when they were together was one of the few constants in their relationship. Still, it had been an unspoken constant, up until this point.

She looked up at him, eyes too wide, jaw set too tight. It was a vulnerable position—laid out beneath his looming form. She was not a small woman, relatively. Tall, with long limbs toned by muscle, she’d once knocked Rhys flat on his back in a sparring match. But Danse was well-aware that, compared to him, most things were small. A towering height and broad frame were an advantage in combat with enemies that could swing a chunk of concrete at his head. Here in this tent, for perhaps the first time, he would have shrunk himself if he could, just so she wouldn’t look at him like that.

“This should only take a few minutes,” he said, which was the best he could do instead.

“Let’s just get it over with.”

She closed her eyes as he brought the needle to her skin. He kept his gaze on his task. Not on her face. If he looked at her face, no matter what expression she bore, it would distract him.

An illogical thought. He’d sewn knights back together before without issue. There was no reason she should have been any different.

He didn’t look at her face regardless. Exceptions were made for Nora Delaney.

In and out the needle wove, tugging at her skin with each stitch. She didn’t make a noise, aside from her uneven breaths. Over half a year together and he had never heard her cry while awake. She cried out in her sleep often, but they did not speak of such instances.

The minutes ticked by. He did not have Haylen’s deft fingers; she would have finished the procedure in half the time. His less practiced hands were clumsy by comparison, forcing him to take it slow. The cold lump of guilt gained weight behind his navel.

“Danse,” Delaney said, alarmingly unsteady. “Talk to me.”

He did not have Haylen’s bedside manner either. If there was a protocol for calming a person who would sooner bite his hand off than accept it, she had yet to teach him. “What would you like me to say?”

“Anything. Tell me a story.”

“Uh, I need you to narrow down the topic.”

A rumble rose in her throat. A growl or a groan, he couldn’t tell. “Scars,” she said, eventually. “Where did you get your scars?”

“I need you to narrow that down too.”

“How about the one across your jaw?”

It took an effort to keep his hands moving. Of all the ones she could have chosen…

He felt the bizarre urge to lie. To say he didn’t remember. Or that it had been from some great battle. She would surely laugh at him otherwise, and the last thing she needed was yet another reason to disrespect him.

All the foolish thoughts of a battle-green initiate with something to prove. He chanced a glance at her face. She had laid the back of her hand over her eyes, shielding herself from the world.

“Knight Astlin,” his mouth said, before his brain could give full approval. “Rhys bet her fifty caps she couldn’t hit a Nuka-Cola bottle from a hundred yards away, blindfolded.”

“She shot you?”

“No, she shot the bottle. Which exploded as I was walking by.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. He double checked that he hadn’t poked the needle too deep. “I bet that earned her quite the earful, huh?”

“In a sense. I let her off with a warning. It was an impressive shot.”

She exhaled sharply again. The vague impression of a laugh. “Look at you, rulebreaker,” she said as he had feared she would. But then she added, “I would’ve liked to have met her,” and that statement was worse—because he agreed with it.

“Almost done,” he said, for lack of an alternative. “Can you withstand the pain for another minute?”

“If you keep talking.”

He did not want to keep talking. He cast about for an escape, and he found it by his hand. “Where did you get this scar? On your shin.”

Her lips curled. With her eyes covered, it was nearly unrecognizable as a grin. “My husband tried to give me a piggyback ride. He tripped, sent us both flying. I scraped my shins on the pavement.”

Ah. Husband. Right. He had forgotten about the husband. She never talked about her old life. Nor did he ever ask.

“You were fortunate.”

“I was fortunate,” she murmured. The same word, yet inexplicably different from what he had meant.

He finished the last stitch. She uncovered her face, her brown eyes amber in the lamp light. Despite the ashen tinge to her cheeks, she maintained her grin as he cleaned up their makeshift medbay.

“It’s funny,” she said. “It’s the stupid scars I remember the most. The ones that tell stories. They’re starting to get covered up now. This one on my elbow,”—she traced her fingers along a discolored patch of skin, darker than the rest of her olive complexion—“there used to be a scar here from when I fell playing tug-of-war at a potluck. There’s a different one on top of it now. I don’t even know where it came from.”

