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phan3145 · 6 months ago

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Title: Slippery Slope. Fandom: Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes. Rating: T. ( Cursing, intensity) Pairing: Eventual Noa x Human!Reader.

***NOTE: I’m not super pleased with this chapter, it very much is filler. I had a massive plot point happen originally, but I thought it would be too soon this far in. So, I wrote some Sunset Trio bonding in two hours this morning. I have chapters 6 and 7 (this original chapter) written for the future, but chapter 5 will take place directly following the end of this one before another time jump. Another point, we will (probably) not have another Noa POV until chapter 7. So, buckle up for that, and thank you to everyone who has followed me, and to all my readers!!!

Chapter 4: Shifted Plans

You

If someone would have told you years ago that three apes would soon turn into the closest thing you had to friends or family, you would have said that they were insane. Noa was no surprise, seeing as there was an early bond of trust formed between the two of you, but his Sunset Brother and Sunset Sister, as they called each other, came as quite a shock. Anaya had a very comedic and gentle nature, which you only witnessed Noa and Soona have on occasion. Most of those occasions you noticed, were when the trio were together. He brought it out in them, and even you had to admit, he brought it out in you too. For that you were grateful, you hadn’t felt things like that in a long time.

You believed it was that same playfulness in you, and the passage of time, that finally convinced Soona to drop her guard and trust you. You respected her from day one, appreciating that she apologized for attacking you, though you hadn’t even realized she did at the time. That conversation had been awkward, at least on your part, since you still had been terrified out of your wits. You had just wrapped your brain around the fact that you could trust Noa, when a flurry of fangs and limbs had lunged for you. To suddenly have two more apes appear on top of that, screeching and hollering, your entire body just shut down. You had covered your head and jugular out of instinct, but had been willing to accept that your death would be quicker if you didn’t fight back.

Thankfully, Anaya had been able to pull you out of that cocoon of fear you had wrapped yourself in. Although, his face being the first thing you saw had unnerved you, almost wanting to curl up again. It wasn’t as soft or as comforting as Noa’s had been, but Anaya’s eyes, though deep brown instead of green, as well as the small ape noises he made, expressed clearly that he had no intentions to harm you. It made sense in your brain, reason coming back to you as you watched him sit up…if they wanted to kill you they would have already. Blinking away tears, you had sat up with him, looking around you then to see Noa and Soona standing further away so as not to frighten you further.

Soona very much felt like the big sister of the group, and while they had explained they were born on the same day, Noa did confess that they were older than him. Her approval meant more to you when you saw the love and care he held for her. You wouldn’t force it though, and you did not initially intend to be adopted by the trio at all. On that day, introductions had been made, apologies were given, thanks were said once more for saving Noa, another tour of your home was given…excluding the exit burrow, and they had departed. As Noa predicted, Anaya followed behind them as they left, basket of grapes in hand as he feasted.

You hadn’t seen them for almost a week after that, and you hadn’t sought them out either. You felt unsure how to handle having a peace with them. You still moved carefully through the forest, not knowing if they had told the rest of their clan about your existence. Coming across them was one thing, but coming across other apes? Too dangerous.

Then, one sunny midday, you went to the creek to bathe, scoping out the area to find you were alone. The water had receded a few days after the dam broke, and nearly a full week later with only light rain, you deemed the water was clean enough to use. You clung to the edge of the bank, the water still very cold after hardly any sun over the past month. You rubbed and scrubbed quickly, not wanting to be exposed any longer than you needed to be. You had grabbed the scrap of fabric you used for a towel, which you assumed used to be a table cloth of some sort, drying yourself in record time. The baggy men’s shirt, which you had scrounged up during one of your journeys to the old vineyard, was thrown on quickly afterwards.

The fact it was intact had shocked you, so you only wore it on bathing day, appreciating the buttons that still functioned. Thanks to your run in with Noa, the pants you were used to having on bathing day were still dirty. The shirt was long enough though, dangling just a few inches above your knees, and with no one around it didn’t matter anyway. It was your own sense of modesty at that point, which would be damned in a life or death situation. Standing, you left the pants on a dry mound next to the water, ready to be rinsed in the creek once you had finished your routine. You still had to wash your hair…

This was the part you hated the most, checking around you as you made your way towards the rock you had used to save Noa. Just down the side of it, where a fifteen foot drop existed, was a water fall you utilized for washing your hair. You scaled the side, careful of your footing on the slippery rocks, taking a final scan of your surroundings. The sound of water drowned out everything, so once you closed your eyes you would be vulnerable to anything and everything.

You reached the small ledge that ran under the waterfall, sticking to just the edge, close enough to not be seen from the other side, but far enough away the harsh current wouldn’t topple your center of gravity. One last look…still nothing. Kneeling down, shoulders hunching as you leaned forward, you took a breath before shoving your head under the heavy spray. Your fingers desperately scrubbed at your scalp to remove the dirt and oil that you were able to with just water alone. How you wished you had learned how to make soap when your mother was alive, or at least written down the ingredients she used.

Your hair was getting too long again, knowing you would have to cut it soon. Long hair was a luxury you simply couldn’t afford anymore, especially in a situation like this. The longer the hair, the longer it took to wash like this, which was something you would avoid like a plague. Who were you trying to impress with long hair anyway? Just below your ears was enough for your vanity to still feel feminine.

Rushing now, you felt water force it’s way into your nose when you turned sideways too quickly, causing your lungs to constrict in an attempt to push the water out. You reared back, choking on a cough as you wrapped your hair up in your towel. Whatever you had done was good enough. Wheezing, feeling the water trying to suffocate your lungs, you chose to check your surroundings again, still seeing nothing. Only then did you let the burning in your lungs take precedent, allowing your coughing fit to rage. You rubbed at your throat and nose, trying to let any remaining water drain forward, tears flooding your vision.

After a minute or two, you caught your breath, contemplating how you had survived this long on your own. Sheer luck probably. Speaking of luck…the good thing about being alone is that no one was around to see you nearly drown yourself while washing your hair. You let out a small laugh at that, clearing your rough throat after. Rolling your shoulders you pushed from the ground, scaling the side of the rock once more. Going up was so much easier than coming down.

Thankfully, the hard part was over. Body was washed, hair was washed, and you could go back to your burrow once you washed your pants. That was the plan at least…until you popped your head over the top of the rock and saw three familiar faces up stream where you had previously been. Three familiar faces that were holding your pants. They looked concerned, their hands moving rapidly, though you couldn’t hear a word spoken amongst them.

Just as you contemplated what to do, you saw Anaya jerk his head upwards, straightening his spine to see over Noa’s shoulder. The two of you locked eyes and he immediately hooted and pointed in your direction. Noa turned and Soona leaned forward to see what Anaya was reacting to.

“Echo!” Anaya practically screeched as he ran towards you on all fours.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

You yanked the towel off your head, showing no concern for the few strands of hair that were plucked out with it. You hauled your body up the rest of the way onto the rock ledge, kneeling as you quickly tied the cloth around your waist in a makeshift skirt. Before you could push yourself into a standing position, Anaya skidded to a stop in front of you. You inhaled a breath, shocked by how quick he had reached you. You opened your mouth to greet him, but the ape was moving again before you could blink.

He raised himself up on two legs, starting to circle around you, touching you freely in what you initially thought was a greeting. His hands roamed so quickly over different parts of your body that by the time you tracked one movement he was doing something else. He touched your right arm, then your left shoulder, his other hand pushing your forehead with a finger in order to tilt your head back. Said fingers then began picking up strands of your wet hair and sniffing loudly.

You had just raised your arms up to protest his poking and prodding when his hands left your body all together. He turned then to call to Noa and Soona, “Echo is…alright…not hurt.”

Your face was frozen in stunned silence, slightly irritated but not quite sure how to react to his actions. Then Anaya turned back to you, smiling, “Hello Echo…you don’t smell…hard to track…found your…cloth by creek…Noa worried.”

“Anaya…was worried,” the previously mentioned ape arrived at your side along with Soona. You saw his hands move rapidly in graceful, fluid motions you didn’t understand. Your eyes narrowed in confusion, then you saw Anaya start making gestures of his own back to Noa. It clicked then, this must be their way of communicating without words, having a private argument…if Anaya’s more choppy but forceful gestures were any indication. Soona broke in momentarily, just as Noa had started to make his first sign. Hers were short, broken apart in space but resolute in her movements. There was no room for argument, watching her turn to Noa, seeing him nod a second later before she turned to Anaya.

Anaya’s head lowered to look at you before he nodded as well, turning to blow a raspberry at Noa. Noa’s shoulders seemed to roll as he turned to move, releasing a few disgruntled noises. He didn’t go far, just a few steps away to show his annoyance. Soona seemed to notice this as well, letting out a huff before crouching to be eye level with you. You leaned back then, eyes crossing slightly as you tried to hold her gaze.

“You are…not injured…can stand?” She asked.

“Oh, yes.” You answered, gripping the knot of the cloth around your waist. You slid a foot out in front of yourself to push up into a standing position, but had no time to bare down on it as you felt hands go under your arms.

“Anaya…help Echo…” Anaya offered. You stiffened as you were hoisted upwards, feeling very toddler like in that moment.

You saw Noa’s brow furrow, but he said nothing. Surprisingly, it was Soona that sighed through her nose and huffed at Anaya, “Echo…not ape…does not like…to be touched…all the time.”

Anaya turned to look at you, wanting confirmation. Your continued stiffness and sheepish look was enough for him to quickly let go of you. A surprised scoff noise escaped him then, raising both arms in the air to show his hands were off of you. “Did not know…will not do…again.”

You hummed good naturedly, gripping onto your makeshift skirt even tighter as you found your footing. “It’s alright, I appreciate the help Anaya, but I’ll ask for it in the future if I need it. Okay?”

“Okay!” Anaya hooted, giving a big thumbs up.

The action caught you off guard, something that seemed to be happening more often than not with the apes around. Where did he even learn that? Much like with Noa, you had no chance of fighting off the sputter you let out that soon morphed into laughter that shook your body. Anaya jumped in place at the sudden sound, and while Soona did not take a step away from you, she did tilt her body backwards.

Feeling slightly bad for laughing at Anaya, who clearly had no idea he had done something funny to begin with, you tamped down on the remaining chuckles. Both apes were looking at you like you had a second head, but then you caught Noa’s eye and saw the warmth in his green gaze. You almost thought you could see a curve to his lips, and maybe you were right, because then he started hooting, returning to the three of you and grasping Anaya’s shoulder.

“Why…sound…like that?” Soona asked you then.

You hesitated, not wanting to say the wrong thing and potentially offend any of the apes. Searching for the right words, you finally decided on, “Relief, joy…uh, happiness.”

“Cackle,” Noa supplied. You almost regretted telling him that word when he added, “Echo noise females make…like laugh but better.”

“Definitely…louder.” Anaya said, making the same gesture as before, watching your reaction. Even though you knew he wanted the response, it didn’t stop the whole thing from being funny. You didn’t ‘cackle,’ but you chuckled at the action. That was apparently enough for Anaya, who hooted, looking proud of himself as he swiveled his head from Soona to Noa.

Noa blew a raspberry at Anaya, pushing off his shoulder, “At least…Echo…thinks you are…amusing.”

Anaya dropped his hand then, scoffing as he bumped into Noa, “At least…Echo thinks…something about Anaya…Noa jealous.”

You thought for a moment that was more of a barb than it apparently was, watching the two apes playfully nudge and paw at one another. You side-eyed Soona next to you, who looked unimpressed with her Sunset Brothers, before she shifted to look solely at you. Your pants were clutched in her hand, now outstretched to you. You took them gratefully as the two apes next to you persisted with their back and forth. Soona’s eyes hadn’t left you, and you swallowed your nerves under her stare. You tried to break the tension, shrugging, “Males.”

A pause, you thought she didn’t understand, before she let out a huff, “Yes.”

Her hand nudged your back as she turned away from Noa and Anya, directing you to do the same, “We go…to creek now…leave the newborns…to their games.”

You felt something warm in your chest at that, a contented smile creeping up as you walked her back to your washing spot. A small glance at her eyes showed the mischievous nature she hadn’t displayed with you before, and she hooted under her breath as you walked away from said males who had no idea you were leaving.

A first step had been taken.

Further growth didn’t happen overnight though. You were a little over a month into knowing the apes now, and you were now spending almost everyday with them. It started out as a couple of days a week after that bathing day. It was always the three of them together at that point, before it slowly became an every other day visit. That’s when you noticed some days it would be Noa and Anaya, or Soona and Noa, and then on occasion it was just Noa. The trust he mentioned on that first day was starting to make sense now, as you felt that maybe the other two apes were always there so early on because they didn’t fully trust you yet.

It always started with the creek, a common enough place to find you since you weren’t hiding from them anymore. You always needed to do laundry, get clean water, or fish for the protein your body so desperately needed. From there, the group would discuss plans for the day, or upcoming ceremonies the clan would hold. You made sure to note the when and where of those to avoid the areas that day. Oddly enough, it was only partly for your safety. Mainly, you just didn’t want to get in the way.

Sometimes their plans for the day would get taken over by yours; following you to pick fruit, helping you craft tools from wood or stone, or even go hunting with you. Usually it was for rabbit or squirrel, seeing as you wouldn’t know what to do with a deer even if you had the heart to kill one. Then came the shock of discovering that the apes did occasionally hunt deer and other wild animals too, not just fish. The idea of evolution started to make more sense as you saw the large gap between the species dwindle the more you spent time with them.

Today however, your plans shifted to theirs as the apes discussed traveling on a ‘Caesar Journey,’ as they called it, for lost information. You had been working on a new spear head when they started loudly discussing whether they should leave today or tomorrow. Anaya and Noa both agreed that it was early enough to leave today. Only Soona seemed to have reservations, vague though they were, regarding ‘many unforeseen delays’ that could take place. You had asked where they were going and Anaya had told you they called it the Valley Beyond. It sounded ominous, but when Noa described the path to get there you realized it was an old city.

When you traveled with your mother, you had passed by during the cover of night, staying on the edges of it before settling here. You had not remembered where it had been, only how tired you were as you trailed behind her. After several years of living on this side of the creek, safe in the forest or in your burrow, you hadn’t thought about it since. You only traveled to the vineyard because your mother had taken you there, being on your own meant you didn’t explore as much.

You were shocked when you found yourself asking if you could go as well, even more so when they agreed.

That’s how you now found yourself astride a horse. You had only ridden one once before, blocking out the subsequent memory of it bucking you several times. You eventually had enough, wrapping its luxurious mane around your hand and wrist, determined that if it bucked you again it would be missing some hair for the trouble. It tried, but soon realized it would do more harm than good. When you had reached your settlement you had told your friends and father you would never ride again after all of that.

Looks like fate had a sense of humor, as this horse looked dangerously similar to the one you had ridden all those years ago. Impossible, but it had made you simmer in irritation when Noa first told you that you would be riding with him on his horse. You would have preferred to ride with Soona, or even Anaya, but all agreed that Noa’s horse would be best, something about being familiar with Echo and ape riders. You didn’t really want to know what that meant.

You were surprised that the apes didn’t walk everywhere, but seeing as this journey would be an hour or so on horseback, and time seemed of the essence, it made sense. You had brought a spear with you, which Noa had slung onto his saddle bag, and satchel full of fruit for later. You didn’t have much time to prep before you were on your way, and now you wondered if you should have brought the dagger that you kept under your pillow. You hardly ever used it, but it was a good source of protection and could have come in handy. Then again, the less weapons around the apes, the better. Besides, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to get that close to anything dangerous anyway.

Speaking of danger, the three horses that composed your group suddenly approached a tunnel, one that went so far into the mountain that you couldn’t see the light on the other end. There was only darkness. You swallowed, Noa taking the lead and going in first. He kicked his heels slightly, urging the horse to pick up the pace. It did as he instructed, shifting from a peaceful walk into a trot.

You slowly straightened in your seat, leaning back to stay within the light for as long as you could, so much so that you soon found your back flush with Noa’s chest. He didn’t comment or react to you, not that you would notice if he did. Once you were completely submerged in darkness there was nothing you could see, whether your eyes were opened or closed. No way to see danger right in front of you…and that thought caused the hairs on your arms to raise, your heart to skip a beat or two. You took a deep breath then, reminding yourself that you didn’t have to be afraid of what was in the dark…your friends were here. Noa was quite literally at your back this very moment.

You decided to close your eyes, to focus on the things you could that didn’t require your eyes. The sound of hooves was the first thing you noticed outside of the pitch darkness, the echoing sound of Soona and Anaya’s horses following close behind. Your heart had calmed and your breathing was steady, similar to the rise and fall you felt of Noa’s chest. The chill of the underground made itself known then, an almost damp cold clinging onto your arms and shoulders. Though you were no longer scared, the skin on your arms pebbled, the hair there already raised from earlier.

It became that much more noticeable when you felt Noa’s arms shift around you, readjusting his hold on the reigns. Heat was radiating from his arms, his whole body actually. The cold threatening to seep into your bones was more prominent, but also held at bay thanks to Noa’s warmth around you. Apes ran warmer than humans didn’t they? Or, was that just the outer layer of their fur?

It was nice.

Before you could think on it too much, you noticed light brightening the backs of your eyelids, prompting you to open them. And just like that, you were out. You released a sigh of relief, sitting up and away from Noa now that you felt safe again. He was kind enough not to mention you clinging to him for comfort as you continued onward. It was probably best that you did not take advantage of his generosity though, making vow to yourself not to do that on the way back.

You almost wished Noa had said something about it though, because with the exception of an occasional joke from Anaya, the ride had been pretty silent. You tried not to dwell on it, normally comfortable in silence, but with that dark tunnel just now, and Noa so close behind you…sitting so long in silence, you weren’t quite able to shake the unease of it all. As if sensing your feelings, Noa decided then to break it, “You ride well.”

You smirked, not quite what you thought he would say, but it was a good way to break the ice. You decide on teasing him to lighten the mood, “Says the ape who wouldn’t let me ride on another horse.”

“You want to ride horse…on your own?” He chuffed.

“Absolutely not!” You were quick to answer. Craning your neck back, almost touching his shoulder again, you explained, “Soona and Anaya are smaller than you, it would probably be easier for one of their horses to carry two riders.”

“Horse makes no difference,” he shrugged, scanning our surroundings. “You are small…easy to fit anywhere.”

No, you were not, you were only slightly shorter than Anaya when he stood on two legs. Again, you reminded yourself, by ape standards you probably were. You didn’t have nearly as much muscle as them, thinking back to when it had taken everything in you to haul Noa up from the creek, but he had lifted you like it was nothing.

You turned your head then, eyebrows scrunching together, “Then why did it have to be your horse?”

Noa smirked, “Easier to keep an eye…on you…if you are in front of me…and easier to make sure…you don’t fall off.”

“Get bucked off, you mean,” you muttered.

“Ape horses…do not buck riders…unless they are afraid,” Noa explained. “Easy to fall off…if you do not know…how to ride.”

You spread your hands out in front of you, “I’m riding just fine, aren’t I ?”

If God was real, he sure had a sense of humor, for in that next moment the horse took off in a gallop. You gasped, looking down as your hand desperately held onto the pommel in front of you. You felt your body start to bounce, fearing you were about to slide right off on a certain bounce. Noa’s arms tightened around you then, grunting, “Rock your hips…”

“What?” You asked, tensing up as another bounce threatened to send you off the left side of the saddle. Only Noa’s quick reflexes, strength, and balance kept that from happening.

“Widen your hips…rock with the motion.” Noa instructed, right hand going under your chin to tilt your head back up, “Look straight ahead…chest up…lean back with the jump…I have you.”

You did as he instructed, feeling more stable until you played back his last instruction. “Wait-wait… jump? What jump? Why are we jumping?”

Noa’s eyes were fixed ahead and that’s when you saw it. At the edge of the city, an abandoned barricade. That was the jump, though your first instinct told you there had to be a way around it, the longer you stared the clearer the picture became. A large pond on one side, a collapsed building on the other…stretching for who knows how long. Jump. There was no other option.

You turned then, noticing Soona and Anaya’s horses were also already in a full galloped sprint. You locked eyes with Soona, who looked just as worried as you felt. She turned to Anaya next to her, making a sign they hadn’t showed you before. Anaya looked up to you then, signing the word Trust at you before letting out several shrieks that sounded like a war cry. They knew what was coming up ahead. You felt your breath stutter as you turned back around, replaying Noa’s words over and over in your mind. You could see the barricade approaching and a count down began in your head.

5…Widen your hips…

4…Head up, look straight ahead….

3…Chest up…

2…Lean back with the jump…

You felt Noa’s right arm relinquish the reigns to wrap firmly around your middle, securing you in place and pulling you to be flush with his chest once more.

1…I have you…

You felt the horse bare down, all its weight on four legs, thrusting itself forward off the ground. Then you were simply suspended in the air. Time seemed to stop, and you wondered if the horse would clear the jump. Similar to that of a deer, you thought perhaps it leapt too early, but as its front half made it over you felt reassured. Then you felt the slight pull of Noa to angle your body back. You listened, the entire movement completed in one fluid motion as the descent forward concluded. The next thing you heard was it’s hooves hit the ground, continuing on in a gallop before slowing back to a trot.

You released the breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, panting in Noa’s grip. His hand slid upwards from your middle to tap at your clavicle, “Breathe…you did well…still on horse.”

You looked down, knuckles white on the pommel. You pried them off, not too proud to note the slight tremor. Then Soona and Anaya were joining you to create a row of three, with you and Noa being flanked on each side.

Soona hooted, “Were…you scared?”

“Of course not,” you replied. “I always nearly faint when I’m having a good time!”

All three apes hooted and chuffed their amusement before continuing on. The branches and dirt of the forest had transitioned to asphalt road, making each step the horses took seem twice as loud. You continued down several streets before you finally had the nerve to ask, “What are we looking for?”

“Human work…anything from Caesar’s time.” Noa replied.

Human work? That didn’t make any sense to you, but it was their Caesar Journey. You decided saying silent was the best thing to do. They would let you know when they were going to stop. In the meantime, you decided to try and decipher the ruins of these old buildings, attempting to figure out what they used to be.

A lot of empty panes and broken glass more often then not confirmed it used to be a business. Maybe a bank, or a law firm. Something boring like that. Other places that had faded color reminded you of food or clothing stores. You could make out a few vowels on the signs but didn’t recognize anything specific from any of the photos or old videos you had seen back in the vault as a child.

A sound far off in the distance to your left caught your attention, but you saw nothing there. None of your ape companions reacted, so perhaps it was just your imagination. That’s when you noticed a building unlike any you had seen thus far. It was made of white stone, with an old engraving at the top in gold that had faded over time. Three letters caught your attention, barely able to make them out…but it was enough. You knew exactly what it was.

“Noa, stop! Stop!” You called, twisting in the direction of the road you had just passed, attempting to dismount.

Soona and Anaya’s horses startled but were quickly reigned in by their riders. Noa had a harder time with you as you squirmed, wanting to get down against his wishes. Finally he called out in a huff, “We’ve stopped, stop…will help you down but cannot if…you fall first.”

With a graceful glide to the ground, Noa landed, turning and offering his arms to you. Soona and Anaya dismounted as well, wanting to see what it is that had you so enraptured. It took you a moment to swing your other leg to one side, but once you did you felt ready. Noa allowed you to brace yourself on his shoulders as you dismounted.

Whoa.

Your first step felt weird, causing you to sway slightly. Your legs still felt bowed wide for some reason. Soona covered her face, which you imagined was her nice way of not laughing at you. Anaya had no such reservations, hooting and pointing as he called out, “First time rider wobble.”

You snickered, bending your knees a few times to re-center yourself. Noa huffed good naturedly, “Will get used to it…happens to everyone…first time.”

“Right,” you said, unsure, looking down at your feet. Then you remembered what had caught your attention, and as you took a few more steps towards it, your suspicions were confirmed. “I think this might interest you. This would be classified as human work.”

“What is it?” Soona asked, seeing what you were so focused on.

You smiled, “It’s a library.”

#planet of the apes #pota #kingdom of the planet of the apes #kotpota #noa #noa x reader #noa pota #fanfiction #planet of the apes x reader #anaya #kotpota soona #kotpota anaya #kotpota noa #noa kotpota #soona #soona pota #noa x human reader #slippery slope series

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sheeple · 1 year ago

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Miracles don't exist | 20: Just like the lot of them

Genre(s): Riddle!reader / Slytherin!reader / kinda slowburn / little happy moments Fandom(s): Harry Potter Pairing(s): Theodore Nott x Reader / Harry Potter x Riddle!reader Summary: Being the Dark Lord's daughter and raised under the strict supervision of the Malfoy's is no easy life. Especially if you start crushing on your father's arch-nemesis, Harry Potter. And that while being engaged to one of his follower’s sons. Warning(s): Not so nice Sirius :( but he means well A/n: Like the first time, I'm gonna take a few weeks off posting MDE. Chapter 21 will be posted on September 27th (because it is my birthday and I'll be turning 21). That also means that I'll post two times that week; chapter 22 will be posted on October 1st. As a little bday present :) [Masterlist] [Mini masterlist] [Playlist]

It's been a couple of hours since the battle and you're locked up in the Infirmary at Hogwarts. Nobody is allowed near you until... you do not know what. In front of the open door, you see Sirius pacing back and forth, looking at you every now and then while an Order of the Phoenix member stands guard.

You passed out before you and Sirius were out of the Floo network. When you woke up, a vase with pretty pink tulips was on the bedside table. Without needing to read the card you knew who it is from.

Suddenly, Sirius and the Order member get called somewhere, presumably to talk to Dumbledore about Voldemort and whatnot.

You turn to your side and stare at the partition with a sigh. A whisper of your name makes you sit back up. Theo looks around to make sure nobody's there before hurrying towards you. You climb out of the bed and limp towards him, hugging him shakingly.

The dark-haired boy wraps both his arms around you, cradling you to his body. "Thank Merlin you're alright. You are alright, right? I was so scared." He takes your face in both of his hands and he checks every nook and cranny.

You feel the blood rush towards your face and you turn away shyly, burrowing your face in his hands. "I'm fine." Your words come out muffled before you pull your face away, "a bit battered and bruised, but fine."

He sighs once again and pulls you back in his embrace, with no intention of letting you go. But when there is a cough, both of you turn your heads and see Sirius standing at the entrance of the infirmary.

"You shouldn't be out of bed." Sirius narrows his eyes at Theodore, estimating if he's a threat or not.

Reluctantly, you let go of Theo and get back into the bed. He goes to sit next to you, tucking you in while Sirius takes place on the chair next to the bed.

"How Harry? And the others?", you ask, not knowing what to talk about.

Sirius nods, scratching his moustache. "They're okay. The matron has patched them up and they're resting in their dorms. Harry's... with Dumbledore."

You hum, nodding.

"Listen", begins Sirius, his eyes flickering towards Theo, "I don't know if it is smart to discuss this with... your friend being here."

Theodore straightens his back and glares at Sirius. "Don't worry about me."

The elder man nods, leaning back in the chair. "Right. After Bellatrix... struck you down, and when You Know Who came—"

"They were both there?" Theo turns towards you with big eyes, his hand grabbing yours. "Did they hurt you?"

"She did, but I attacked her first. The Dark Lord called me young and weak. Before he could do anything Dumbledore came." You do not dare to rise your gaze.

"You attacked first? Since when do you do that?" Theo cocks his head to the side, an angry undertone laced in his words.

You throw your hands up in the air. "She was going to kill Sirius! I couldn't have stood there and done nothing! I'm already in big trouble back at home so who cares?"

He jumps up from the bed, his top lip curled up. "Who cares? Who cares? I care! If you go back to that manor you'll be tortured or killed. And you know they're not above that."

Rolling your eyes, you fold your arms over each other. "I can take it. She crucio'd me back at the Ministry. It wasn't the first time and it won't be the last time I reckon."

"You were crucio'd again?!", the two men say at the same time, shock on their faces.

You slump down and pull the covers over your head. You don't understand the big deal. Knowing who your mother and father are and their temper means that this won't be the last time that spell will be used around you.

"That's it, you're staying with me this summer", Sirius decides and stands up from the chair, his hands on his hips.

You and Theo look at each other and then back to Sirius. "What? No. I'm already staying with Theo." The boy next to you on the bed nods and you feel him pulling you closer to him protectively.

"And how will you be safe? His father is a Death Eater. How do you know he's not just like the lot of them."

Theo slumps his shoulders and shrinks down. You and him never really talked about his father and his views on the Dark Lord. You don't know if it is because you're scared about what he will say or if he's ashamed of his views.

Straightening up in your seat, you grab his hand. "Don't- Don't talk about Theo like that! If there is anyone 'just like the lot of them', it's you! Every bloody one of you has written us off as being a Death Eater. And you of all people should know what's it like to be forced to be something you're not by your family!"

You fold your arms over each other as you turn your head away, not in the mood to look at his hypocritical face. You hear Sirius huff as he rises from the chair. He hoovers for a moment, before walking out of the infirmary and closing the door behind him.

Theo wraps an arm around your shoulders and presses you against his chest. He rests with his chin on top of your head and his thumb rubs comforting circles on your arm. "My father...", he hesitates for a moment, licking his lips, "I got words that my father's arrested. Pretty sure he's on his way to Azkaban right now."

You face the dark-haired boy. "Oh, Theo..." You hold one of his hands and lace your fingers with his.

He shakes his head but won't look at you. "It's better that way. Were safe- you're safe for now." He leans his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter closed and you and Theodore stay like that until you've fallen asleep and Tho has tucked you under the covers.

You stand with folded arms outside the Gryffindor common room, waiting for the second year to get the golden trio. The first to come out of the hole behind the portrait is Hermione, who gives you a big hug. You get slapped in the face with her hair but return her hug eagerly.

"Oh thank God you're fine! They wouldn't let us into the Infirmary. Not even Sirius could enter. He was at his wit's end!"

Squeezing her tightly one last time before letting go, your eyes flicker to Harry's. "I'm just glad all of you are in one piece. And the others? Are they also..."

Ron nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Only Harry got the full brunt of it. He was caught in between Professor Dumbledore and You-Know-Who."

That makes you snap towards the bespectacled boy. You frown, studying him. A couple of cuts but nothing more. "How are feeling?"

Harry shrugs his eyes cast to the ground. You chew on your bottom lip, turning back to Hermione. "From the not-so-celebratory vibes, I assume the Dark Lord is yet to be defeated."

"No... But the Death Eaters present were arrested though."

You hum. "Yeah, I heard it from Theo. His father and my uncle are on their way to Azkaban. They are probably going to hold a mock trial but it's pretty clear that this time it wasn't under the control of Imperio."

The air between the three of you is tense. You purse your lips before speaking. "Right... I'm going to go. I have to pack my stuff to go with Theo."

"You're staying with Nott?" Harry takes a step closer to you, which you counter with one step away from him. He notices it and his shoulders slump.

"Malfoy Manor is not a safe place for me to be at the moment, seeing I made Bellatrix smack against a wall. And as that woman has no maternal instincts, I rather not challenge her."

Realising what you've just said by the three surprised faces, you turn on your heels and make a beeline for the Slytherin common room. But before you're halfway down the first set of stairs, your name gets called out. You turn and look at Harry with raised brows.

"Thank you. For saving Sirius."

You give him a small smile. "He's family after all."

Taglist (bold means I couldn’t tag you): @the0doreslover @lqndkxlmqma @st4rrry @choppedpartymuffinwinner @ledtassoo @literallyobessed @lestat-whore @vanishingcherry @harrysnovia @pietrobae @ireallywannasleep127 @yeolsbubbles @fruityfrog505 @fluffybunnyu @theroyalmanatee @shinrjj @hegdus @kermits-bitch @m1kasawps @noah-uhhh-what @mypolicemanharryyy @fals3-g0d @decapitated-coffee @thatgirljas13 @slytherinambitious @mythicalamphitrite

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hp-hcs · 1 year ago

Note

I just had a Crazy thought. Idk if I’ve EVER read a Ton Riddle x ftm Reader before and now I’m CURIOUS. Pls （＾ν＾）

yk, i dont think i’ve ever seen one either 🤨 which is some BULLSHIT if you ask me

ANYWAYS i have no idea what this is but yk i actually finished something so that’s pretty girlypop. also GODDAMNIT i need more tom using 40s slang

phoenix tears (chapter three of phoenix tears) — 40s! tom riddle x ftm! dumbass! granger! reader

he’s babygirl i don’t make the rules

problem solving by creating more problems, a case study by harry potter and y/n fr

glad to see all of the ftms have found my acc, i love all of y’all mwah

TWs: ‘40s era homophobia; couple of outdated homophobic slurs; i guess tom misgendering reader? but he like, doesn’t even know what being trans is so-

requests? please? i beg??

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“What’s this?” You pulled a wrinkled old book out of Harry’s trunk, sitting down on the wood floor of his dorm, crisscross applesauce.

The cover must’ve once been very fine leather, but it was now warped with water damage and age. The pages were brittle and seemed liable to disintegrate at the lightest touch. But the most prominent part of the book was that there was a charred black hole right through the center.

“Huh? Oh- Tom Riddle’s diary. His very first horcrux,” Harry glanced up at you from where he was also sat on the floor, desperately trying to organize all of the shit that was in his trunk to begin with.

“Is it dangerous?”

“Nope, not in the slightest.”

You opened the cover, the leather creaking and cracking under the slightest pressure. You were surprised to find that the diary was completely blank inside. You flipped through a few more pages; nothing. It was totally empty.

Unless Tom Riddle had only written in the center of where the odd, charred hole was. Which was, y’know, pretty unlikely.

“How’d you destroy it?”

Harry frowned to himself, trying to decide if Runes homework from two years ago should go in the keep or throw away pile. “Basilisk fang. Has Ginny seriously never told you?”

You shook your head, eyes wide. He grinned at you, handing you a stack of various important-looking documents mixed in with past homework assignments to go through, and immediately dove into his story of shallow teachers and secret chambers and blood on the walls.

You gaped at him in awe as he finished his story. “But wait- if Fawkes’ tears were all you needed to like…heal and not die, would the same work on the diary?”

Harry paused, looking up at you. “That’s…a good question.”

“Think we should try?” You asked. “Maybe Teenager Tom could talk some sense into Adult Tom?”

Harry seemed to genuinely consider it before shaking his head. “Ach, but Hermione would kill us.”

Your shoulders dropped and you frowned as you think about your sister. “But…she’s at the Burrow tonight, remember?”

“Well,” Harry said slowly, still on the fence. “If Hermione’s not around to scold us...”

~~~ “This was a terrible idea this was such a terrible fucking idea-”

The diary smoked and hissed, writhing around on the floor. The book flapped open, the pages ruffling around and fizzing.

Scrambling backwards, you clung onto Harry, praying Slughorn wouldn’t walk in. Or worse, Filch.

You’d snuck into the Potions classroom after curfew, hidden under Harry’s invisibility cloak, with the intent of finding phoenix tears. After going through Slughorn’s potion cabinet, you'd found the vial all the way in the back. Which, of course, had led to you two deciding to test your theory about the diary right then and there.

The diary suddenly made a pop noise, like someone cracking bubblegum. It then stilled all of its movement, lying open at the center of the book, when a dark liquid, ink, began seeping out from it. The ink pooled around the book, turning all of the pages black and heavy.

You mentally cursed the stain it would leave on the flagstones.

The diary then erupted with a bright light, rattling against the floor with the exertion of whatever magic it was using.

Harry pushed you back behind him, forcing you to sit down and throwing his invisibility cloak over you, then pulling out his wand. Taking an offensive stance in front of where you were hidden, he waited, every muscle in his body coiled like an animal waiting to lunge.

The light seemed to grow thicker, like honey, and started taking a corporeal form. Then just like that, the light vanished, and the form—a person, by the looks of it—crumpled on the floor in a rather undignified heap.

The person staggered to its- his feet.

Tom Riddle, you thought, holding your breath.

God, he was pretty.

He started laughing, seemingly unaware of neither you nor Harry’s existence. “O Lord and butter, now we’re cooking with gas!”

You blinked. All of that was English, but not a single word of it made sense.

How old was Tom Riddle?

Harry took a tentative step forward, hiding his wand behind his back. “Are…you alright?”

Tom whirled around, startled by the sudden voice. He looked Harry up and down appraisingly before a wild grin spread across his face. “All reet? A schnook done brought me back!” He laughed rather maniacally, eyes gleaming. “What’s your name then? I oughtta thank you.”

Harry’s lips thinned. “We’ve met before, Tom.”

Tom’s eyebrows raised. “We…have?”

Wordlessly, Harry pushed up his fringe.

Tom drew in a sharp breath. “Potter.”

“Riddle.”

“So what, you’ve brought me back to kill me again?” He sneered. “There’s no basilisk around to save you this time, Potter.”

When Tom took a step towards Harry, you gasped quietly—evidently not quietly enough though, because Tom’s head swung around towards you.

He stared straight at you. You held your breath again, praying that he’d go back to threatening Harry, or something.

Instead Tom stepped closer to you, mumbling a quiet Revelio. He smiled and leaned down, tugging the cloak off of your head.

“Well well well, what’s this? A spook?” He pulled the cloak off of you completely, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Hm. Well aren’t you a bit of a scrag, cookie?”

“I’m…sorry…?” You questioned, baffled. “I don’t speak old.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a bit plain and homely, doll,” he said with a mock-apologetic look on his face. “In the nicest way possible.”

“Aw, shucks,” you said dryly. “I was worried the genocidal maniac who’s killed a bunch of our friends might think I’m unattractive.”

He raised an eyebrow at your sarcasm, looking you up and down again. “Ah. Or are you a swish?” He asked, tilting his head. “Can’t quite tell.”

“A swish?”

“You know, a queer. One of those.”

You cringed. “Harry, make him go back in the fucking diary.”

“Did I hit a nerve, doll?” Tom asked with a smug smile.

“Not really, but I have a feeling that if I have to deal with your ancient ass any longer, you will.”

“Ooh, well ain’t you got moxie, little thing? Tell me, you a dame or a fella?”

“Ah yes, the two genders,” you mumbled under your breath, causing Harry to snort and cover his mouth with his hand. “I’m a uh…‘fella’.”

“You sure look like a gal to me.”

“Yeah, and you sure look like an asshole to me.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. You’re a mudblood, aren’t you?”

“Lot of sass coming from Mr. Pureblood over here.”

Tom took a striding step towards you, his teeth gritted and his fist raised.

“Wow, resorting to Muggle fighting? Wouldn’t expect that from you, Thomas Marvolo.”

His cheeks flared red with anger. “I oughtta-”

“It really sucks being made fun of for your blood status, doesn’t it?” You asked casually.

Tom paused.

He took a step back.

“All reet. I’ll admit, you got me there.”

Harry scowled. “Look, we wouldn’t have brought you back unless we had good reason. And Old You is now indiscriminately killing Muggles, which seems like a pretty fucking good reason, if you ask me.”

“Ah. Yes. That does seem to be an issue,” Tom acquiesced. “But why me?”

“We figured you could reason with Old You?” You jumped in. “Or at the very least, you’re the least corrupted; you have the most soul left.”

Tom shrewdly glanced between you and Harry, then back at you. “What do I get in return?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. What do you want?”

“Not to go back into that damned diary,” he said vehemently. “Never again.”

You glanced over at Harry. He shrugged. “We can try…?”

“Hipper dipper,” Tom replied dryly. “Where do we start?”