She let the arm fall onto the mattress. Then she drew her fingers down her body. “When I left the vault, I kept track of them at first. The first time I got shot.” Her fingers circled an indentation on her thigh, above the fresh sutures. “The first time I caught shrapnel from a grenade.” Those fingers glided up her hip, trailing over stretch marks as she lifted her shirt above the dark crescents between her ribs. “After a while they lost meaning. They just show up. Enough time and all the old ones will be gone. I’ll be a completely different person with completely different skin.”

She let her hand fall to the mattress on her other side. He didn’t know at what point her grin had faded. Her shirt was still rolled up.

“Maybe it’s already too late,” she whispered. “The person who I was before all this, I don’t see her anymore when I look in the mirror. I think she might have died with the bombs, and I don’t know how to mourn her.”

It took him a moment to recognize this statement as metaphorical and not an admission to being a synth. It would have been easier if she had actually admitted to being a synth. Then he could have followed protocol. There was no protocol here.

She must have been in an extreme amount of pain to say these things to him. No bared teeth. No snaps or snarls. Just an ashen-faced woman too exhausted to pretend to be his vexation. They did not speak like this, paladin and knight. They had deviated from the roles they had carved for themselves. But they had both taken their armor off hours ago.

“I don’t remember my parents’ faces,” he said, and she went still. “Or most of my childhood. The boy who might have remembered died to become an orphan who cut his fingers on scrap metal. And that orphan died to become a soldier with scars, gained with every battle, every loss. I am not the same person I was when I joined the Brotherhood, nor am I the same person I was when my squad left for the Commonwealth. None of my men are.”

Haylen’s smiles were rarer. Rhys was quicker to throw a punch. And Danse? Four graves greeted him on every patrol of the police station’s perimeter, a constant reminder of the cost of a leader’s failure—and a permanent lesson learned.

“I cannot speak to your experiences. Only my own. I could count my scars,”—sometimes he did—“but it wouldn’t do much good. It certainly wouldn’t change them. I stand by the choices I have made, the orders I have given. It has not occurred to me to mourn the orphan with cuts on his fingers because that orphan would not have survived to today.”

She shielded her eyes beneath her hand again, though he had long since stowed the needle away. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispered, voice so strained the cracks were tangible.

His wrists tightened, the painful ache of an unfamiliar kind of panic. That he had never heard her cry was another constant in their relationship. By definition, it was never supposed to change.

Without thinking, he brushed his thumb against the indentation on her thigh, above the fresh sutures. “The goal you seek. Could the person you were before have achieved it?”

She took a shuddering breath. “No.”

“Then bury her. Honor her, but stand by who you have become.”

Her lips pressed into a wobbly line. He redirected his gaze to the medkit, shutting each latch with a sharp snap, too loud in the growing space between them.

She swallowed audibly. “You said the Brotherhood honors its dead.”

“We do.”

“When I die—really die, will you bury my body in Sanctuary, if you can? If not my body, at least my heart.” Without uncovering her eyes, she tugged the chain around her neck out from under her shirt. Two gold rings swung from her hand, a pendulum over her chest, glittering in the lamp light. “It’s the closest I’ll be able to get…to him.”

An absurd request to come from her. He doubted Delaney knew how to die. She would likely claw her way out of any grave before the dirt had settled.

Then he saw Astlin. Her back to the wall as enemies poured in. The ferocity with which she fought, taking down attacker after attacker, the bodies piling up in the dozens. Sheer stubborn willpower kept her on her feet—until sheer stubborn willpower failed to replace allies and ammo. In the end, she fell alone, with no one but monsters to hear her scream.

Except it wasn’t Astlin in the vision. It was the knight breathing tremulously before him, lost in time.

“You have my word,” he said. But you will never need it. Not while she was with him. He stood by his choices, including those made in a heartbeat. She would not be his fifth mistake; he would make sure of it.

She exhaled a gentle sigh. When her hand finally fell away from her face, her eyes were closed. If the pain had dulled enough to allow her to slip towards sleep, that was a good sign.

He moved to stand up. “You should get some rest. I will take the first watch.”

“Wait.”

Fingers closed around his wrist. He froze. She gaped at him, seemingly as startled by the act as he was. Her mouth opened, then closed. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears as clearly as he did in combat. One beat…two…three…four… She was still holding his hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly. “For snapping at you earlier. It was unfair.”

Whatever she had originally intended to say, that hadn’t been it. He couldn’t begin to fathom what thought had hooked on her tongue, but the warmer his skin grew beneath her hand, the less he wanted to wait to hear it.

“I think you may have injured more than just your leg,” he said on impulse.

She blinked at him. Then her touch vanished as sank onto the mattress, clutching her chest in laughter. It was an explosive sound, deep and melodic and bursting with warmth. He couldn’t recall if he had ever heard her genuinely laugh before. Surely he would have remembered the odd sensation it left in his stomach.

“Get some rest,” he repeated, once she had calmed down enough to wipe the tears from her eyes.

“Danse?” she said softly, halting his second attempt to flee. He stared pointedly at the front flap of the tent. The air inside had become stifling. “Thank you.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt. As best as he could to not give the impression of retreat, he left the tent, cutting directly through the cool night breeze to his waiting power armor. He slammed the fusion core into its slot and climbed inside with the practiced movements of someone who wore the heavy metal like a second skin. As the suit clunked into place around him, a confused warning about his elevated heart rate popped up on his HUD. He dismissed it.

Thoughts of their mission slowly recentered him. Despite their detour, today had resulted in the successful completion of multiple objectives. They had located remnants of the lost patrol, cleared a building of a feral infestation, and gained intel on a new location to investigate. Once Delaney was well enough to walk, they could get back on track to their inevitable victory, same as always.

Except tonight wasn’t the same as always. It wasn’t even the same as that morning, when they had set out together. Because, for once, Nora Delaney was neither his vexation nor his bafflement.

No, she had become something much, much worse.

#this might be the first time i've written my sole during the game #normally i write her post canon so she is a WILDLY different person here #fallout 4 #fallout 4 fanfic #paladin danse #nora delaney #sole survivor

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animatorweirdo · 9 months ago

Text

The Rebirth Of A Wolf (Part 2)

Part 1

You woke up in the forest, naked and covered in blood. You luckily find safety in a home of a kind woman as you have no memories of what had happened. Unfortunately, you soon find out the truth when someone from your past provokes the hidden beast within you.

Warnings: mentions of being naked, covered in blood, anxiety, mentions of dead people, werewolf attacks, awful stepbrother, compelled to break bones, Ronan is like a really shitty guy, violence, covered in blood, mentions of a dead sister and suicide, and killing.

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Walking through the forest. The ground felt cold and wet under your feet. The crows cawed above your head, flying and watching from the trees as you tried to navigate through the forest, wrapped in a blood-stained cloak you had scavenged from a rotting corpse to cover your naked body.

Shivering, you stopped to take a look around you, trying to find your way out. You were lost. Besides the dead bodies you had found, you had no idea where you were.

You had no memories of what had happened. You only remember leaving your home after your family disowned you, the attack, the darkness that followed, and then nothing. It was like your mind was refusing to remember.

All you know is that something wrong has happened and that you needed to find safety. Fast.

Your ears picked up sounds in the distance. Feeling hopeful, you quickened your space and followed the sounds.

Climbing over a hill, you saw a village brimming with hustle and bustle of life. You felt relieved to see people, but you also felt surging anxiety watching the blur of faces go about their lives. It was a feeling you were well annuitant with, but for the sake of getting help and perhaps a change of clothing, you sucked it up and approached the nearest house.

Surrounded by a battered fence and a poor excuse of a thatched roof was an elderly lady sweeping the porch and humming a song to herself. You cautiously approached her till her eyes fell upon you.

“Oh my!” She gasped, shocked at your state.