~~~

“Well that’s a barney old game the old coot’s been making you play, huh?”

“You’re just saying words,” Harry mumbled, resting his chin on his hand as you all sat at one of the Potions classroom tables. “Not a single part of that was comprehensible.”

“He basically just said that you’re fucked,” you shrugged. “You’ve been doomed to die since you were born. Dumbledore’s been raising you like a lamb for slaughter.”

Tom looked at you, surprised. “Well…yes.”

You rolled your eyes. “Smarter than I look, Thomas.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll stop as soon as you you stop calling me a fairy.”

He furrowed his brow. “Why’s that bother you so much?”

“It’s a fucking slur, Thomas. This ain’t the forties, or whenever you’re from; people are allowed to be gay now.”

Tom froze, eyes wide. “W-what?”

“Yup.”

“Well, cut off my leg and call me shorty,” he murmured, amazed.

“Wait’ll he finds out you’re trans,” Harry mumbled, snorting.

You elbowed him in the side, rolling your eyes.

“Trans…?” Tom questioned.

“We don’t have that much time, Thomas. Focus up.”

“Natch, all reet,” he shook his head. “Are we ready then? Plan all set?”

You nodded, a sly grin spreading across your face.

“Let’s go fuck some shit up.”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

chapter four

#harry potter #fuck jkr #hp #hp x male reader #x male reader #gay #x reader #tom riddle x male reader #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle #transgender #trans reader #trans

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zeciex · 7 months ago

Text

A Vow of Blood - 86

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

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

Chapter 86: A Vow of Fire and Blood

AO3 - Masterlist

The incessant ringing in Daenera’s ears drowned out the clamor of the throne room, its persistence mimicking the relentless crash of ocean waves against rocky shores. A debilitating nausea twisted through her, churning in the pit of her stomach as she forced herself to remain poised and unyielding. Her eyes, sharp and blurry, swept across the gathered nobles–a sea of faces etched with varying expressions.

Her thoughts churned like a turbulent sea, threatening to engulf her from within. Aegon’s voice reverberated in her mind, each word a piercing echo of cruelty and mockery. His taunts were deliberate, designed to provoke and inflict pain-–‘what did you say, brother? You feed him to your dragon and you’ll feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well now that she has gotten a taste for bastards?’

Whatever Aemond had once claimed about what happened in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay now seemed a faint echo to the harsh truth laid out by Aegon’s cruel words–a bitter truth that sliced through Daenera more sharply than she had anticipated. It gnawed at the already tattered remnants of her heart, for had he not claimed, with a voice bordering on repentance, that it had not been his intention to kill her brother? That he had never meant for it to happen?

Had that confession been nothing but a lie? Was his semblance of remorse merely a facade crafted to soothe the sting of his actions?

Aemond’s face bore no sign of regret or guilt as he was being celebrated for his deed. Instead, Aemond maintained a composed, chilling demeanor. The corner’s of his lips were slightly upturned in what was almost a smirk, his eye sharp and discerning, as he bore the weight of what he had done with his head held high. And somehow, this managed to tear even more at the remnants of her heart–betrayed by love for someone more beast than man.

Daenera swallowed hard, her throat parched as she clenched her teeth, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. She fought to maintain his composure, even as her heart pounded loudly, its beats echoing in her ears like the relentless drum of war. The turmoil within her threatened to spill over, yet she held herself steady, by driving her nails into his hand–she could almost hear the crack of thunder in the depths of her mind and the haunting sound of wings beating against the tumultuous winds as her brother attempted to flee. The sharp, metallic taste of despair lingered on her tongue, as she thought of the terror her brother must have felt, and for a fleeting moment between heartbeats, Daenera thought she caught sight of him among the gathered guests–his dark curls matted and sticking to his skin, his pale blue eyes, flecked with hints of brown, catching hers. His skin appeared ghostly pale as if he had emerged from water, watching her with a deep frown. He was there, and then, he was gone.

Was there even anything left of him for her mother to find? The thought lodged itself like some terrible blade driven between her ribs, twisting and burrowing deeper with each passing moment. She could only imagine her mother’s agony, scouring the rugged coastline of Shipbreaker Bay, her eyes scanning every cliff and rock, her pleas directed at the stormy, unforgiving sea to relinquish what remained of her son. She imagined her mother’s despair, begging the waves to return even a trace of him so she could be certain, so she could properly lay him to rest.

‘A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death.’

The words reverberated in her mind, a haunting refrain amidst the cruel taunts of Aegon, who seemed to revel in her torment.

Laughter filled the grand hall, an echo of heartless mirth that mingled with the clinking of glasses and the swell of music, and Daenera felt as though she was going to be sick. They toasted the death of her brother as if it were a cause for celebration–a grand feast, complete with wine and song, treating his demise with a festivity that suggested his life had been devoid of any worth, as if his death were deserved.

Aemond was a monster, and Aegon, sharing in the revelry, was no different. None of them were. They had usurped her mother’s throne, they had killed Joyce and Darvin, they had hung Kevan and Sithric. They still held Fenrick, Eddin and Patrick in the dungeons, pawns to be used against her. They had coldly murdered Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell for refusing to bend the knee. They had conspired, stolen and murdered to put a monster on the throne. And now, they exalted the slaying of her brother as if it were a heroic deed, celebrating his killer as though he had won a great battle. But it was neither great nor a battle. It was murder. What chance did a mere boy have against a dragon like Vhagar?

Every cheer, every toast added weight to her condemnation. They were all complicit, every last one of them–and the Greens most of all. Daenera damned them, her heart seething with rage and despair.

Daenera stood abruptly from her seat, unable to remain any longer. Her voice trembled, tinged with emotion as she excused herself, “If you’ll excuse me, I fear I have worn myself out.”

Aemond immediately rose to his feet as she did, a frown etching itself onto his brow as he watched her intently. His hand stretched out towards her, pausing mid-air to reveal shallow cuts across the palm of his hand, and the bruising indent of her nails on the surface of it, “Let me escort you to your chambers…”

“No,” Daenera responded coolly, her eyes fixing upon him with a chilling detachment. He still bore the visage of the boy she had once loved, yet now he seemed nothing more than a monster disguised in the remnants of that past affection. “This feast is in your honor; you shouldn’t leave. I have Edelin, she will escort me back.”

His reaction was immediate; his jaw clenched, muscles tensing as he gritted his teeth. He looked away, clearly stung by her rejection. Daenera turned her back on him, her movements graceful and deliberate as she gathered the heavy fabric of her skirts and moved around the table, descending the few steps from the dias and onto the floor.

Daenera drifted into the shadows cast by the columns, skirting the edges of the throne room where the dim light enfolded her like a shroud. Lacking the strength or inclination to take the same way back from which she had come, moving through the festivities, she chose a path less noticeable, one that avoided piercing through the throng of revelers. The thought of every eye upon her, scrutinizing her trembling form, was unbearable. It was already enough to have his gaze on her–she had felt it from the moment she had entered the throne room. His gaze had lingered on her, skimming across her skin like a gentle caress, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Once a thrilling sensation, it now felt invasive, as sharp and unwelcome as a cold blade pressed against her throat. She had refused to meet his gaze, fearing what she might find there–feared finding the cold cruelty of his mask, more monster than man. Or worse, she feared that if she looked at him, she might find some semblance of warmth there, a flicker of something once familiar–something terrible and loving. It had been almost a relief to find the mask he wore with such seamless perfection that Daenera had been left wondering if his visage of steel and ice was not a mask at all but rather his true self, sculpted to slice through whatever lay in his path. She had once believed she could see beneath his mask of steel, foolishly finding something genuine and tender lurking beneath. But had there ever truly been anything there other than the darkness?

As Daenera retreated into the shadows, she could feel his gaze trailing her every move, its weight cruelly tearing at her heart. The sensation was disquieting–and she loathed it, despised the way her heart still responded, still tore itself apart under the burden of his attention.

Daenera’s heart seethed with hatred. She hated Aemond for murdering her brother, for the lies he had woven with such ease, each one a silken thread that tied her hands together. She hated him for the mask he wore–if any–and she hated herself for the inability to discern where the facade ended and the man began–if there was a man at all beneath the facade. She hated him for the deep, aching pain that gnawed at her day and night, for the accolades he received with smug arrogance, as though self satisfied. She hated him for ensnaring her heart, for making her love him.

But above all, amidst the swirling tempest of her hatred, a dark, insidious thread wove itself through–the hatred she harbored against herself for still feeling, for still aching, for still loving the shadow of a man who might never have existed at all. She hated herself for it, and this self-loathing gnawed at her as deeply as any betrayal.

Amidst the tumult of her thoughts and emotions, which threatened to shatter her fragile composure, a figure suddenly blocked her path. The man, tall and lean, was adorned in a dark green robe edged with black fur lapels, his chest bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King. Otto Hightower stood draped in the shadows cast by the revelry, his gaze imposing as he looked down at her, effectively halting her retreat. His voice, carrying a measured weight, broke through her thoughts. “Princess…”

As Daenera faced the man whose machinations had brought them to this, she clenched her jaw tightly, struggling to maintain her composure. A strained breath escaped her as she fought to keep her voice steady, her fingers curling into fists at her sides while a surge of bile burned in her chest. His discerning eyes wept over her with a cold, meticulous gaze, always analyzing, always assessing.

“I offer my condolences for your brother,” Otto began, his voice low and even, stepping forward with deliberate calm, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is a shame, had your mother agreed to our generous terms, it would never have come to this. Your brother would still be alive and the heir to Driftmark.”

Daenera’s voice was sharp with scorn as she addressed Otto, her eyes wide with indignation and disbelief. “Do not lay the blame at my mother’s feet for the actions of your grandson. He has marked himself a kinslayer, and that stain is his alone to bear. And don’t dare pretend that the terms you offered were anything but a mummer’s farce.” She paused, her gaze cutting through the space between them. “Do you truly think the realm is blind to your machinations? That it will not see through your schemes? That it will not condemn him?” Her hand swept towards the ongoing celebration, where the clamor of conversation melded seamlessly with the lull of festive music. “Condemn you for celebrating the death of a child, honoring the very man who murdered him.”

“And yet, it seems we are not the only ones who may face condemnation,” Otto replied, his gaze steely and chillingly calculating–filled with intent. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself, and your attendance here will not go unnoticed by the realm.”

Daenera’s hand glided down the bodice of her dress, fingers tracing the cool, beaten metal of the dragon adorning it. The head of the dragon nestled snugly against her lower abdomen, its wings sweeping up to her shoulders and tapering to gleaming points just past them. The dress was elaborate and elegant, crafted from a heavy fabric designed to fall in perfect, graceful drapes around her form. It was dramatic and to that effect, was why she had chosen it–because of the spectacle it made of her.

“My mother’s colors are not only black,” Daenera asserted. They were also red. While the Hightowers had seen to the removal of all her black dresses, they had not thought to take the red ones as well. It was their mistake. “She will understand.”

“Will she?” Otto questioned, eyes flickering across her face. “Your grief is known–Maegor’s Holdfast has heard your cries. Yet here you are, adorned in finery, participating in the celebration. You sat by his side, holding his hand…”

The accusation twisted her stomach–that she had been there in support of him, that she had declared for Greens–draining the color from her face as dark spots danced at the edges of her vision. Through a sheen of tears, she met his gaze firmly. “My mother will know the truth of my heart.”

“Will Daemon? Will the realm?” Otto pressed, tilting his head slightly, his voice carrying a challenge.

Daenera felt a surge of nausea as the bile rose in her throat, her stomach churning–turning in on itself. A coldness nipped at her fingertips and crept up her spine, her limbs growing heavy and her chest tightening as if her ribs were constricting around her lungs. With effort, she swallowed the bile and responded with a bitter edge, “My presence will be spoken of as defiance–a spectacle. You may weave your web of lies, and some may indeed become ensnared, but the truth will stand firm; I wore red. I am the daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I did not bow to your usurper king. The realm will recount my grief and my defiance, and it will also recount your cruelty.”

Otto inhaled thoughtfully–unconcerned–his eyes scrutinizing her intently, as if trying to peel back her skin and reveal the bloodied and broken girl beneath, and answered measuredly, “What is certain, is that you attended the celebration of your brother’s murderer. Your presence here will be noted across the realm, and whether you wore red or not, your intentions will remain in doubt–a grieving sister or a girl celebrating her betrothed…”

He stepped closer, his tone sharpening, “This is a dangerous game, Princess, one that I believe you do not fully understand. Remember, you hold no power here; you are playing on our side of the board, and it is only by our grace and mercy that you remain. I would advise you to think carefully about which… comforts you are prepared to forego, should you decide to defy us again. Or more pressingly, which of your men you are willing to sacrifice…”

With that, Otto stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with his arm, indicating that she was free to pass. His demeanor suggested that the conversation was over, dismissing her with a finality that echoed the coldness of his warnings.

Daenera was certain that Otto would spin his web of deceit. He would craft the narrative to suggest that her presence at the feast was their decision–that it symbolized her endorsement of their regime.

Clenching her teeth tightly, Daenera forced herself forward, barely suppressing the urge to scream and expose the true depths of her grief and hatred and rage to the court–to the realm, to her mother across the sea. She managed to hold herself together, teetering precariously on the brink of madness. The abyss seemed to yawn open before her, beckoning her to succumb to its depths. It was unclear whether it was rage or grief that gnawed at her, but the sensation of unraveling was unmistakable–she felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness envelop her.

Otto’s web, spun with masterful grace, ensnared her–tying around her lips, weaving through her intentions, and tightening its embrace with each breath she drew. She could not move without the tightening of the strings, she could not breathe as it strangled her, she could do nothing. She was lost–lost and suffocating.

Daenera's mind was a tempest, relentlessly revisiting the cascade of events that had shattered her world: from Viserys's untimely death to the usurpation of her mother’s crown, the myriad humiliations she had endured at their hands, and the grim reality of the position they had forced upon her. She agonized over all that she had lost, all that she still stood to lose, and the relentless barrage of insults and cruelty she had faced–years of mockery and taunts, years of belittling and undermining. Aegon's cruel words echoed ominously in her head, her ears pulsing with the rush of her own blood, effectively drowning out the raucous sounds of the feast.

Edelin was waiting at the doors of the throne room when Daenera emerged from the shadows cast by the columns. Her expression was tight with worry as she quickly fell into step behind Daenera. Her pace was quick, hand pressing against her bodice as she felt the harsh burn of bile rising in her esophagus, threatening to choke her.

As she moved through the dimly lit hall, her movement was silent, her footsteps absorbed by the swish of her skirts and the steady, oppressive pounding of her heart. Each step carried her further into the shadows, away from the light and laughter that seemed so grotesquely out of place, isolating her in her grief and fury.

Bile invaded her mouth, and Daenera quickly turned towards a secluded corner, away from the view of people, as she heaved, emptying her stomach onto the floor. Her body convulsed, her skin clammy and hands trembling as she braced herself against the cool stone wall. The sound of her sickness hitting the floor was harsh, and the acrid stench filled the air immediately. The ringing in her ears persisted as her stomach churned again, expelling more bile and partially digested food. Her eyes ached with the weight of unshed tears. Amidst the turmoil, she barely registered her name being called, but she felt the presence of a gentle hand at the small of her back, drawing soothing circles, comforting her with the tenderness usually afforded a child.

“Princess,” Edelin murmured, her voice laced with concern, yet it wasn’t her touch that drew Daenera’s focus. Instead, another hand gently pressed against her back, steadying her as she lifted her eyes.

“Princess,” Finan said softly, greeting her with worried eyes–gray as a gloomy day.

“I’m fine,” Daenera managed to croak, and with a trembling hand, she wiped away the residue of spite and bitterness from her lips. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she swallowed, her throat still burning from the acrid sting of stomach acid. “It’s nothing…”

“I should fetch the Maester for you, Princess,” Edelin suggested, her hands persistently soothing Daenera’s back. Her expression of concern somehow made her appear older than her age.

Swallowing hard again, and placing a hand on her unsettled stomach, Daenera answered, “No, that won’t be necessary. It’s just a minor upset, nothing serious enough to bother the Maesters with. A cup of mint tea and some crackers should help settle it, I’m sure.”

Tears of indignation and embarrassment threatened to escape as they prickled behind Daenera’s eyes. Her throat constricted as she swallowed hard, her mouth dry even as the bitter taste of bile lingered on her tongue. Her heart thudded loudly, the pulsing in her temples and the continuous whooshing in her ears contributing to her dizziness.

“Let me escort you back to your chambers, Princess,” Finan offered, his hand poised near her back–not touching, but ready to offer support if she faltered again.

“Thank you, Ser…”

“Finan Pyne, Princess,” He formally introduced himself, maintaining the pretense that they did not know each other. There was almost a palpable insistence in Finan’s posture–his silent urging for her to allow him to escort her, and perhaps, for a moment alone to speak.

“Ser Finan, that would be most kind,” Daenera accepted, feeling the weight of his unspoken plea. She then addressed the attentive Edelin. “Edelin, would you please see to cleaning up this mess? I wish to avoid any further embarrassment.”

“I am not to leave you alone, Princess,” Edelin responded, her voice tinged with hesitation. The conflict was evident in her eyes, a desire to comply with Daenera’s request despite it conflicting with prior instructions. She was kind, Daenera thought and she appreciated that, even as the girl was wary to comply–it was understandable, and showed that she was not too foolish in her kindness to be blind to the world around her.

“She won’t be alone,” Finan quickly assured, giving Edelin a comforting smile. “I will ensure the Princess’s safe return to her chambers.”

Edelin paused, considering the situation for a moment before finally relenting. “Very well, see the princess back to her chambers,” she directed Finan with surprising authority. Then, turning her gaze to Daenera, she added, “I will join you shortly and bring some tea to ease your stomach.”

Daenera expressed her gratitude to Edelin and watched cautiously as she departed, presumably to fetch a bucket and cloth to cleanse the stone of the unpleasant evidence of her sickness. The acrid smell would linger, even after being cleaned up–a minor inconvenience that time alone would erase. Beside her, Finan offered his arm, which she gratefully accepted, leaning on him for support as they moved through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. They passed through the main doors into the cool embrace of night.

The sky was overcast, heavy clouds masking any sign of the stars or the moon, shrouding their path in darkness. The night air was crisp, biting gently at her clammy skin as they crossed the courtyard towards Maegor’s Holdfast.

“How are you?” Finan asked, his voice low to ensure their conversation remained private. As they walked, the crunch of gravel and stone beneath their feet gave way to the solid, smooth surface of the steps leading to the Holdfast.

Daenera’s expression tightened slightly, her brows furrowing as she moved up the steps, her hand clutching her skirts to avoid tripping over the heavy fabric. “Alive… if you can call this being alive.”

“It is more than what others can claim,” Finan replied, his tone equally solemn. He quickly caught the harshness of his words, adding hurriedly, “Forgive me, that was cruel of me to say.”

Daenera remained alive, yet it was a bitter mercy–if a mercy at all. She was not dead, but her existence hardly felt like a life at all. To her, it felt more a burden than a privilege at the moment. Being alive hurt, and she was so awfully tired.

“No, you’re right,” she said, her voice raw and constricted. As she swallowed, the scratchiness at the back of her throat mirrored the jab her emotions took at the reminder. “I am better off than my men…”

I am better off than my brother. A sharp pang of grief twisted her heart and she averted her gaze from Finan, attempting to shield herself as though the acknowledgement of it would be too much. She blinked rapidly, fighting to keep the surge of sorrow at bay–a sorrow that threatened to break free from its confinement, threatening to engulf her and pull her back to that sea of emptiness where she had been adrift, lost in another world. “What news of my men?”

They made their way along the sheltered path of the inner courtyard, where shadows cast by the columns deepened and stretched across the floor and the opposite walls. The feeble light from distant fires did little to dispel the encompassing darkness. Maegor’s Holdfast was wrapped in an eerie silence, devoid of any other souls–a peace that was both soothing and unsettling, though not unexpected given the ongoing festivities in the throne room. This solitude offered them a semblance of privacy, albeit one that still required vigilance.

Finan stole a glance at her, his eyes nearly as dark as charcoal, framed by a brow furrowed with seriousness. “They survive. The boy is frightened and longs for home. And Fenrick worries for you.”

They ascended the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast, their path illuminated by flickering torches that cast long shadows against the ancient stones. Finan matched his pace with her’s, giving her the time she needed to move up the steps. Her body was weary, weakened by the turmoil of the evening, her stomach hollow and head light and throbbing with a persistent ache. Each step seemed to demand more of her than she felt capable of giving, yet she moved with determination.

“He ought to spare his worries for himself,” Daenera muttered. “Will you be able to free them?”

If she could free her men from the clutches of the Hightowers, Daenera knew she could finally breathe easier. No longer would the lives of her men be held over her, a noose tightening around their necks with every defiant move she made. Yet, with each man she lost to their cruelty, the noose seemed to loosen, a bitter form of freedom–freedom through the absence of anyone left to threaten. She might be trapped, but perhaps there was a chance for them to find escape.

As they continued their ascent, the harsh light from the torches cast eerie shadows on their path, Finan’s head shook slightly, his expression somber. “The guards are vigilant, especially after the escape of Princess Rhaenys. Even if it were possible to free them from their cells, sneaking them out of the Keep is another matter entirely. All exits are either locked tightly or kept under guard. There are too many eyes, too few allies.”

Daenera had assumed as much. The usurpation had ushered in a regime of fear and uncertainty, with anyone daring to oppose or resist bending the knee finding themselves imprisoned or worse. The Keep now thrummed with an undercurrent of uncertainty and distrust, as people concealed their true opinions and allegiances close to their chest, wary of crossing invisible lines and finding themselves at the end of a noose.

“Perhaps you could use your influence–”

“I have no influence,” Daenera interrupted him sharply, her voice trembling with bitterness and indignation. “I am powerless. The friends that I had won’t go near me in fear that any association with me might brand them traitors.”

As they continued through the corridor, the flickering torches sputtering around them, Daenera’s mind turned to the faces of those she had once considered allies–friends, even. She recalled Trish Caswell’s averted gaze after her father had been hung, her eyes finding the floor or a sudden turn away whenever Daenera drew near–a clear sign of fear and caution she couldn’t blame her for. Lady Fell had suffered a harsher fate, thrown into the dungeons for her refusal to submit, alongside other defiant lords and ladies. Kaylys Merryweather had left the city to visit her mother, and Alan Beesbury had gone home to Honeyholt long before his grandsire’s death.

“I have no friends left, no allies, no influence,” Daenera’s voice broke through the silence of the hallway, tinged with a profound sense of isolation. “Too many of my men have been hanged. I am utterly trapped and alone. I have nothing…”

She was acutely aware of the confines of her invisible cage–sensing the web of intrigue that coiled around her neck like a noose, poised to tighten with the slightest misstep. It was as if she were balanced precariously on a tightrope, hands bound behind her back, every movement fraught with danger. She had been reduced to nothing more than a pawn to be wielded cruelly against her own mother in their sinister game.

As they reached the solitude of her chambers, a bitter taste of anger and shame filled her mouth. With a voice sharp and laced with frustration, she confessed, “I can’t protect anyone, Finan. I don’t know how to free them.”

A profound sense of powerlessness settled over her, a pressing weight that made her footsteps falter as her remaining strength ebbed away. She staggered, barely a few steps from the doors of her chambers, her hand reaching out to the cold stone of the wall for stability. Slowly, her knees buckled, and she found herself sinking to the floor, the harsh reality of her circumstances once again pressing down on her with unforgiving weight.

Seeming to sense her distress, Finan reacted swiftly. He slipped one arm supportively around her back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her with a quiet display of strength that nonetheless betrayed the effort required. Her dress was heavy, the fabric adding to the burden of her weight, and she could sense the strain it imposed on him as they approached the doors.

Using the hand supporting her knees, Finan deftly maneuvered the door open. The metallic head of the dragon adorned on her dress pressed uncomfortably into her lower abdomen, its snout poking against her upper thighs, creating a persistent discomfort–promising to leave a bruise. Clinging to him, Daenera’s fingers dug into the leather of his doublet, seeking stability in the warmth of his grasp as they crossed the threshold into the sanctuary of her chambers.

They moved through the quiet expanse of her chambers to the hearth, where Finan gently lowered Daenera into a chair positioned before the crackling fire. The warmth radiated from the lively flames, seeping over the cold stone and gently warming her chilled skin.

Daenera swallowed hard against the tightness constricting her throat, the sense of desolation and powerlessness wrapping tightly around her chest. As Finan knelt before her, his gray eyes were murky, reminiscent of the sky heavy with the promise of snowfall. He gazed at her with a depth of sympathy and something more–something that strained her already burdened heart with its intensity: faith.

“You possess more power than you realize, Princess,” he said, his voice soft yet earnest. “I could offer a poetic analogy about nature’s resilience–how even in the midst of the fiercest storm, flowers may be battered but still stand, grow, and survive. But I suspect you might find such platitudes wearisome.”

A small, fragile smile crept onto her lips, breaking through the solemn atmosphere–a fleeting moment of lightheartedness. “It does grow rather tiresome to be compared to flowers…”

As he rose from his kneeling position before her, a smile briefly brightened his features. Finan hooked his thumbs into his belt, a gesture so reminiscent of Fenrick that it momentarily caught her off guard–and though they didn’t share a drop of blood, it was clear that Finan had taken after the man he considered a father figure. The smile faded into a solemn frown again.

A pause filled the space between them as Daenera turned her gaze towards the hearth. The room was bathed in the warm, flickering light, illuminating the darkened space. When she spoke again, her voice was faint and weary. “Are there any news from Dragonstone?”

Finan shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze also drawn to the flames. He spoke gently, his voice a low lull, as if trying to soothe her worries before they could deepen. “Your mother has left Dragonstone. It is said that she is searching Shipbreaker Bay for your brother…”

Daenera gritted her teeth, struggling to swallow against the overwhelming surge of pain that threatened to wash over her. Aegon’s cruel taunts echoed hauntingly in her mind, battering against her resolve like rain lashing against a windowsill: ‘‘With each passing tide, the rumors swell that our dear half-sister has lost her senses and is searching the coast of Shipbreaker Bay for her bastard’s remains… It appears she hasn’t realized that she ought to be searching a pile of shit just beyond the city walls if she wants to bury her son, but I suppose what Vhagar didn’t consume, the sea claimed. A bastard in life, Velaryon in death.’

Was there truly anything left for her mother to find, or would she be searching the sea for the rest of her life? The thought pierced her heart anew.

Her hand rose to her lips, fingers brushing lightly over the delicate, chapped skin, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to escape as tears blurred her vision. Daenera struggled to steady herself against the overwhelming tide of grief and fear that tightened around her heart. The image of her mother, alone and heartbroken, searching the cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay for any trace of her son, was almost too much to bear. “She shouldn’t have gone alone–she shouldn’t be alone…”

The chilling cascade of ‘what ifs’ flooded Daenera’s mind, each more harrowing than the last. What if the Hightowers had dispatched men to hunt her mother down? What if an arrow found its mark? What if an ambush awaited her at every turn? The most terrifying possibility of all crept into her thoughts: what if they’ll send Aemond after her?

Each thought tore her heart further, rekindling the embers of fear and anxiety that she struggled to contain.

Her mother, now a queen fighting to reclaim her throne, had to recognize the gravity of the risks she had taken by going to Shipbreaker Bay alone. Without her, the losses would extend far beyond the throne itself; the greens would not hesitate to annihilate her siblings, erase their names from history, and in doing so, destroy House Targaryen from within. Moreover, her mother was with child, making her safety and well-being paramount–not only for her own sake but for the unborn childs. She’d have to consider Jace and Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys.

“If she’s anything like you, I wouldn’t fear for her,” Finan reassured her, his voice steady as he turned his eyes from the flames and back to her. “No man can withstand a mother’s rage, especially not one who commands a dragon. Anyone foolish enough to challenge her would quickly be reduced to nothing more than ash.”

Daenera’s hand dropped from her lips as her eyes met Finan’s. A flicker of hope ignited within her at his words–her mother was a force to be reckoned with, that much she had always known. If they dared send men after her, she would surely turn them to ash before they could even notch an arrow. And should they send Aemond after her…

“You may think you have no power here,” Finan continued, his eyes reflecting the intensity of the fire before them, flames casting a dramatic light that seemed to lick against one side of his head. “But you are Daenera Velaryon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. Your name and blood speaks for itself.” He paused, taking a breath as if to gather his thoughts, brows furrowing slightly before adding, “You are held in high esteem both by the smallfolk and the nobility, and the Hightowers are aware of this. Your refusal to bow to them—that alone takes strength, far more than many can claim for themselves. They would be fools not to fear you–they do fear you, and rightly so.”

A thoughtful frown settled on her face as she turned her gaze from Finan and to the flames. The wood in the hearth popped and sputtered, glowing white-hot with orange tongues lapping voraciously at the air, consuming everything in their path. Within her, something stirred–resignation and acceptance seemed to twist and turn, growing teeth in the process, a latent ferocity that had always lurked beneath the surface. They had cornered her, confined her to a place from which escape seemed impossible, leaving her few options. Like a mistreated animal driven to desperation, she understood the dangerous lengths which such creatures would go to secure their freedom, even if it meant gnawing off its own limb to escape the trap.

They intended to use her as their pawn–and a pawn she would be. Daenera resolved to play her part in their game, biding her time with calculated patience. Once freed from the leverage they held over her–the lives of those she cared for–she would become a thorn in their side, she would make them suffer as they had made her suffer. Even a caged animal had its claws.

A twist of ruthlessness unfurled within her, coiling like a serpent ready to strike, as an inking of a plan began to form at the periphery of her mind. Daenera’s gaze remained on the flames as they devoured the wood, fierce and unyielding. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Finan turning to leave, perhaps interpreting her silence as an end to their discussion. Finding her voice, she spoke in a low, measured tone. “Can you arrange to be assigned as one of my guards? I am in desperate need of someone close whom I can trust.”

Finan paused and turned back towards her, his expression lighting up with a gleam of satisfaction–bordering on smugness. The corner’s of his lips curled slightly. “I can and will, Princess.”

Daenera adjusted her posture in the seat, straightening up as a renewed sense of purpose filled her. “I need you to reach out to Joyce’s informants,” she instructed, her voice carrying a quiet authority. “I’m certain she shared some of their names with you. We need to ascertain who still remains loyal to me. But tread carefully,” she added, her eyes narrowing slightly with the gravity of her words. “There are eyes and ears everywhere–spiders, worms, fireflies… Your safety is paramount. Do not expose yourself unnecessarily.”

Finan acknowledged her directive with a simple, resolute nod, straightening his own stance in a subtle mirroring of her determination. “And what shall we do about Fenrick, Eddin, and the boy?”

Daenera absently picked at the dry, chapped skin of her bottom lip, lost in thought. “The Hightowers are unlikely to release them.”

“Fenrick–” Finan started to say, but quickly stifled himself, stopping short of speaking out of turn. In that moment, it became apparent why he had come to her side this night; he wished to free Fenrick from the dungeons. “We must get them out.”

“Concern yourself with getting assigned to my detail and making contact with the informants,” Daenera instructed with a measured calm. “And there’s a girl in the kitchens–Cerys. Ensure her safety and well-being. Inform her that she must not take any action without my explicit command; reckless moves could doom us all…”

A look if inquiry flickered across Finan’s features, though he held back from voicing his questions. Nevertheless, Daenera responded, “It’s not my story to share, but understand this–it’s not easy for her to watch her tormenter ascend the throne. I need her to know that my life could very well be in her hands. If she acts impulsively to spill blood, she risks spilling mine as well.”

Finan regarded Daenera with a solemn expression, offering another cut nod. He refrained from pressing her for more details or demanding explanations, a restraint for which she was grateful. The intricacies of Cerys’s past and her incident with Aegon was hers to disclose, should she choose to share them with him. For now, Finan was left to his assumptions.

“Your dagger,” Daenera said, her gaze finally shifting away from the flames. “I would have it.”

At her request, Finan’s initial reaction was one of hesitation. His hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his hip, a protective gesture born of reflex. His gray eyes searched her face, seeking an understanding of her intentions and perhaps gauging the gravity of the situation that would warrant such a request.

“It would provide me a small sense of assurance that should the need arise for me to defend myself, I would have it.”

Finan responded with a firm tone, “I cannot give you my issued dagger.”

However, his hand moved past the weapon at his hip to a smaller blade discreetly concealed within his boot. With a skilled motion, he drew the hidden blade, its steel catching the light from the flames and gleaming with a cruel sharpness. He then expertly turned it around, extending the handle towards her. The dagger was slender and designed for precision, ideal for piercing rather than slashing.

As Daenera’s hand wrapped around the hilt, a modicum of comfort washed over her. “Thank you, Finan.”

“I trust you know how to use it?” Finan asked, taking a step back to give her space, his expression a mix of solemnity and curiosity. Behind his gaze, Daenera sensed a flicker of concern–perhaps fear that she might use it on herself.

“I know how to use it,” Daenera responded firmly, leaving no room for doubt. She then nodded towards the door, a silent signal for him to leave. Finan acknowledged her gesture with a respectful bow of his head before turning on his heels and exiting through the doors. The doors closed softly behind him, sealing her within the solitude of her chamber.

Clutching the blade firmly, Daenera rose from her chair and moved toward the hearth, drawn irresistibly closer to the flames. As she knelt down, the skirts of her dress spread out around her, pooling like a puddle of blood on the cold stone floor. The warmth of the flames caressed her skin, almost an embrace. The fire’s glow was brightest near the wood it devoured, white-hot and all-consuming.

What brought her here, she couldn’t say; it seemed almost instinctual. This feeling was inherent, both familiar and dangerous, wrapping around her like the heat radiating from the earth.

It was as if the flames echoed the same ancient song that coursed through her veins–a visceral melody of destruction and devouring, of death and rebirth, of fire and blood.

Daenera lifted her hand, her gaze falling to the array of wounds that marred her palm. Some of the deeper gashes were held together by a few precise stitches, while others were healing naturally. Amidst this intricate web of healing wounds, one stood out–a long-healed cut that traversed half of her palm, a permanent reminder etched into her skin.

Love, it seemed, was either a shrine for worship or a lasting scar. For Daenera, it was more akin to a bleeding wound–still fresh, unhealed, and raw, inflicted by the sharp blade of his love.

Daenera carefully positioned the point of the blade against the curve of one of her stitched wounds, its sharp edge slicing through the tread with ease. As she removed the stitch, the wound parted slightly, revealing a fresh vulnerability. She then pressed the blade deeper into the opening, parting the flesh anew. Blood welled up at the incision, the sting of the blade making her teeth clench. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she watched as the blood began to flow, tracing a crimson line to the center of her palm where it pooled ominously.

The pain, though sharp and unwelcome, had become an almost familiar companion. How many ties had her blood been spilled? How many scars marked her body? How much had she endured?