You froze, uncertain how to respond to her reaction.

“My dear child. You look like you have been attacked by a bear. Are you hurt?!” she questioned as she rushed to you dropping her mop on the way in the haste to get to you.

“No…” you slowly shook your head. “But…” you struggled to bring yourself to speak.

“I am lost,” you quietly uttered.

“Oh…” the older woman looked at you sympathetically. An air of silence fell between you, and for a second you contemplated returning to the forest. Anything to avoid the silence and the awkward staring that this very simple human interaction had brought upon you.

“Would you like to have a bath and something to eat? You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in a long time,” the woman asked as she began plucking the twigs and leaves sticking out from the mess of your hair.

“Yes… I would like that,” you nodded, compelled to bear the embarrassing encounter in favor of a warm bath and food.

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

In Tol-In-Gaurhoth, where the orcs and werewolves thrived under the dark banner. The werewolves howled to the sky while the orcs feasted on their spoils of the hunt.

In the dens of the fortress, werewolves were resting in their respective spots, some eating what they had been given while some fought to assert dominance over the other.

There crouched a hunched form belonging to a deformed orc watched them, counting each beast till he came to an empty spot on the list. He looked around, recounting all the werewolves, but could not fill in the empty blank on the list. Fear and panic settled within him.

Rushing through the rotting marshes and unlit dens, the orc arrived at the throne room, where the lord of the fortress was perched on his throne. His gaze was fixed on reports strewn in his lap, as the orc cautiously approached him, bowing before speaking.

“My lord…” the orc addressed nervously.

“What is it? I am preoccupied with cleaning after your pathetic kind, so make it quick,” Sauron said while keeping his eyes on the reports.

“Yes! My lord! It’s just…” the orc started, nearly stuttering. “One of the werewolves is missing. The recently turned one,” he quickly explained.

Sauron turned his gaze upon the orc.

“Was it killed in a hunt?” he asked, his voice eerily cold echoing in the lonesome walls of the fortress.

“No, no, no… The recent hunts had been successful with no casualties from our side,” the orc explained with a prideful tone. “I took it upon myself to inquire the other werewolves about it. They recount that they do remember seeing the missing werewolf during the hunts, but they did not account for their member’s return to Tol-In-Gauroth before sunrise,” he added.

“We have no idea where it might have gone off to as it has failed to even respond to the pack’s call,” the orc finished.

Sauron remained quiet, pondering as he reminisced about the werewolf that was an amalgamation of broken human he personally picked to be turned. His intrigue peaked as he couldn’t help but wonder what might have led to the werewolf’s sudden disappearance.

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

Freshly clothed, you were seated at the table while ruffling through the helm of your blouse and the dress the old lady, Lena, lent to you after you took a warm bath to get rid of the blood and grease. The clothes were lovely and felt comfortable. It just felt strange for some reason, like you haven’t worn proper clothing for years.

“How are the clothes, my dear?” Lena asked as she brought bread and butter to the table. Your nose was taken by the aroma the bread emitted. You could tell it was freshly baked, and that in itself was enough to make your mouth water.

“The clothes feel nice. Thank you, Miss Lena,” you said as you couldn’t help but immediately grab a piece of bread after she put it down on the table. Lena brushed her hand in dismissal. “Just Lena is fine. I’m not one for such formalities,” she said as she sat down and handed you the butter and other ingredients you could add on top of the toast.

“Thank you…” you said as you began buttering the bread.

“I do wonder what happened to bring you in such a rough shape,” Lena stated, “Were you attacked?” she glanced at you.

“Uhm… no,” you replied. “I don’t remember what happened. I only remember leaving home and then… nothing,” you took a bite of the bread, feeling the taste of butter and pork in your mouth. You nearly moaned from the comforting homey taste.

You then remembered the woman seated in front of you.

“I… really don’t know what happened. The next thing that happened I woke up in the forest, naked and covered in blood,” you said. “I— did find corpses of men when I was trying to find my way out. They looked like they were killed by some kind of beast,” you explained.

“A beast? Now that is quite concerning. Well, I am glad you found your way to this village before nightfall,” Lena smiled. “Dangerous creatures are known to roam the woods at night, so it’s only safe to remain in the village,” she added. You hummed in response while eating the food in front of you.

“Your family must be worried about you,” Lena said as she began making her toast.

You shook your head. “I don’t think I will be missed. They probably did not even notice my disappearance. We’re not currently on good terms,” you took a sip of the water, feeling the liquid quench the dryness in your throat.

“Oh. That is a pity,” Lena said as she took a bite out of her bread. You glanced at her waiting for her to continue the conversation.

“Well! I do not know how else can I be of help to you. But!” She said enthusiastically, making you look at her, eager to hear what got her so happy. “You may stay here if you have nowhere else to go,” she declared with expectant eyes.

“Really?” You asked, feeling a surge of joy within you.

“Of course! I do not mind some company. It would be rather cruel of me just to throw you out, especially when you experienced something so terrible,” she smiled.

You stared at your toast for a moment, feeling something jumping in joy within your soul. It was like a happy puppy was wagging its tail inside you. It was an odd but pleasant feeling, making you want to jump out of your seat and hug the woman in front of you. Dear gods, when was the last time someone treated you with such kindness?

“Thank you, Lena. You are very kind,” you uttered with a hidden smile.

Lena smiled as you two enjoyed the meal. You felt happy for the first time in years, but in your moment of found peace and joy, you were unaware of the things that were to come.

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

After Lena allowed you to stay in her home, you happily made yourself useful and helped her with every chore you could, even if some of them were unnecessary. Lena might have scolded you a few times to relax and not to take on every task in the house. She was not that old to need constant help, and she got restless if she had nothing to do.

The villagers didn’t seem to mind that you suddenly decided to live with Lena. They did think you were strange, but so far— you had gotten comfortable in your new routine with Lena.

Currently, you were outside, hanging the laundry to dry.

You never enjoyed doing chores when you still lived with your family. They forced you to do them every day, even the things that should have been their responsibility, but now that you got to do them voluntarily. You found it calming, relaxing even.

Footsteps reached your ears, and you stopped to turn around and see a couple of men approaching you and Lena’s home.

You frowned when the one who looked like the leader looked familiar.

“Excuse me, my lady. You live here?” the man asked.

“With someone. Is there something wrong?`” you asked.

“We just came to inform you about the late-night attacks of the werewolves…” the man looked at you, and when you saw his face — you finally remembered.

“Wait a minute…” he uttered, staring at you. A grin soon dressed his face. “(Name), is that you?” he asked.

“Ronan,” you said as you felt your blood run cold at the sight of your stepbrother.

“Well. I’ll be damned! I thought you died after our father kicked you out of the house,” he grinned, crossing his arms.

“You mean your father. I’m no longer part of the family, remember?” you corrected as you remembered the day clearly.

“And he stopped being my father long time ago,” you said as you tried to continue hanging the laundry.

“Oh… don’t be like that. Can you really blame him? Since you and your sister couldn't bring much pride to him unlike a son like me,” Ronan questioned with that mocking tone of his.

At the mention of your sister, you felt a rush of anger boiling within you and glared at him. However, unwilling to cause a scene, you controlled yourself.

“What do you want? If you have nothing else to say. Leave,” you picked up the laundry basket and began returning to the house.

“No need to be so hostile. I’m on business, but can’t I say hello to a dear sister of mine,” Ronan said, sliding his fingers through your hair. You angrily brushed his hand away. “Don’t touch me, and do not call me that ever again,” you snapped at him.

“And still can’t take a joke, huh? You’re still as short-tempered as ever,” Ronan said as he then grabbed your hair, harshly pulling it.

You dropped the basket. “I said stop!” you swiftly grabbed Ronan’s hand and began twisting it hard, making him yell and bend with his arm.

“Ah! Ah! Let go!” Ronan yelped as you forced him to kneel. You could feel and hear the bones twisting and cracking beneath your hand under the pressure. Seeing him whining in pain gave odd pleasure, and something in the back of your mind told you to break his arm— to see him suffer and pay for all the things he had done.