Echoes of the tumultuous events following Viserys’s death reverberated through her mind–the usurpation of her mother’s rightful throne, her own imprisonment, the haunting image of Joyce’s body swaying alongside Lord Caswells, being forced to bow before the usurper, the vigil she kept over her men whose lives ended at their orders. She could almost sense their presence, specters standing among the shadows, silent and judging, aligned shoulder to shoulder with the other ghosts haunting the Red Keep. The firelight flickered, catching a glimpse of dark brown curls and blue eyes flecked with hazel–features set in a face she would never see again. The memory twisted inside her like a cruel blade, each flicker of the flame reflecting a moment lost, a face forever gone, stirring a deep and relentless ache within her heart.

They had killed her brother, mocking him even in death, dismissing him as a bastard as if his life held no value–as though he didn’t come from the womb of Rhaenyra Targaryen and had her blood flowing through his veins, as though Laenor Velaryon hadn’t claimed him as his own, as though he wasn’t a dragonrider, as though he deserved his cruel fate. Her brother, who was nothing but good and brave and kind, had been cruelly ripped from this world.

And it had been by the man that she loved.

The boy with the stars in his eyes.

Tears burned Daenera’s eyes as she felt the familiar tearing of her heart—a raw and relentless pain. Within her, a fierce wrath burned, fueling a desperate desire for retribution–vengeance–against those who had caused her such loss and suffering. She blamed them all, each one who played a part in her brother’s demise and her torment.

Daenera murmured a curse under her breath, her voice low and resonant against the hymn of the flames–her blood seemed to sing along with it’s own evensong. “I curse you, Larys Strong. May your deceitful nature lead to your downfall–may you meet the sword’s edge, and may the earth upon where your body lies barren. May the wolves feast upon your flesh and may you be forever remembered only for the worst of your actions.”

She extended her hand over the flames, allowing the heat of their flickering tongues to sear her skin–intense yet not enough to burn her flesh. And then, after a moment, she tilted her palm, causing the pool of blood that gathered at its center to cascade over and dripple down into the fire. The droplets sizzled as they struck the hot wood, sending up a scent of smoke and ash and burning blood that clung to the air and filled her nostrils.

With bitterness edging her voice, Daenera continued her dark litany of curses. “I curse you, Ser Criston Cole,” she declared, her hand curling into a fist above the flames. She allowed more droplets of blood to fall into the fire below. May you meet your end as you have lived, without honor. No songs shall be sung to commend your name, for you will be remembered only as the disgrace you truly are–a man who has sullied his white cloak with blood, whose vows mean nothing, a man bereft of any decency.”

Pressing her fingertips into the reopened wound, Daenera barely felt the sting, distant against the heat that licked at her skin from the flames below. The pressure coaxed more blood forth, dripping steadily into the fire. “I curse you, Otto Hightower. “May your ambition lead your house to ruin, and may you be stripped of the power you so desperately seek, and may you face the executioner’s block as the traitor you are.”

The shadows around her seemed to writhe and swirl, deepening as if alive, responding to the dark timbre of her curses–her heart beat discordantly within her chest, a strange litany that filled her with a sense of power. Her hand trembled slightly as she stretched it out above the flames, then curled it in on itself again, squeezing more blood from the wound.

“I curse you, Aegon Targaryen, second of your name,” she intoned, her voice solemn. “May history remember you as the usurper. May you know the fear and humiliation you seek to instill in others. May your existence be besieged by pain and torment–may you endure suffering at every waking moment.”

Her words emerged deliberate and somber, a dark incantation reflecting back the agony he inflicted, their resonance hanging in the air as densely as the smoke curling from the fire. The firewood crackled and popped lousy, sending up a gust of embers as the structure of wood collapsed inward. A muffled noise momentarily drew her attention away from the flames, her eyes searching the dimly lit room. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end, giving her an eerie sensation of being watched by countless eyes, though the room held only shadows. She was alone, accompanied solely by the flickering light and her own echoing curses. Finding only silence, she quickly dismissed the disturbance, refocusing her gaze on the fire.

“I curse you, Alicent Hightower,” Daenera continued. “May the weight of your decisions forever burden you, leaving you unable to flee the consequences of your own ambition. May your heart swell with regret as you come to understand the depths of the pain you have inflicted. May you lose all that you love, and may you endure the agony you have inflicted upon my mother.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, tracing lines to the corners of her mouth where they mingled with the salty taste of her anguish–a bitter flavor of heartache, grief, and wrath. Each tear seemed to carve deeper into her soul, as the words lodged in her throat seemed to slice her heart open. With a voice quivering with emotion, she spoke her curse into the flames, a dark wish mingled with the blood that dripped from her palm, sealing her bitter hopes for his fate.

“I curse you, Aemond Targaryen. May you get a taste of that which you desire and may it turn to ash in your mouth–may it be forever beyond your grasp. May you know the sting of betrayal, and may you lose that which you have taken from me…” Her heart ached painfully within her chest as tears continued to stream down her face. “May you suffer as you’ve made my mother suffer.”

Blood dripped from her clenched fist, falling into the eager flames, sealing her curse. For a moment, Daenera held her hand suspended above the fire, indifferent to the heat that licked close to her skin, the flames that hungered for more than just the wood they consumed. She stared intently into the fire, feeling her heart beat a discordant rhythm within her chest–an ancient, chaotic hymn that felt beyond her understanding.

The world seemed to pause, caught between light and shadow, in a quiet so profound it felt like a breath held. Her voice broke the silence, a careful lilt of finality, “With fire and blood, I curse you all.”

Then, slowly, she withdrew her hand, uncurling her fingers to reveal the blood-smeared skin of her palm and the gaping wound from which it came. The act, though simple, felt immensely significant, if only to her.

Daenera rose, stepping back from the warmth of the hearth. As she moved away, she immediately felt the retained heat radiating from her skin, sharply contrasted by the cold air that lashed against her. She walked over to the table behind the settee, bending down to tuck the dagger into a previously unused hiding spot. The dagger couldn’t just be hidden anywhere lest the servants find it.

A wave of sheepishness washed over her as her gaze drifted back to the flames for a moment. It felt almost childish to believe she possessed the power to truly curse anyone–childish to think that speaking words into the fire and feeding it blood could actually wield any effect. And yet, she had done it, if only to soothe herself with the thought that one day, they’d face the consequences and come to understand the pain they have wrought. But she couldn’t rely on mere curses; if she truly wanted retribution, she would need to seek it for them. It would require time, planning, and sacrifices.

As Daenera secured the dagger beneath the settee, the doors behind her swung open, revealing a slightly disheveled Edelin, whose cheeks were flushed red. Their eyes briefly met before Edelin’s gaze dropped to Daenera’s hand, noticing the blood dripping from her fingertips onto the floor.

“Princess!” Edelin exclaimed, stepping quickly into the room. She set down the tray on the side table, which held a plate of dry crackers, some bread, and a steaming mug of tea, then swiftly grasped Daenera’s hand to inspect it closely. “What happened? Was it the man? Did he do this to you?”

“No,” Daenera reassured, gently extricating her hand from Edelin’s soft grasp. “Ser Finan was quite helpful. He carried me here after I stumbled on my skirts while ascending the steps. The fall simply reopened the wound.”

Edelin gave no indication of doubt; if she harbored any, she kept it to herself. Instead, she took a deep breath, brushing a stray strand of red hair from her face with a sense of urgency. “We should clean and bandage this.”

Picking up the tray once more, Edelin carried it across the room, setting it down on a table and gesturing for Daenera to sit, then quickly turned and disappeared into an adjacent room. Daenera obeyed, seating herself at the table, raising a hand to rub against the ache that prickled at her temples. Moments later, she returned with a small chest, setting it on the table.

As weariness began to claw at her once more, Daenera felt it nibbling at the edges of her consciousness, her eyes heavy and scratchy. The ache in her body returned gradually, accompanied by a creeping chill.

Earlier, when she had donned her dress and walked down the aisle of the throne room to face her captors, she hardly felt the ache. Her spine had been straight as a sword, her heart aflame with hatred, and the fire within her seemed to dispel all sensation of pain. It had burned away the aches in her muscles and the creaking in her joints, masking the weariness that now overwhelmed her, leaving her dizzy and exhausted.

Edelin meticulously cleaned the blood from the wound, and Daenera barely felt the sting of the water as her eyelids grew heavy with the struggle to remain awake and in her body. As her gaze drifted from her hand to the young woman tending to her, Daenera observed the freckles scattered across Edelin’s button nose and the youthful plumpness still evident in her rounded cheeks. She seemed about Daenera’s age, though at the moment, appeared younger.

“We should have the Maester look at this,” Edelin commented, her voice laced with concern as she dabbed at the blood that continued to well from the cut. “It is deep and needs stitches.”

Daenera traced her fingers along her forehead, feeling the onset of a headache beginning to throb within. “I do not want to disturb the Maesters at this hour. They’d insist on milk-of-the-poppy, and I do not want it.”

“But it will help with the pain.”

“The pain I can endure,” Daenera responded firmly, pinching the bridge of her nose to starve off the encroaching headache. She left the sentence hanging without further explanation, though her distrust of the Maesters was implied. The Maesters at the Red Keep were, first and foremost, loyal to the Hightowers, bound to do their bidding. She did not trust them, acutely aware of how simple it would be for them to administer poison under the guise of medicine–the line between medicine and poison was perilously thin, dictated only by dosage and deception.

Daenera offered a slight, reassuring smile. “You can do it.”

“Me?” Edelin’s face paled, her eyes widening with uncertainty as they flickered between Daenera’s bleeding hand and her face. At least she wasn’t squeamish, Daenera thought, if she was, she’d have fainted long ago.

“Yes, you. You know how to make a stitch; it’s much the same.”

“It’s not much the same at all! It’s flesh and–and it will hurt.”

“It will, but I trust you to do it gently,” Daenera answered. “It will hurt far worse if you don’t stitch the wound and it festers. I might even lose a hand…”

Edelin narrowed her eyes, a look of exasperation crossing her face. Nonetheless, she picked up the needle and thread, cutting a suitable length before expertly threading it through the needle’s eye. With hands that betrayed a slight tremor, Edelin took hold of Daenera’s outstretched hand. The needle hovered uncertainly over the tender flesh. She looked up at Daenera, her eyes flickering through her eyelashes, seeking affirmation to continue.

Daenera gave a nod, gently guiding Edelin’s efforts, instructing her on how to position her hand and where to insert the needle. The sharp point hesitated at first as it touched the tender skin, then decisively pushed through to the other side. The needle emerged through the parted flesh, drawing the edges of the wound together as Edelin pulled the thread through.

The sharp bite of the needle made her grit her teeth. Edelin, following Daenera’s guidance, pushed the needle through the opposite side of the wound, threading it carefully and tying off the ends with a simple knot. She then snipped away the excess threat. The stitching wasn’t as precise as the work Daenera might have done herself, but it was competent and held the wound closed effectively.

Daenera brought the tea to her lips, savoring the calming blend of chamomile with milk and honey, yet her voice was hoarse with fatigue as she asked, “What happened to your cheek?”

Edelin’s face flushed, her hand instinctively rising to touch the tender, reddened skin of her swollen cheek. “Lady Mertha wasn’t pleased with your presence at the feast. And she was even less pleased that I wasn’t with you…”

A twist of pity coursed through Daenera as she softly said, “I’m sorry.”

Edelin looked up, her expression settling into a frown that creased her brow. She continued to wrap Daenera’s hand with bandages, securing the dressing with a knot similar to the one used for the stitches.

“Don’t be,” Edelin replied, standing up and beginning to tidy away the medical supplies. “It wasn’t right to keep things like that from you…”

Silence enveloped them as Edelin assisted Daenera in removing her dress, the heavy fabric slipping from her form like a layer of armor. It felt almost surreal, as if the fabric itself had been what held her together, as though it was made of something more solid and impenetrable–fabric made steel. The dress pooled around her feet like a spill of blood, the metal dragon ornament on the bodice clattering against the stone floor, then scraping slightly as Edelin carefully lifted the garment.

With each layer removed–first the dress, then the crimson underdress and then finally the chemise beneath–it felt as though Daenera was shedding more than just clothing. And yet, despite getting lighter, her body felt heavier and heavier with each removal. A chill seeped into her bones, gooseflesh dotting her skin and prickling at the nape of her neck. The light blue nightgown she donned offered little in the way of warmth. Swiftly, Edelin wrapped her in a silk robe and guided her to the dressing table, the movements methodical and protective.

The intricate process of styling Daenera’s hair, brading it into a crown and weaving a ruby hairnet through it, was just as laborious to undo at the day’s end. As Daenera wiped her face with a damp cloth, removing the minimal powder and lip color she had worn, Edelin carefully removed the hairnet. One by one, the pins were taken out, and the braids loosened. Daenera watched her reflection wearily in the mirror, her gaze distant, barely recognizing herself. Her dark curls, finally released from their confines, cascaded over her shoulders, prompting her to emerge slowly from her reverie.

Edelin then assisted Daenera to bed, tucking her in with a tenderness that evoked the care usually reserved for a child. “Sleep well, Princess.”

“Wait,” Daenera called out, halting Edelin’s departure. “Would you… would you lay beside me?”

Edelin paused at the threshold, her red eyebrows lifting in surprise, her eyes widening slightly as she contemplated the request. It was an unexpected childlike plea, and Daenera felt a rush of embarrassment warming her chest.

Without uttering a word, Edelin returned to the bedroom, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet room, accompanied only by the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth. She sat down on the bed, carefully removed her shoes, and then lay down beside Daenera, bringing an unspoken comfort to the dimly lit room.

“You are kind,” Daenera murmured, lying on her back and gazing up at the canopy where a carved dragon chased dragonflies and birds in a perpetual dance. “Kindness is a rarity.”

“I try to be,” Edelin responded softly, her voice carrying the honest tone of children whispering secrets under the covers in the dark of night. “I try to keep my head down; it’s easier, I think. But I am not as stupid as Mertha would claim. I see things, hear them too, and I know when to pick my battles…”

“And yet, you are kind, even when you don’t have to be, even if it might put you at the hands of those who are cruel.”

Edelin shifted slightly, turning her head to meet Daenera’s gaze directly, and Daenera did the same. “Perhaps it is because I like you… You are kind too, even if your kindness is sometimes an act of deception.”

A tightness lodged in Daenera’s throat as she averted her gaze back to the canopy. A wave of shame suddenly enveloped her, burning beneath her skin. “I don’t have anyone I can trust.”

“I know.”

“But,” Daenera continued, turning her gaze back to Edelin, her eyes searching, “I do consider you a friend…”

Edelin’s face tightened, and she suddenly confessed, her eyebrows drawing together in a furrow of concern. “I report to Prince Aemond.” Her eyes held Daenera’s, filled with a plea for understanding. “He wishes to be kept informed of your health and well-being, and has ordered me to report to him. Mertha keeps the Queen Mother informed, and the guards report to the Lord Confessor.”

Daenera wasn’t exactly surprised to learn that Mertha was a pawn of Alicent, nor was it shocking that Larys had his spies within her staff too. Yet, hearing it confirmed aloud still seized her with a visceral tightness. She felt the bars of her invisible cage draw tighter, the intricate web woven by the Greens constricting around her neck. She blinked rapidly, struggling to suppress the tears threatening to betray her emotions.

“I wish to consider you a friend too,” Edelin continued, her voice carrying a gentle sincerity. “I do not have many of those, but I wanted you to be aware of my obligations. I do not wish to deceive you, and I thought it right that you should know. The prince… he cares for you. Deeply.”

Daenera turned her gaze away, the weight of Edelin’s words pressing down on her.

“Mertha insisted on having you removed from your chambers,” Edelin continued, her voice trembling slightly. “When you refused to eat or drink, she wanted to force it… but the prince stopped her. He told me that we should let you mourn in whatever way you needed, to leave you be until you were ready to rise. He was confident that you would… He was greatly concerned about you.”

Edelin’s words lingered in the air, resonating with sincerity that filled the silence of the room. The words twisted inside of her like a cruel blade, invoking a tightness in her chest and a tremor of grief in her heart that she detested.

“I understand,” Daenera finally managed to say, her voice steadying as she turned back to face Edelin. “Thank you for telling me. I understand the position you are in–I realize you must keep him informed… However, I would ask you to consider the information you share with him. Not always, but at times, discretion would be appreciated…”

“Of course,” Edelin responded, her agreement quick and earnest.

“Thank you, Edelin.”

Alicent sat silently before the hearth, her fingers deftly pushing the needle through the fabric as she added another stitch to the shirt. She had begun mending her husband’s shirts shortly after their marriage–a task he had once praised, claiming he favored the way she repaired his garments above anyone else’s. She had smiled and thanked him then, and from then on, had tended to every single shirt.

This act had evolved into a routine, another quiet way of caring for her husband, even as his appreciation waned, replaced by an indifferent expectation. This ritual had crystallized into habit, and habits, she knew all too well, were seldom acknowledged or thanked, and yet, she continued to do them.

On the fourth night following his death, Alicent found herself mending his shirts when it dawned on her with sudden clarity, and the sudden weight of desolation had settled on her. There was no longer a husband for whom to mend shirts; the expectation, like his presence, had vanished. She was a wife without a husband, a queen without her king.

How strange it was, to no longer bear such titles. It had been all she was for so long–it had shaped her existence for longer than the years she had lived without those titles. How much she had sacrificed and suffered for them, only to lose them with her husband.

The freedom that came with shedding her previous titles felt less like liberation and more like the burden of finding a new role to fulfill. Alicent had diligently preformed her duties as wife and queen, but now, in the absence of carrying such titles, she found herself assuming another set of responsibilities–that of the widow and Queen Mother. These new titles and the expectations accompanying them were chafed at her. Yet, despite the discomfort, she continued to carry them with the poise that was expected.

A part of her missed her husband. Over the years, she had found purpose in caring for him, attending his needs as a wife does, overseeing his well-being. This had become second nature to her. It wasn’t the love she had envisioned in her childhood fantasies, nor was it the love she had once envied in others, but it was something–companionship, a sense of duty.

Now, with her husband gone, Alicent had taken up the task of the mending of her son’s shirts.

The needle slid smoothly through the white fabric, and the gentle hiss of the thread pulling through was a strangely comforting sound in the quiet of the room. The fire cracked softly in the hearth, radiating warmth into her chambers–chambers that would soon become her daughters. Alicent rested her bare feet on the footrest, drawing warmth from the fire’s glow.

She had departed the feast earlier that evening. Her exit was timed carefully–not so early as to openly display her displeasure, yet not a moment longer than necessary.

The feast was an affair of excess, which Alicent found wholly inappropriate. She had voiced her objections clearly, both when Aegon had first proposed it and then again when it was brought up during a council meeting. The death of Prince Lucerys was a grave enough matter; to celebrate it was to compound the tragedy with insult. Aegon, however, insisted on the feast, deaf to her protests, and Aemond had not opposed his brother. Both her sons disregarded her warnings, failing to recognize the folly in the demise of a prince–bastard or not, and their nephew no less. Such actions, Alicent feared, would only invite trouble and scorn.