“Miss…Let him go. He won’t bother you anymore,” one of the men said, but your mind didn’t progress his voice. You were compelled by the thought of breaking Ronan’s arm and seeing him scream in pain.

You began to add more pressure to his arm, making him yell even louder. “Stop it! You break my arm!” he screamed.

A door then opened, and Lena’s voice came through.

“Is something wrong?” her voice snapped you back to reality and you released Ronan from your grasp.

He got up and hurried away from you, shaking and feeling his arm, glaring at you.

He glanced at Lena. “Nothing, ma’am. We just wanted to inform you that a group of dead people had been found in the forest, most likely done by a pack of werewolves. Stay inside during the nights and do not wander alone,” he explained, glaring at you before leaving with the other two men.

When he was gone, you glanced down at your hand, the one you used to hold Ronan down. Since when have you possessed such strength to make someone like Ronan kneel? He was one of the strongest in physical strength in your family. He always bullied you with it, and now you were the one who made him kneel.

“(Name). Did those men cause you trouble?” Lena asked worriedly.

“Yeah…” you said, looking at her. “I’m fine. I just…” you hesitated, thinking if you should tell her about Ronan being your stepbrother

“...helped him to get up,” you lied, feeling yourself cringe silently.

“Ah, well, that’s nice of you,” Lena patted your shoulder and then looked down to see the laundry you had dropped lying on the grass. She hissed, shaking her head. “(Name). I just washed them. Don’t just drop them on the grass and let insects run around on them,” she said as she began picking them up.

You awkwardly smiled. “Sorry…”

“Enough with the sorries. Just help me pick them up,” Lena said, and you crouched down to help her.

You couldn't help but glance toward where Ronan had walked off, feeling anxious about what might happen next now that you knew he was living in the same village.

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

The stars twinkled in the night sky. The owls were hooting in the trees and the crickets were hopping in the grass, filling the forest with their sounds.

Helping Lena with the dinner, you tried to distract your mind, but for some reason, you felt incredibly restless. There was this strange urge to go outside and catch some air. It was like the house had become too confiding, and your mind was also bothered by Ronan. You felt more restless knowing he was in the village. There was no knowing what he could do to make your life more unbearable.

The restlessness was so strong that it gave you a headache.

“Oh, dear. (Name),” Lena said.

“Yes, Lena?” you turned to look at her.

“I had forgotten to deliver a parcel to a friend on the other side of the village. They were expecting to get it today, so I have to go,” she explained as she was holding a parcel in her hands.

“Allow me. I do not want you to strain yourself since there is a werewolf threat. It will be quicker if I do it,” you said.

“Are you certain? You do not have to?” Lena questioned. You smiled reassuringly. “I will be fine. I feel a bit lightheaded so a walk of fresh air will do good for me,” you explained while taking the parcel.

“Alright then. Be careful…” Lena said as you then walked out of the house.

In the village, you swiftly delivered the parcel to Lena’s friend, who was grateful and began to make your way back.

The village was quite active despite the warnings about the werewolves. The tavern in particular was brimmed with laughing drunk men.

You glanced at the moon while walking. It was not at its fullest and when you stared at it long, you felt a sudden sharp pain in your head. It was enough to make you stop to rub your head for a moment.

A hand suddenly grabbed you from behind and began pushing you toward the forest at the edge of the forest. “What the –!” you didn’t get a chance to say anything as Ronan forced you to walk toward the forest. “Keep moving, dear sister. We don’t want to cause a scene in the middle of the village, now do we?” he kept his arm around your shoulder as you two walked toward the forest.

You began to feel anxious about what he had in his mind as he took you away from the safety of being seen by the people.

Ronan brought you to the forest, where it was dark save for the lights in the village. You finally pushed yourself away from him.

“What is wrong with you?!” you snapped at him.

“Relax! No need to take everything so seriously,” Ronan kept his hand up in surrender while keeping his infuriating grin on his face.

“All you have ever done is torment me! Why should I not take this seriously?!” you glared at him, angry yet cautious about what he was planning to do to you in the forest.

“You know, this behavior of yours is what got you kicked out of the family in the first place. You always think everyone is your enemy,” Ronan stated as he went through his pocket.

“Well, you and your family have never been a good family to me. So let’s just cut to the case. What do you want?” you demanded.

“Just to have a little talk… and maybe a little payback for nearly breaking my arm,” Ronan pulled a bag of some sort from his pocket. He opened it and then suddenly crushed the bag in his hand, making blood spurt at you.

You nearly gagged as blood messed up your dress. You could only guess it was pig blood, which made you even more angry. It also only strengthened the headache you were having.

“Ronan? What the hell?” you yelled at him before he suddenly grabbed you.

“How long do you think it would take for a werewolf to smell all that blood?” he asked as he held his arm around your neck, forcing you to face toward the forest. You were filled with fear when you finally realized his intentions.

“Are you insane?!” you exclaimed. “Are you seriously trying to get me killed now?!”

“No… I am trying to capture one. Did you know that a werewolf pelt pays well in the market? So how about you help me out by luring one out?” Ronan grinned.

“No! Let me go!” you started struggling in his grasp, but he now had a stronger grip.

“Calm down. I am a professional,” he said as he forced you forward.

“No! I am not playing these games of yours,” you yelled, trying to pull yourself out of his grip harder.

“Stop… moving so much,” Ronan said as he only held his arm tighter around your neck.

Something rustled in the bushes. You and Ronan froze and stared at the bushes. The leaves of the bush were rustling violently.

“Who’s there?” Ronan called out, but no one answered.

You then smelled something in the air, something familiar.

A werewolf leaped from the bushes, charging at you and Ronan with a fearsome bark. Ronan pushed you to the ground to avoid getting bitten by the beast. You groaned as you landed on your back. You then saw Ronan running away, leaving you at the mercy of the beast.

You fearfully turned your attention back on the beast, crawling away as it began approaching you, bloodlust filling its golden eyes.

The werewolf snarled and then pinned you down, pressing you down with its paw and showing its sharp teeth at your face. You looked away, closing your eyes and waiting for the inevitable death. But suddenly, the growling stopped.

You dared to open your eyes to look and found the werewolf intensely sniffing you. It sniffed your face and neck before backing away, allowing you to lean up on your hands and see it staring back at you with a mixture of confusion and hesitation in its eyes.

All the sense of fear vanished as you stared back at the creature, unsure what to do as it looked at you as if you were the strangest thing it had ever seen.

You two then heard the villagers yelling in the distance, no doubt hearing the commotion. The werewolf glanced at you before sprinting away into the darkness of the night. You looked as it ran away, unable to progress what had happened.

You lay back down, releasing the tension with a breath and waiting for the villagers to find you. What the hell was that?

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

After the incident, you told the villagers what happened and without hesitation, what Ronan tried to do to you, which got him into trouble. He tried to weasel himself out of it but ultimately failed. It gave you a certain satisfaction because there was no doubt the incident tarnished his reputation. He even tried to make you the idiot who wandered alone into the woods and he was only looking out for you, but unfortunately, some people saw him bringing you there.

Lena was worried sick for you when she heard about the incident. She scolded you and forced you to tell her that Ronan was your former stepbrother and that he had always bullied you in your life.

Her presence comforted you, but you couldn't stop thinking about the werewolf. You couldn't figure out why it had left you alone or why it looked at you the way it did.

Not only that, the incident had left your headache worse. You also felt a faint pain in your abdomen. You first thought your period was kicking in, but it did not feel like it. It felt like something else. Something you couldn't explain.

Lena helped you to visit the local healer, who gave you some medicine for the headache, which only numbed the pain a little but not fully.

Lena forced you to rest throughout the day since she was concerned you were getting ill, but your headache did not get better even if you managed to take a nap in the middle of the day.

Your headache numbed when the night came again, and you were sitting on the porch, breathing in the fresh air. Breathing in the fresh air helped you a little, and the herbal tea helped your mind to relax.