Alicent was certain that once news of the feast reached Dragonstone, Daemon would mount his dragon, fly to King’s Landing, and unleash fiery vengeance upon them all. There was also a part of her, a deeply unsettled part, that dreaded how Rhaenyra would react upon learning that her son’s death was being celebrated so brazenly.

She had harbored the hopes of avoiding a war and bloodshed, clinging to the belief that there was a path through this that did not end in death. The letters she had sent to Rhaenyra expressed as much, though there had been no word in return.

A seed of anger still grew within her. She had explicitly warned her son not to undertake any action that would invite scorn–to refrain from drawing first blood and ignite this war.

Alicent held her son responsible for the grave turn of events. There had been a chance–a chance to avoid a war, a chance for peace without bloodshed. Yet, he had extinguished that possibility when he killed Lucerys Velaryon in an act of vengeance. Any hope for surrender and peace had sunk to the ocean depths along with the boy her son had slain.

Her condemnation extended beyond the mere act of vengeance; it was what it wrought upon her son that distressed her most deeply. He had become a kinslayer, a man cursed by the gods.

Amidst her reflections, a troubling thought nagged at her–was she, in some way, to blame for his actions? This question lingered in her mind, adding a layer of personal torment to the already heavy burden of her son’s deeds.

For years, Aemond had been the son she could trust, the dependable one that she could rely on. While her eldest had shrugged his duties, succumbing to his own indulgences and vices, her second son had strived to uphold his responsibilities, bearing them with determination and integrity. He had always listened to her guidance–until now, until her.

The needle pierced through the fabric and unexpectedly pricked the soft pad of her finger, the sharp sting pulling Alicent from her thoughts. She glanced down at the small droplet of blood that had formed and drew her finger to her lips. The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth for a moment.

A knock at the door cut through the silence. She looked up at Lady Talya, who met her gaze and then nodded in understanding. She rose from her seat, carefully setting aside the dress she had been mending. Talya’s footsteps were soft as she crossed the room to answer the door.

Alicent could hear the door open, followed by low murmurs.

Returning to the room, Talay stood at the steps, smoothing her hands down her dress. “The Lord Confessor is here to see you.”

“At this hour?” Alicent responded, her tone tinged with surprise. She straightened up, withdrawing her feet from the footrest, and then slipped them into her slippers, letting her nightgown and robe fall over them neatly.

The rhythmic tapping of a cane echoed through the room, each click sending a spike of apprehension through Alicent as she rose from her seat. Lord Larys Strong entered, pausing beside Lady Talya, leaning heavily on his cane. He offered Alicent an apologetic smile.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “I bring news from the feast.”

“What is so important that it cannot wait till morning?” Alicent asked, setting aside the shirt she had been mending and crossing her arms over her chest, suddenly conscious of her attire. She was clad in a long, silken nightgown with a thick robe of silk and green velvet wrapped snugly around her–and yet, it seemed not enough beneath his gaze.

Despite not having been invited to proceed further, Lord Larys advanced towards her, ignoring the customs and the discomfort of Lady Talya, who shifted uneasily at the edge of the steps.

“I thought you might wish to be informed of what has transpired at the feast in your absence,” he explained, his tone suggesting the urgency and significance of his news without revealing what he might bring. The tap of his cane against the stone floor punctuated his approach, drawing him down the steps into Alicent’s sitting room. While his demeanor remained friendly and unassuming, there lurked an undercurrent of something more calculating, a subtle assertion of dominance that filled Alicent’s stomach with dread.

Larys settled himself into the chair that Lady Talya had just vacated, his cold gray eyes meeting Alicent’s with an expression that was unassuming yet expectant. Reluctantly, Alicent looked up at Talya and gave a subtle nod, signaling her dismissal. Talya, her loyal lady-in-waiting, curtseyed gracefully before departing, effectively closing the doors behind her. The act seemed to seal Alicent within her chambers, leaving her in the company of a man, who despite his unassuming exterior, held a sickening twist of cruelty to him.

“Let it be quick, my lord. I wish to retire to bed,” Alicent stated, resettling herself in her chair with a visible hint of irritation flickering beneath her composure.

“Do you recall, years ago, when you first took to wearing green?” Larys began, his voice smooth, tinged with an amusement that seemed to taunt her. He always kept the true purpose of his visits hidden, only to be revealed once he had played his game. His manner was polished, akin to the deceptive smoothness of a well-honed blade. It always left her dirty.

“I remember it vividly–the entrance you made during the king’s speech, and the immediate silence that followed. It was then I knew I had made the right choice in serving you–”

“Where are you going with this?” Alicent interjected, her voice sharp with impatience, too wearied for such games at this late hour.

Larys offered a cold smile in response. “It is said history has a habit of repeating itself. Tonight, it appears, such repetition has indeed taken place. The Princess decided to attend the feast.”

For a moment, Alicent could only stare at him, perplexed, her heart pounding tumultuous before sinking into the pit of her stomach. Her brows furrowed in a frown, her head shaking slightly in disbelief. “The princess hasn’t been well these past few days. She has scarcely moved, or so I’ve been told…”

“It seems she found the strength,” Larys remarked casually, his fingers rhythmically tapping against his cane. “The princess was quite a sight to behold, clad in a dress as red as blood, adorned with a dragon on the bodice. She made quite a spectacle of her presence, refusing to bow to the king.”

Alicent turned away with visible irritation, her gaze settling on the flickering flames of the hearth. She absentmindedly lifted her hand to trace her finger over her lower lip as she contemplated the news, muttering under her breath, “Insolent girl.”

The dress, Alicent knew, was more than mere attire–it was a statement, a bold declaration for her mother as much as it was a direct indictment against their own actions. It was a declaration of war.

Honoring Aemond with a feast for the death of Lucerys Velaryon was contentious enough, but for the sister to attend such a celebration would be seen as exceptionally cruel. Yet, that very implication was why Daenera had chosen to appear. She knew how the realm would be likely to perceive her forced attendance at such a celebration as not just cruel but a calculated indignity.

Daenera had manipulated her grief into a public spectacle, wielding it as a weapon against those who orchestrated the event. In doing so, she wasn’t just mourning her brother; she was condemning those who celebrated his death.

“It is not all,” Larys interjected, recapturing her attention with his deliberate tone. “The king held a speech to commemorate his brother for his victory…”

The implication of Larys’s words hung heavily in the air between them. Alicent closed her eyes, a gesture of resignation as she rubbed her brow. She didn’t need Larys to elaborate on the details; she could well imagine them herself. Yet, he continued, and despite her expectations, the actual recounting of her son’s actions shocked her with its cruelty. Aegon had always possessed a certain callousness, a trait she had longed hoped he would outgrow.

Another knock at the door broke the tension-filled silence, followed by the creaking sound of a door swinging open. A low, urgent voice called out, “Your Grace?”

“You may enter,” Alicent responded, straightening herself in her chair. After all, hadn’t her chambers turned into an audience already?

Lady Mertha appeared at the doorway, descending the steps into the sitting area with measured steps. She moved to stand by the hearth, casting a brief, wary glance at Larys before her eyes settled on Alicent. And with a respectful curtsy, she spoke, “I beg your forgiveness for intruding. I have urgent matters with you that cannot wait until morning.”

Alicent, her tone sharp with reproach, responded, “I’ve just been informed of the princess’s decision to attend the feast…” She paused, her gaze fixed sternly on Lady Mertha. “Were you not tasked with ensuring that she did not leave her chambers unbidden, let alone make a spectacle of herself?”

Alicent stared at the older woman, her eyes sharp and discerning, as a flicker of annoyance twisted within her chest. This woman had been entrusted with the responsibility of keeping the princess compliant, tasked with keeping a vigilant eye on her to prevent precisely the kind of spectacle that had occurred. Did no one heed her any longer?

Lady Mertha had been part of Alicent’s staff ever since she’d moved from Oldtown to King’s Landing, when her father had assumed the role of the Hand of the King. For years, she had served her well and without complaint, a respectable woman who had always demonstrated faithfulness to the gods, to House Hightower, and to her duties. Alicent’s expectations had been clear, and the breach was not taken lightly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Mertha responded, her hands folded in front of her. Her posture did not suggest cowering; rather, she bore the weight of Aliceent’s reproach with firm shoulders. “I left the princess in Lady Edelin’s care. She hasn’t moved in days, doing nothing but staring into the flames. She has scarcely taken food or drink, accepting it only when offered directly by the Queen herself. I did not expect that she would choose to leave her chambers, much less attend the feast–”

“But she did,” Alicent interjected sharply. “And she made a spectacle of it.”

“I will see to it that the girl is reprimanded for her lapse,” Mertha responded, her gaze briefly flickering towards Larys before settling back on Alicent. She shifted uncomfortably, an air of urgency and discomfort stiffening her movements. “But… that is not why I have come, Your Grace. I would prefer to speak alone if you would allow it.”

Alicent drew in a deep breath, the onset of a headache beginning to throb at her temples. She glanced towards Larys, intending to dismiss him with a silent look. However, Larys met her gaze with an expectant, almost challenging expression and made no move to leave. Instead, he shifted his attention back to Mertha, who remained standing, effectively ignoring Alicent’s unspoken command to leave. Feeling the invisible strings of influence Larys seemed to have tied around her tighten, Alicent’s irritation churned in her stomach. She gritted her teeth in exasperation, exhaling sharply before turning her full attention back to Mertha.

“The Lord Confessor has my confidence,” Alicent stated, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. Although she didn’t look at him, she could sense Larys’s satisfaction radiating across the room, palpable through the web of control he had woven around her. She supposed that his presence, though oppressive, was perhaps a lesser evil compared to other demands he might impose.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mertha responded in deference. “Not long after the princess had excused herself from the feast, I too took my leave. I had intended to look in on her when I encountered a most unsettling scene…” Her voice trailed off, tinged with hesitation, and her expression twisted into a deep, almost fretful frown. “The–the princess was sitting before the hearth…” Her gaze faltered from Alicent as she took a deep breath, seemingly gathering her composure. She reached up to touch the seven-pointed star resting against her chest, a gesture of seeking reassurance. “The gods protect me, the princess was spilling her own blood into the flames and uttering curses into the fire…”

“Curses?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Of what kind?” Alicent pressed, feeling the weight of dread settle in her stomach like heavy stone, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs. “What did she say?”

“It was the most vile of curses, those that are made in blood,” Mertha replied, voice laced with fear. She clutched the seven-pointed star necklace more tightly, as if seeking protection from the gods. “She condemned that your name alongside those of the Lord Hand and the King, invoking a life of anguish and despair for you—Your Grace, she cursed you to endure the same pain and suffering her mother has faced, to face the same loss as she has…”

Fear clawed at Alicent’s heart, its grip tightening, nails digging into the tender flesh as dread seeped into her veins. Her throat constricted, tears burning at the back of her eyes as her gaze shifted from Mertha to the flames of the hearth.

Alicent swallowed the rising tide of fear, steeling herself against the disturbing revelations, even as her heart trembled within her chest. Striving for composure, her voice emerged measured but with a discernible tremor. “Lady Mertha, thank you for bringing this to my attention. It is clear that the princess is suffering. Your guidance and the sanctity of the gods may be what saves her soul.”

And what saves us from her, she thought silently, the weight of the responsibility and the potential threat pressing heavily on her mind.

With a solemn nod, Alicent dismissed her. “Let us discuss our course of action on the morrow.”

Mertha hesitated, her eyes flickering uncertainly between Alicent and Larys. She released her tight grip on the seven-pointed star pendant and placed her hand against her chest briefly, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She then smoothed the fabric of her dress with a composed gesture and replied, “Yes, Your Grace.”

As soon as the door closed behind Mertha, Alicent rose from her seat and walked over to the hearth. Her fingers brushed anxiously over her lower lip, the impulse to bite down, to tear at the skin beside her nails, itched beneath her skin. She began to pace the floor, her mind racing with the weight of the night’s revelations.

“I wouldn’t concern myself with curses,” Larys spoke up, breaking the tense silence.

“What do you know of curses, my lord?” Alicent asked pointedly, pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. Her fingers pressed against her lips as she nibbled at the skin, the urge to bite down growing stronger still. Was this her punishment?

“They say Harrenhal is the most cursed place of all,” Larys answered, slowly rising from his chair. His cane tapped coldly against the floor as he leaned on it for support. “The only real curse is the one we forge for ourselves…”

His footsteps echoed heavily across the floor as she moved towards her, each step deliberately closing the distance between them and subtly invading her personal space. “If such things as curses exist, they are not brought into being merely by speaking them. If that were so, we would find ourselves cursed long ago.”

Sooooo the new episode is out and I've gotten A LOT to work with; so I've decided to go back to DS the next chapter, but the chapter will likely be wedged between existing chapters which means that while there might not appear to be a new chapter, there is, it's just added between ch. 82 and 83--so 83 will become 84 and so forth. You can also expect some events to be changed in order to fit with this story, as there's just about 7 months from the pregnancy reveal to B&C--which means in that time, we'll focus on characters and some minor events; a battle over the blockade, a battle near Harrenhal, trying to win House Tully and the Riverlands to each side + House Tyrell, 2 assassination attempts, trying to establish alternative trading routes to get food to KL which gives the Blacks chances for guerrilla warfare, and growing tensions between Daemon/Rhaenyra as Daemon presses for escalating the war while she tries to keep it together because the Greens has her daughter. I will do my best to finish next chapter by Friday, but I can't promise anything, it's a long one that stretches from the moment Daemon received word of Luke's death to the day after and contains multiple scenes. Some things will also be stretched because it didn't make sense how fast they all travel between great distances and I just need it to make sense. I will say, we will also get a chapter following Rhaenyra as she searches for Luke because I'm a glutton for angst, and I will add more details because I need it. But this chapter will likely be chapter 87? I think. or 88---we'll get a KL chapter before it and after.

#a vow of blood #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

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gloryy-vs · 2 years ago

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hi ! this isn’t a nsfw request but this came to mind since im unfortunately on my period rn 😭 if u could write maybe fem!human x neteyam where she’s on her period and neteyam is rlly concerned and confused?? so she has to explain what a period is and more abt fhe human female body. and he ends up comforting her while she’s just having the worst cramps everrrr. you can totally change it up :) thank youuuuu

Shark Week

|| YURR.

characters: neteyam x reader

ratings: fluff, confused neteyam, in pain reader

You were in a fetal position, face contorted in pain and your hands pressing against your stomach from the stabbing and pulling feeling. Taking deep breaths was the only thing you could really do as you laid inside your boyfriends hut on the hammock, goosebumps forming on your skin from the slight cold. You were groaning quietly, impatient from the length this one cramp really had, it had no intention of stomping anytime soon.

Neteyam sauntered in, ready to tell you about his day hunting with his father when he saw your face, and your body all curled up. Worry immediately showed in his ears and face, and he hurried over to you, crouching slightly at your position. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong baby? Someone hurt you? What happened?” Neteyam was worried and confused, waiting for an answer as to who or what hurt his mate. You shook your head, reaching out to hold his hand. He brought it to his mouth, giving you small kisses on your even smaller fingers. His hands were ridiculously warm. Neteyam saw the small bumps on your arms, running his hand up and down your tiny frame to warm you up. You lifted your head, looking up at the much larger male.

“M’got my period. Cramps are killing me…” You said while holding onto his hand, relishing in the warmth his hands brought to you. Neteyam cocked a brow, his head tilting as well. “A period? I don’t know much about those..” You smiled weakly, admiring his obliviousness.

“Basically my body punishes me for not being pregnant. It cleanses out the female system. Only girls have it. So when it’s cleansing our system it hurts a lot, and that’s how we get cramps.” You explained, hand farting to your stomach in response to the pain getting worse. A groan escaped your lips, and he looked at you desperately. Neteyam hated seeing you in pain and not knowing how to help his princess. “What can I do? Tell me what can help you.” He bargained, holding onto your hand tightly.

You exhaled, taking his hand and leading it to where your stomach was. Neteyams hands were larger, so it covered all of your stomach and down to your womb area, heat spread through your body instantly. It relaxed those tense muscles, and brought a content smile to your face. “That’s it. Your hands are so warm, Teyam.” You said softly, happy to relieve the ache. He exhaled as well, pressing his hand down softly to your liking. “Here, lay with me.” He said, scooping you up in his free hand as he hopped into his thick hammock. Neteyam gently placed you down next to him, your head burrowing into his neck. Small hands rested overtop of his larger one that stayed on your stomach as a heating pad. It was better than any pain reliever you’ve had back at Earth, just the comfort and warmth of your lovers presence.

#avatar neteyam #avatar way of water #neteyam imagine #neteyam x reader #neteyam sully #avatar jake #avatar loak #neteyam #avatar #neteyam x you

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cheesycatz · 2 months ago

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I have reached 160k words on the fic. Considering that three out of the five pieces of Wormton fanart I've received involve unmasked Wormton interacting with Blue in some positive/lighthearted way, I'm sure you will all be happy to hear that they are completely separated and Wormton's mental state is even worse! It's okay, though, because he found a new androgynous blue person to befriend, one who can actually help him with his original plan to make Cyber City his again. Wait, no, put the soul slurping silly straw AWAY—

I'll probably change some stuff, but here's my current concept of how Wormton would fit into Chapter 2.

Spamton first detects the Heroes of Light when they fall down in front of his burrow. His soul-sensing ability is immediately overwhelmed by the sheer presence of the red SOUL, infinitely more powerful than any darkner soul he's even encountered, and somehow still infinitely brighter than the souls of the monster lightners. He sees it as an answer to his prayers, a way to give him the power to make this city his. He is cautious, though, as a powerful soul reflects a powerful owner. He stalks Kris, learning their name as he tries to get them alone. Between NPCs (and the addisons he is avoiding like his life depends on it), battles, and Noelle, it takes a while for him to find the opportunity. But, as an ambush predator, he is very patient. He takes his disguise with him, hoping to use it to gain Kris's trust. Like Flowey in Undertale, the player may catch a glimpse of Spamton on the walls or roofs, disappearing into the darkness if they turn back.

Normal fight:

Disguised Spamton corners Kris in the same alleyway, popping out of the dumpster. He pretends he's never seen Kris as he requests to see the SOUL, jumping out of the dumpster on all fours before standing up. He fights them not with the intention to kill, but to keep them trapped in a battle so he can prattle on about his “deal.” Spamton speaks about it in the vaguest terms possible, promising riches, power, to be BIG, and whatever other word-slop comes out of his mouth. He also picks up on how Kris's stiff movements remind him of his disguised self—as in, a puppet being pulled around by metaphorical strings. He wonders out loud if Kris's body even matches the SOUL they carry, and perhaps that was just enough for Kris to genuinely consider his offer. Once the player accepts Spamton's extremely dubious deal, he tells Kris to come to the Trash Zone alone and scampers offscreen, soon removing his costume and resuming his stalking.