The moon hung at its fullest, casting an alluring glow upon the world below. As you gazed upon its brilliance, an inexplicable urge stirred within you, as if a hidden force longed to break free under the mesmerizing light.

Suddenly, you sensed something approaching you.

You snapped your gaze toward Ronan, who was walking toward you with more than a couple of men behind him. You knew what it was about and prepared for the worst.

“(Name),” Ronan started.

“Go away,” you said back.

“I will… once you admit it,” he replied.

“Admit what? That you tried to use me as bait and then left me to die, nearly getting me killed,” you stated.

Ronan hissed. “You know that’s not how it happened,” he said.

“It did happen!” you yelled, standing up. “You are just lying to get back on the good graces of the people,” you added.

“You never change. You’re still just like the rest of your side of the family, full of lies,” you said.

“Lies? You are the one who’s trying to make me the bad guy, just because I happened to bully you when we were kids,” Ronan snapped at you. “Is this your way of getting back at me? I admit I wasn’t a good brother to you, but framing me attempting to get you killed? That’s a bit low even from you, don’t you think?” he questioned.

Anger began to grow in you with each sentence he said. “Because I am not framing you! You literally forced me into those woods and then spilled blood on me, and you ran away when an actual werewolf came,” you remarked.

“You’re not only a liar but a coward!” you yelled at him

Ronan looked more angry at you. “Do you have to be so stubborn with your lie? No wonder your whore of a sister killed herself so easily!” he said. ‘

You stared at him with profound silence.

“Is something wrong?” Lena opened the door, and without control over yourself, you slapped Ronan hard across the face.

“You bitch!” Ronan yelled as he then punched you. Lena shrieked as you scattered back with a bleeding nose.

“Alright, Ronan. I think this is going too far?” One of Ronan's friends stepped up. “Shut up!” Ronan yelled at him.

“(Name), are you okay?” Lena worriedly came to you, laying her hands on your shoulder as your hands were dressed in your blood.

Suddenly, the pain in your head and stomach intensified, causing you to groan as you slouched down, arms wrapped tightly around your midsection.

The pain was unbearable. Your head throbbed as if it were about to split open, and the anger you felt toward Ronan only seemed to fuel it further. The pounding of your own heart echoed loudly in your ears, while an unsettling sensation churned in your stomach. It was like something was trying to claw its way out.

“(Name), what’s wrong?” Lena asked, more worried than ever.

Ronan only stitched and looked over to his friends. “See… pretending like she has broken bones even though I didn’t even hit her anywhere else,” he boasted.

"I... I don't feel... so good," you managed to gasp out, your breaths becoming shallow and labored. Your gaze fixed on Ronan, and something inside you snapped, like a chain that had been holding you back.

Your eyes flared golden, and then your chest began to pulse with pain. You screamed, your voice distorting with another that sounded like a beast. Your body then convulsed, growing bigger and ripping your clothes apart.

In your place now stood a giant form of a wolf.

Ronan backed away as you stood before him as a werewolf, glaring and growling at him. He screamed when you bounced on him, slamming him down against the ground and beginning to tear him apart.

Lena and Ronan’s friends stood back, horrified as you ripped Ronan apart. He screamed until he choked on his blood, and then you ripped off his head, letting it bounce on the ground. Blood dressed your mouth as you stared down at the corpse beneath you.

The villagers began screaming when they saw you.

Ronan’s friends ran away when you turned your attention to them. Lena stared back at you with fear as you came closer to her.

You growled at her until you heard a voice within yourself. You stopped, shaking your head as your instincts told you not to hurt her. Snarling, you resisted the urge to kill the woman in front of you.

When you saw the villagers coming at you with torches and weapons, you growled and ran away, leaving Lena alone. She was frightened yet worried as you disappeared into the darkness from whence you came.

Upon a hill, away from the village yet high enough to see all that occurred, Sauron looked at the chaos you had left behind.

"So, there you are, little wolf," he said to himself, glancing toward the direction where you had run off as a werewolf.

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