Shop?

If the player remembers to go back to the Trash Zone (genuinely every letsplayer I've watched forgets Spamton even exists if they're not trying to do the secret boss, so emphasis on the “remembers”), Spamton doesn't actually let them in. His nest only had one exit, and Susie and Ralsei were standing in front of it and would definitely check it if Kris never came out. Spamton isn't confident in his ability to fight them, so he unfortunately has to keep waiting.

Spamton continues to stalk the Heroes through the mansion, easily concealed by its high ceilings. He eventually finds the basement and sees it as the perfect place to lure Kris. He leaves his disguise on the floor and smashes whatever dingy lights remained in the basement, enveloping it in darkness. He leaves and whispers to Kris between room transitions, disappearing where the player, and Kris by extension, cannot look before the other party members appear. Eventually, he retreats back to the basement, waiting for Kris to enter. Because Spamton never previously broke into the basement, it doesn't have the security forcefield, heinous tea cup ride, or encryption wall. The player can only hear scratching as Spamton walks across the ceiling in the darkness, Kris's sword being the only source of light. He tells them to find him as a distraction. Once the player finds the empty husk of his disguise, he lunges at them while laughing. Kris's armor prevents his claws from puncturing their skin, but they are still immediately restrained. His proboscis is shown for the first time as he attempts to start feeding on the SOUL, but he is knocked over by Susie's Rude Buster. Sick of waiting, Spamton finally attacks.

Secret Boss Fight

In order to defeat Spamton mercifully, the player needs to destroy his disguise to get him to focus on something other than killing the Heroes. Any magic spells used during the fight by Ralsei or Susie produce light, which makes Spamton's attacks easier to see, but also makes him angry and causes his damage to increase. All three Heroes can act to damage Spamton's disguise, but Spamton doesn't initially notice it. Throughout the fight, he continues to speak about the future for Cyber City he plans, dumping some lore about what happened to his species, fondly describing their parasitic larvae, and making it clear how much he despises the antiviruses. He purposefully uses clips he gathered of the other lightners and the Heroes, which the player can hear as his dialogue soundbyte switching to different characters. Spamton is meant for ambush hunting, not endurance, so he begins to be worn out from having to chase after the Heroes. As he slows down, he finally notices his destroyed disguise, and panics. He can't safely get out of the mansion without it, and is terrified of being discovered. He's exhausted enough for Ralsei's pacify spell to finally work. Spamton gains enough clarity to start feeling remorseful, but he passes out before anyone can make amends. He's still alive, but his gray eyes and lack of visible breathing makes him appear dead. The player can raid his destroyed disguise to obtain a Shadow Crystal and the AppleFlower item (exact same abilities as DealMakers). Maybe the fact that Spamton believes he can't survive without the disguise he has to wear kind of correlates with how Kris can't survive without the SOUL they don't want, but it's a bit of a stretch. I think the fact that Spamton could tell that the SOUL didn't belong to Kris would have shook them a little bit, but, yeah, most of the symbolism from the original NEO fight is kind of lost here.

Violent Normal Route:

The player can still fight unmasked Spamton in the basement even if they attack him during his first fight. His exoskeleton is strong enough that he doesn't get seriously injured, just angrier. The player obtains the WormScarf (exact same abilities as PuppetScarf) instead.

Weird Route:

Spamton still assists the player by telling them how many darkners are left. Idk if he'd have the thorn ring, as I don't know why canon Spamton was carrying around a torture device in the first place. He takes over the mansion, but tries to stop Kris once he learns that destroying the fountain will destroy the city he just got control over. He may have high defense, but he's extremely weak to the cold in general and is killed the moment Noelle hits him.

I'll probably rewatch a chapter 2 playthrough to look at the dialogue and events. Maybe the Jerma playthrough? I've only seen the clips from that “starring Jerma985 as Spamton G. Spamton” video I watched like four times and not the rest.

#spamton #spamton fanart #deltarune chapter 2 #cheesycatz art posts #wormton au #worm scarf? terraria reference? real?#its been like a month since i posted the worm man hope you werent starving #Why does it take 26 chapters for these guys to finally hug

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world-of-aus · 1 year ago

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Safe With Me - II

Pairing: Bodyguard!Bucky x MobDaughter!Reader

Warnings: Angst. Feels.

Author's Note: I am so sorry that this has taken me so long to get out! But here we are installment II of Safe With Me. I am looking at two more parts total for this small series. I hope you all enjoy this piece, happy reading Buns!

The tension was overwhelming, the silence deafening as you and your father stare one another down. Bucky stands frozen at the door, face void of any emotion as he awaits further instruction from your father. There’s an ache sat in your chest from the night before that he was here for him, his job, and not you.

“Are you going to say anything?” you almost dare the gray-haired man before you.

Bucky watches as your father shakes his head, his frown glowering further, “what would you like me to say,” he snips eyes burrowing further into yours. “Rumlows out of your life a year now yet you still allow the bastard to dictate it, still allow him to play you like some pawn!”

“You’re one to talk, he plays you all the same.”

Bucky catches the moment your body jolts in fear at your old mans fist meeting the desk “Watch your mouth daughter, you are my blood, you are my next in line, this,” he gestures to the office, “is to be yours, do not let him take this from you!”

“He’s not taking anything from me because I don’t want to be the next in line!”

Your words have stunned your father into silence, pain and betrayal pulling at his features. “What did you say?”

The scoff slips past your lips “you’ve never been one to hear me. I said I don’t want this, I’ve never wanted this, you and Nico have decided my fate time and time again, I have had no say, have had no voice!”

“Don’t you dare!” he hisses chubby wrinkled finger pointed at you at the mention of your late brother.”

“Be real for once father,” you argue back, “I was never your first option, I’ve probably never been, but you were left with no choice, you dealt your own cards!”

The second the chair flies into the wall as you father stands in fury Bucky is behind you his hand resting on your shoulder. An anchor of comfort. “How dare you,” your father hisses, “I am your father y/n and you will respect me as such!”

You’re defiant now that Bucky is there to ground you, “why should I, did you respect the wishes of Nico, my wishes? This life got him killed, and you’re resigning me to the same fate. If it wasn’t for begging, no pleading you to see what Rumlow was doing to me I would have met the same fate! I begged you for a year, a year father, and no number of bruises laid upon me could get you to see, to hear me. It wasn’t till Bucky found me that night, the night you miraculously seemed to think of me that you finally saw me.”

Bucky visibly tenses at the mention of that night, his jaw locks, and the hand that isn’t rested against your skin clenches into a fist at his side. Rumlow had every intention of ending your life that night, and had he not arrived when he did, he doesn’t even want to imagine. It was almost like fate that he got to you just in time, he had been your only hope at escaping the grasp of death.

Some nights he can still recall your weakened grip, your barely there pained cries as he all but pleaded with you to hold on for him. Those nights he holds your hand a little tighter, brings you closer to make sure you’re still there, that you’re safe. Safe with him.

“Rumlows moved on y/n, he has a wife, a child on the way, he’s just trying to scare you, that’s always been his tactic when he feels threatened.”

You want to scream because he’s doings it again, he’s not hearing you.

“With all due respect sir it would be wise of you to listen to your daughter.” Bucky speaks up from beside you. You fight the urge to glance up at him, eyes locked on your fathers gaze which has found the eyes of the man that stands tall beside you.

“Not you too,” your father mutters, the urge to scream intensifies.

“You’ve been witness to what he’s capable of,” Bucky reminds, “on not only one occurrence but a second as well, do you really want to take the risk?”

“You say I’m not hearing you, but it’s like you’re not hearing me either, that is my blood,” he points again. “My line, my legacy, she is made for this, to take over it, you’re asking me to give it all up for what? An empty threat?”

“An empty threat? Is that what you think of Nico’s death?”

Your dad’s eyes flicked to yours, and you know that if you hadn’t been his blood there would have been a hole shot right between your eyes. “What do you want from me? Have I not given you everything? Have I not lived up to what you wanted?”

No. You think.

He’s given you nothing, but he’s taken everything.

“I want you to find someone else.”

You’re sure your father’s considering grabbing the gun he has nestled in his drawer. He flicks his hardened gaze between you and Bucky. “Leave us y/n.” You gape, “excuse me?” his eyes land on yours, “I said leave us, I need to talk to James alone. Go.” He admonishes you when you don’t move. Bucky gives your shoulder a comforting squeeze his way of saying you’ll be okay. You stand wordlessly ducking your head as you move towards the door, heart hammering in your chest, a knot lodged in your throat as you step out into the hallway.

The door clicks behind you softly, your back pressed against the wood as you will your ears to hear. The only sound that can be heard though is that of your shallow breathing and the racing of your heart. It’s gone quiet in the hallway, the only sound now is that of your pacing too loud for your ears as you go one way, only to go back and re-track your steps the other way.

Minutes tick by with no sign of your father or Bucky to be heard behind that closed door. You’ve lost count of the times you’ve retraced your steps in the narrow hallway by the time that door pulls open. There was only one time that you can recall not being able to read Bucky and that was on your first meeting with the brunette, it’s strange now to look at the man you’ve come to know, come to trust so deeply, to look at him and not know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling.

He pulls the door open wider, you take a step forward wanting to ask if he’s okay, if everything was alright, but hesitation sat heavy. Each step taken into your dad's office feels weighed down by a cinder block. The waiting chair is execution, and your dad the jailer waiting to deliver the lethal dose.

You take your seat, bucky feet behind you, your father doesn’t speak as he slides a paper forward. Your eyes catch on the word Contract at the top of the page, they flick up to your dad, “what's this?”

“Read it.”

You lean forward fingers pulling the contract closer, the office is quiet, suffocating as your eyes scan the words printed on the document. Your heart plummets when you see the signatures bonding the contract. Your eyes meet your dads, “what is this?” You ask again needing clarification that what you’re reading on the page before you is real.

“You wanted me to hear you.” He answers.

“I – and you think this is hearing me, signing away my hand?”

Your father scoffs, “there’s no pleasing you is there? I’ve done what you asked me y/n, you don’t wish to be next in line, so I’ve made it to where you don’t have to be, like you’ve asked of me.”

You’re unsure of what to do, what to say, you look over your shoulder the unreadable expression on Bucky’s features now makes sense you think. “And you agreed to this?” He nods stiffly, the bile rising in your throat, you turn back to your father, “I won’t agree to this, you can’t make me.” You barely get out.

He settles back in his chair, “unfortunately your name isn’t on the contract for you to be able to make that decision. My hands are tied daughter, this was the only way I could give you what you wanted, while still ensuring my lineage was taken care of.”

“You think this is what I wanted, what he wanted?!”

He looks down at the contract that took minutes to draft up and seconds to sign, “his signature is on the page is it not? Besides, there’s no one I trust more. I trusted him with ensuring you safety for a little over a year now, I think that qualifies him enough, he’s taken care of the thing most precious to me.”

“Do you not stop and think?” Your fathers looks surprised, “have you ever stop and thought of anyone other than yourself?” His surprise slips, cold demeanor returning. “I will not let you take the one thing I have worked for my whole life y/n; I will have my lineage continued; I will have a next in line.”

“So that’s it, neither of us have a say?”

Your father rubs at his chin, “I think enough has been said, it’s time to move forward, by the next meeting you shall adorn a wedding band and a new last name, and I will have my next in line.”

You want to argue but your father wastes no time in ‘moving forward’, “James I will take of everything for you and my daughter, make sure she is tended to tonight, it is obvious her feelings are on a fritz.”

“Of course, sir.” Bucky answers and you had never imagined there would ever be a time that you wanted to scream at the brunette.

Your father sees the two of you out, Bucky leading the two of you to the car. Neither of you speaks as the engine starts, your father's home a speck in the mirror the farther you drive.

You had only ever been to Bucky’s cabin one other time, the wooden lodge a home away from home for him. It’s still as breathtaking as the first time you laid your eyes on it. The scenery that you watch from the windows seems to be the only thing that has calmed you since you arrived hours ago.

Neither of you has spoken yet, unsure of what to say, where to start. Should you scream, cry, damn everything to hell? Would anything fix what your father has done?

You know the answer and it’s not one you like.

You shut your eyes leaning your head against the cooling glass, this wasn’t how you imagined this would go. In an alternate universe you’d have fallen to your knees in tears, cries of joy leaving your lips at the thought of marrying Bucky Barnes. But this wasn’t that universe, the universe where you fell in love. This was your father once again taking eveything, but this time he wasn’t only taking from you.

A hand on your shoulder pulls you from your mind, your eyes opening to the breathtaking scenery once more. His hands guide you, turning you softly till you’re falling into a warm embrace. Your hands curl around his back, head finding his chest. His lips press to your head, you were safe.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into your hair.

His apology takes you by surprise, and you pull back slightly to meet his eyes, “what ever are you sorry for, if anyone should be apologizing it is me.”

He shakes his head, “I went against what you wanted this afternoon, I thought of nothing else other than your safety when I put that pen down on that paper. I should have stopped to think how you might feel, I took your voice away.” Your head shakes vigorously in return as if the action might show him just how wrong you thought it was. “The only person who went against my wishes was my father, when I called this meeting with him, I was not expecting him to make the demands he did, he had no right, he may have taken my choice away but he took yours as well.”

The brunette's brows furrow in question, “you didn’t ask for this Bucky,” you answer, “you were given the sole task by my father to protect me for as long as you could, and you’ve done just that, I could never thank you enough for it, but that should have been all that this was. Now he demands that you take my hand, he’s ripping away that choice from you. He’s taking your choice of a happy future by making you take my hand, and his lineage.”

“Would you have chosen differently?”

You want to say yes, you would. You would have changed the way you met him, would have changed his role in your life. You would have done it all differently, and you tell him just that asking him the same question in return.

His answer surprises you, “I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Because I'm not sure you and I would have ever crossed paths otherwise, and I don’t want to think of any other possibility.”

“Why?”

“Because you might not be in it.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au

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gluedwithgold · 11 months ago

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In my Agent of Chaos Au, Leshy is called "He of Havoc" and I'll explain why he betrays the old faith in a future post. Right now I just have some doodles of what I've had in mind first Leshy.

Leshy has been sealed away into the thickest, densest part of Darkwood where no one can find him (or so it was thought), his giant eldritch worm body is suspended in the air completely immobilizing h so he cant burrow away. Four chains/shackles hold him, three around the main body snd one around his neck with a four shackle being clamped around his face. Both to force his mouth shut and blind him as Leshy cannot see without his crown (Tho blinding him wasn't intentional). His moss/leaf like fur is overgrown from years of imprisonment which kinda just makes him look cute instead of terrifying but I think it fits.

I have always found it interesting that Leshy is the god of chaos and had the biggest boss/eldritch form, yet he's usually the first Bishop you fight and kill in game. So his massive size and chaos domain are VERY important in this AU. Each Bishop was severely injured while attempting to restrain Leshy, I'll go into more detail about it all in future posts.

(Btw Fawn is also taller than the Lamb)

#cult of the lamb #cotl #cult of the lamb oc #cotl oc #cult of the lamb au #cotl au #au lore #cult of the lamb leshy #cotl leshy #leshy #agent of chaos au #my art #my handwritting sucks lol

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finisnihil · 2 months ago

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daz is back at it again with another jingluo au bc THEY WONT FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE

so hear me out, a Dangerously Yours (the radio show AND MORE SPECIFICALLY THE MASQUERADE EP) jingluo au with jing yuan as rudolph and luocha as catherine (katherine???? i lwk dont know how to spell her name)

it was honestly difficult for me to choose who was who (i had a lot of thoughts of jing yuan as catherine) but ultimately decided on him as rudolph because of personality and also their roles. i also think luocha as catherine would be a better fit because of the ending

BUT I WANT TO HEAR WHAT U THINK :3

OH MY GOD HI DAZ, YES YES I AGREE.

Jingluo is truly like little parasites that burrow in you and refuse to budge.

ANYWAYS YES DANGEROUSLY YOURS I definitely agree. Catherine as Luocha is the best fit I believe. Catherine approaches Rudolph first, she's the one who lures him into the game of wits, akin to how Luocha lures Jing Yuan into their own metaphorical chess game by drawing his attention enough to get him invested. When they take too long, both of them are eventually pushed to ignite the final confrontation so to speak, forcing the other player to abandon their passive role of observing them to become more active.

I also do believe that between the two of them, Luocha would have more difficulty firing the gun in that moment. Jing Yuan would struggle but he's fired the gun before, he's the one who read Dan Feng's sentencing after all, he's practiced. Luocha on the other hand is somebody who would struggle to let go, his entire character is being unable to let go.

Luocha cannot let go of life because the dead will return and Yaoshi will not let him. He has bad memories of his home world but he can't let go of his clothes from there, wearing them to remind himself of the road he must travel. He carts around the coffin because he cannot let go of a deal he made. He risks being exposed too soon to heal Xueyi because he can't let go that she's hurt. As Jingliu says, there's a hole where his heart is and he exhausts himself trying to fill it. If Jing Yuan became something that fills that hole, Luocha wouldn't be able to let him go. Rudolph is there to test Catherine, and she says it herself, Rudolph is dearer than her country. Jing Yuan wouldn't need to be tested, he's already pulled that trigger enough times to prove himself. Luocha, however, would grapple with duty over happiness, having to take on the burden of that hole in his heart again to do what he needs to do. It fits with the canon too, if Luocha truly seeks a greater alliance with the Xianzhou, he has to be ready to uphold that above himself.

Jing Yuan also fits as Rudolph especially well. He plays into the game already having an idea of what's going on and still gets blindsided by Luocha's moves. Rudolph wasn't sure if Catherine could shoot him in that moment and Jing Yuan couldn't see Luocha's true intentions until it was too late. Jing Yuan would also let Luocha go, the way Rudolph did Catherine. Jing Yuan let Blade go, he let Dan Heng go, and he lets Baiheng go every time he visits Bailu. He let Igor go knowing he would never see him again, that Igor had a life and a destiny he could be part of but not dictate. He let Jingliu go when he made the decision to kill her and release her from the Mara. In the way that Luocha cannot let go, Jing Yuan cannot bear to hold on. Even if he ends up alone again, he can't bring himself to chain anyone to his person in such a way.

In regards to his relationship with Luocha, it could end up a bit dysfunctional because of this. In the same way an animal used to captivity can't take care of itself in the wild, Luocha wouldn't take being freed for his own good after finally finding fulfillment very well. Jing Yuan would release him in a bid to prioritize his happiness/health and Luocha would die outside the safety of the fence, still looking for the hand that feeds him. To Rudolph, it was better to let Catherine think he never loved her when to Catherine, not knowing he was always on her side would be a greater pain. Jing Yuan and Luocha would be much the same. They're a bit unhealthy in that way but it adds to their charm.

Anyways, of course they would fit the episode literally titled "Masquerade". They're both donning masks/personas and engaging in a dance without truly being vulnerable enough to know the other fully. When the masks do come off, the dance is over, and one of them falls off the music box to be freed of the song.

#honkai star rail #Finis Analyzes #Finis Credits #luocha #Jing yuan #jingluo #YEAHHHHHHH #Mootie all we do is pass Jingluo brainrot back and forth like we're playing catch #not complaining tho #I love punting Jingluo like a kickball and yapping about them #They're so endearing and they have such delicious dynamics #anyways hope you liked the analysis!

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voraciousvore · 28 days ago

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The Tiny (Chapter 4)

Chapter 1 | Previous (3) | Next (5)

Content Warning: soft nonfatal unwilling g/t vore

Word Count: 4k

------ Chapter 4: Losing Control ------

I can’t sit still. My skin is crawling with a million ants, biting and stinging and burrowing subcutaneously. I’m on fire, burning with a passion and desire as blinding as the sun. I scratch at my scalp, gnash my teeth, tap my feet, pluck and grind and tear at every exposed follicle on my body.

I’m going insane with gluttonous fantasies. Jackie is out of my sight, yet her scent is so strong in my house I can taste it. I suck on my fingers and bite my nails, desperate for any little crumb of her essence that remains from our physical contact. I curl my fingers in my mouth like wriggling worms, pretending they’re not parts of my body but rather live humans, and I audibly squeal in delight.

I pop my fingers back out from the seal of my lips, flushing with shame. I need to control myself, but every second I don’t have Jackie in my belly is unfiltered torture. I claw at the arm of the couch, scraping at the fabric with my nails almost enough to make my cuticles bleed. I slump into the cushions before straightening and stiffening, my spine contorting like a snake held over a hot flame.

This isn’t right. I shouldn’t have to suffer like this. I don’t wish to be an evil man; I’m not bloodthirsty enough to heartlessly kill a helpless tiny person; but the unending agony of a desire I cannot satisfy refuses to leave me in peace. I know I’ll keep feeling this way, for days and days and days into eternity, if I don’t get what I crave. The human’s not going anywhere. She can’t run or hide from me, from my perceptive nose. There’s nowhere safe for her. There is nothing left but the unavoidable collapse of my fortitude, as temptation chips away with brutish determination at my crumbling willpower.

The clock on the wall counts every second with a tick that rings out in a deafening infliction of mockery upon me. I know I’m pathetic. My father would be thoroughly disgusted with me for my ineptitude. He’d scorn me, judge me, spit on me, call me a poor excuse for a son and a giant. And the worst part is, he’s absolutely right. I would fold under his gaze like a boneless eel. I’d reluctantly press her through my lips and swallow her as he watched, regardless of her pleas for clemency, because I’m too much of a coward to resist my urges or stand up to him.

I can’t stop myself any longer. My heart hammers as I rise to my feet, my shadow draping over the coffee table in a twisted aberration of self within the shady room. I prowl down the hallway, my whole body tingling with anticipation. I quietly open the door and slide into the shrouded bedroom.

A moonbeam pierces the darkness, shining through a crack in the curtains and illuminating a small lump in the bed. I pad over and stand above the object of my incessant preoccupation, staring at her intently. She’s cozied up in a ball with her eyes closed, blissfully unaware of her impending demise. I block out the moonlight, engulfing her in my sinister shadow. Perhaps the dulling of the light brings her into the waking realm, for she stirs and raises her head. She stiffens when alerted to my presence.

Before she has the sensibility to run, I catch her in my hand and lift her up to my eye level, scrutinizing her intensely. She stares back, blinking rapidly, and a tremor runs through her from her head to her toes. I can smell her fear, and I’m beginning to salivate at the snack I will soon enjoy. I crush down any last shreds of empathy; if I allow myself to feel, I won’t be able to live with myself. I sit down slowly on the bed, then lay flat on my back, never breaking my stare. I hold her above my face, eager to drop her into the void of my maw.

“Jaclyn,” I thunder in an authoritarian tone. I can’t bear to call her Jackie, with what I’m about to do. I’m not her friend any longer; I’m the source of her destruction. Her murderer.

“Y-yes?” she replies timidly. She shifts with discomfort in my grasp, but her strength is no match for mine.

I hesitate as a battle rages in my heart. I don’t want to harm her, but I NEED her. Her scent beckons me closer, the memory of her succulent taste tantalizing my tongue. There’s a failing hope within me that I might be able to stop myself from gulping her down, but deep down I know the truth. I’m a predator, and I’ll snap up my prey in a heartbeat.

“Can I taste you again?” My utterance is framed as a question, but I leave no room for negotiation. My stomach comes alive with a resounding growl and I open my mouth wide, the interior slathered with drool. I’m so hungry, inflamed with a passionate yearning, but I want to savor this moment. Jackie’s features collapse into panic as I sample her with my tongue, lapping her all the way up her leg. Pure bliss washes over my taste buds.

“Wait!” she shouts shrilly. “I’m not okay with this-” I’m too far gone to listen. I lower her down into my mouth, sliding her legs down the slope of my tongue. Her feet tickle the surface as she kicks and thrashes with alarm, desperate to save herself from a cruel fate.

“Stop! Please don’t!” she screams, but I ignore her. I drop her all the way inside, closing my jaws around her luscious form and cutting off her cries. I cradle her in a loving embrace on my tongue, pressing her up to the roof of my mouth and against the inner walls of my teeth. She bucks back in protect, her little fists and feet sinking into the squishy flesh of my tongue, but her efforts only whet my appetite further. I roll her around in my mouth, slurping her into my cheek and sucking on her like candy. I wrestle down her flailing and fighting as I guide her over to the pocket of my opposite cheek and hold her in there for a while.

I revel in the sensation of her limbs shoving into my molars and the smooth wall of my cheek. She’s effortlessly overpowered by my superior might as I compress my lips together with a luxurious swallow to drain all the excess spit. She’s delicious, perfectly divine in every way. I play with her body on my tongue as I allow every crevasse in my mouth to appreciate her touch and flavor. My juices flow in an exhilarating rush in response to her lively squirms.

My mouth is alive with pleasure, but I urgently desire to feel her in my stomach. My digestive organs are roaring for sustenance as I fold my tongue back to push her into my gullet. Her legs lightly prod the back of my throat while I gulp her down. I let out a gratified sigh as my esophagus drags her down through my neck and chest. Her limbs pulse in resistance to the crushing tube, but she can barely move as she sinks lower into my body. From the outside, I trace her path along my skin with my fingers, until she drops into my stomach.

I’m full. It’s a wonderful sensation, one that is exceedingly rare for me, with my insatiable hunger. The terrible void within me, both physically and spiritually, is made whole, if only for a short time. I gather my paunch in my hands reverently, relishing the beautiful moment. Why can’t I feel this way all the time? Why must I be so empty?

“Help me! Let me out of here!” I’m shocked to hear an infinitesimal squeak from my midsection, almost imperceptible through the thick layers of flesh. All at once, the satisfaction is soured as I’m painfully aware of the consequences of my actions, the horrible crime I’ve committed. It’s a blight upon my fleeting happiness, a stain on my soul that I know all too well from prior experience will never leave me.

“I’m sorry,” I state coldly, “but I couldn’t resist the temptation any longer.” Despite the frantic shifting in my gut from my internal prisoner, I suddenly feel dead inside. What have I done?

“Please!” she wails. I have to strain my ears to hear her. “Please, I beg you, let me out of here! You promised you wouldn’t eat me! I trusted you!” I feel her slump with despair into my stomach lining. “What kind of person would you be to betray that trust?”

I don’t know what to say. Should I even deign to respond? What she says and thinks doesn’t matter any longer. Soon, she’ll be an inanimate corpse, nothing more than a scrap of meat to be digested and turned into fat to line my thighs. She’s just food to me now, not a person.

“Chester, please… I believe in you. You’re my friend. Save me, don’t let me die in here.” Her voice is choked by sobs. My heart shatters. I betrayed her in the worst way possible. I’m truly the worst type of person.

There’s no point in lying to her now. “I… don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself from eating you again later, if I let you out,” I admit, the ugly truth bitter on my tongue. “You tasted so delightful, and you feel so good in my belly… especially when you squirm.”

I’m split right down the middle between two irreconcilable halves, torn between a kind man who wants to be good and a cold-blooded predator. The savage beast within me wishes to rip and tear and glut itself, regardless of the consequences, and that frightens me. I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to be a brute. I yearn to be a good person. I want to be kind and gentle. Even so, I’m paralyzed with indecision, with critical seconds ticking away as the poor human within my churning gut is exposed to hazardous gastric juices that will render her into mush.

Her faint voice speaks to me again, laced with desperation. “Listen… if you let me out now, I promise I’ll do anything you ask of me. Even if that means allowing you to eat me later.”

“Really,” I answer flatly. I don’t believe her at all. If she miraculously survived, there’s no way she would voluntarily go anywhere near me after this encounter, much less enter my maw by choice. I know this, yet a spark of hope ignites within me as a dreamy fantasy surfaces in my head. Having my own little human, to pet and adore and ingest whenever I please…

“Absolutely!” she exclaims back, tremulous. “If you don’t let me out now, I’m going to dissolve from being digested, and you’ll never be able to taste me again!”

Her words cut through me with a stabbing pain. If I don’t save her, she will die inside me. I’ll be a murderer, and I’ll have to live forever with that guilt. As she said, I’ll never again be able to enjoy the delights of her flavor. I’ll never get to know her, never be able to fawn over her the way I want to. I’ll be alone again. So tortuously alone, with nothing but terrible regret and remorse and self-loathing to keep me company.

“You’ve got a point.” I allow myself to be swayed, as irrational as the logic may be. As always, my heart is my weak spot, mushier than my intellect. I soften into putty. “Alright. I’ll let you out.”

I drag myself to my feet, reluctant to relinquish the satisfying fullness that permeates my innards. However, I know every second is valuable, and skirts the divide between life and death for my miniature friend. I transport her to the bathroom and hunch over the sink, clenching my abdominal muscles. Fortunately, my anatomy as a giant allows me to extract her without purging all my stomach contents, so with a few gagging motions I’m able to recall her back up my esophagus.

She’s eerily still, and I grow concerned. Luckily, she returns to life and shuffles a bit as she rises into my throat and up through my gullet. I cough her into my hand, and she lands with a splat, coated in a thick layer of bile, acid, and saliva. Her skin is a bright cherry red from the infernal heat of my viscera, but I don’t see any chemical burns or peeling from the acid. She appears at least conscious, if a bit dazed. She looks so frail and vulnerable.

My heart bleeds as I douse her in cold water from the faucet, rubbing her slim body down with my comparatively beefy fingers. She’s going to need a proper bath. A deep shame corrodes every fiber of my being, and I can’t bring myself to talk to her or even look at her directly as I clean her off and prep a bath for her.

I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself, particularly as the tang of vomit pollutes my tongue. I brush my teeth and tongue and swish water in my mouth, pining for a purity I have no right to reclaim. I’m so preoccupied with my own flurry of troubled thoughts, I forget that the diminutive woman won’t bathe while I’m present. She’s shaking convulsively, receded too far in shock to properly react. When I recognize my error, I fetch her bags from the bedroom and bring them to her, so that she can change into clean clothes, and leave her in peace.

I quietly close the bathroom door behind me and walk robotically down the hall to the living room, deep in thought. A violent emotion dislodges in my chest and I force down a rainstorm of tears. I sit down on the couch and bury my face in my hands.

I fucked up. Bad. I’ve ruined everything. She’ll never trust me again. She’ll only see me as a barbaric ogre, even after I’ve spared her. I took advantage of her innocence, violated her. And I realize now that I’ve trapped myself in a vicious cycle. I can’t resist temptation forever. I won’t be forgetting anytime soon how amazing she tasted, how good she felt sliding down my throat, how pleasurably full my stomach was. Such salvation is my forbidden fruit.

I’m in a pit of hellfire of my own creation. I shouldn’t have taken her to be mine. I should’ve ignored the lightning that I knew would bring me nothing but sorrows. I should’ve eaten her the second I had her in my clutches. I shouldn’t have treated her like a person worthy of respect. I should never have asked for her name. I should’ve kept her in my stomach to digest into nothing.

Even as my woes dogpile on, breaking my back with a burden too heavy to bear, I can discern the faults in my logic. I would not be capable of tossing away my compassion and eating a powerless person so carelessly, as much as I may wish to be as cold and heartless as my father. I don’t find such a state to be desirable, even though it would deaden my suffering to lack a conscience. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Regardless of whether or not I found the human, she was doomed to a savage and unforgiving death the second she wound up in the Land of Giants. I was her best chance of survival in this world so hostile to tiny people, and I almost failed her.

Almost. She’s alive and breathing now. I haven’t killed her yet. I clench my fists, digging them into my thighs. I need to be strong, firm, upstanding. She’ll hate and fear me—such a circumstance is unavoidable, after the unforgivable thing that I’ve done—but I can’t allow myself to succumb again. I steel myself to face Jackie again and rise to my feet, trudging to the bathroom. After taking a deep breath, I knock.

No answer, of course. She’s probably too afraid to make a peep. My suspicions are confirmed when I open the door and find her where I left her on the counter, freshly washed and dressed but shaking like a plucked guitar string. I understand the futility of trying not to scare her and walk right in, placing my hands on the counter and leaning over her. The terror in her expression is palpable as she crunches inward on herself, desperate for an out that will not materialize. She knows how small and helpless she is before me, a vicious predator.

I heave a weighty sigh. “Look… I need to explain some things to you that I didn’t tell you before,” I begin. I can hear the fatigue in my voice, clogged with hefty emotion. There’s no point to keeping her in the dark now regarding the precarious position she’s in. “I know you’re afraid, but come with me and we’ll talk.”

Without giving her an option, I sweep her off the counter into my hand and transport her back to the bedroom. Her body is tense as she vibrates with fear. My heart fractures anew, but I wrestle with my feelings to keep it together. I need to be strong for her. I sit on the bed and place her on my lap, circling my hands around her in case she attempts to run. Her wide eyes meet mine as she cranes her head back to stare me in the face.

“Despite our similarities, giants are anatomically different than humans,” I expound. I’m not making excuses for myself, but I feel compelled to at least explain my behavior. “We are carnivorous, and actually require meat to survive, unlike humans who can be vegetarians.” I can’t tell if she’s following along, considering how petrified she is by the whole experience. Nevertheless, with her as my captive audience, I continue.

“In fact, humans are supposed to be our primary food source. We were created with the express purpose of limiting the human population. As apex predators of humans, we naturally crave the taste of our human prey above all other foods. Nothing else satisfies in the same way.”

She shivers violently at this remark. I bring in my hands around her petite frame and pet her back gently to console her. She flinches at my touch, and remorse jabs into me with a fresh wound. I strain my eyes to not let them bleed.

“At one time, we lived in the same realm as you, the human realm. I’m sure you’ve heard many stories of giants that lived in the past. However, powerful human wizards rose up against us and banished us from the human world with their magic. Since then, we have been forced to live here, without humans to satiate our intense hunger.”

I scoop her up in my hand and lift her up to my face. I don’t intend to frighten her. I want to underscore my honesty and sincerity and communicate my desire to mend the trust that I’ve broken, despite the awful truth. I want to study her and see her reaction up close. I speak softly, lowering my volume. “Humans do make it to our lands, albeit rarely. I’ve lived a few hundred years… and I’ve eaten a handful in my time.”

“Such as me,” she interjects with an acerbic venom that stings me to my quick. My composure slips, and I falter.

“Yes. I regret that choice deeply. It’s just… I hadn’t savored the flavor of a human in so long, and when you fell by accident into my mouth… it awakened a ravenous appetite that I couldn’t control,” I confess.

I’m so worn out and tired of fighting. My efforts to restrain my despair fail, and my eyes grow wet with hot tears. “I don’t want to be a bloodthirsty monster. I never intended to hurt you. I can’t help that I was born with this burden. The urge to consume humans is so strong, I don’t know if I can fight it…”

As I bare the darkest depths of my soul to her, my shame, my cross to bear, I expect her to recoil with disgust. I doubt she could show any clemency in her judgement for the giant man who consumed her, with no consideration for her life. She’d be revolted by my tears, seeing them as a pathetic pity-party that trivialized her own suffering. She must despise me.

I never thought she could feel anything but revulsion towards me, a monster. So imagine my shock, when she reaches a jittery hand up to my cheek and caresses it with loving care. Her touch is feathery light, more delicate even than the occasional crystal tear rolling down my face to my chin. She makes me cry harder, but her touch is a soothing balm on my burning skin.

I let out all my frustrations and fears. “I just don’t know what to do now,” I whine. “I want to keep you safe, but I can’t let you go. You haven’t met any other giants yet, but most are far crueler than me towards humans. If they found you…” I can’t bring myself to finish. My own brother or father would gleefully rend her into chunks with their teeth. Even my mother, despite her softer disposition, wouldn’t mind taking a bite.

“I should mention as well, giants have an excellent sense of smell. Especially for tracking humans. You wouldn’t be able to run or hide, from me or anyone else. You’d be completely helpless.”

I can plainly see how disturbed she is by this new information. She sighs, expelling all her exhaustion and swirling emotions in a puff that tickles my cheek. “Chester, let’s get some rest. We can figure out a solution tomorrow.”

I blink away my tears and examine her with wonder. I’m amazed by how calm and level-headed she seems, even though she is obviously still afraid. She clearly understands that she’s stuck with me, with no way to leave my grasp. She has a remarkable inner strength and resiliency that I never would’ve imagined could come from such a weak prey animal. Come to think of it, she’s been listening to me without screaming or wetting her pants, so she must be strikingly brave too. I’m thoroughly impressed. She’s a better person than I could ever be. A fresh batch of tears springs from my eyes, making my image of her blur.

“I’m so, so sorry for what I’ve done,” I whimper. The guilt shackles me to the floor with a dreadful weight. I want to sink into the carpet and disappear.

What she says next leaves me genuinely gobsmacked. “I… I forgive you.” She gags on those difficult words, barely able to utter them with any sincerity, yet they flow over me in a healing deluge. I still feel heavy, but I’m not so paralyzed with humiliation and regret and remorse. The faintest spark of hope flickers in my core. The impossible has transpired: She forgave me. I can’t believe it. I relish the echo in my memory as I prepare for bed. I lay down and clutch Jackie tenderly to my chest, hoping for more. I hope that I can contain my voracity. I hope I can keep her safe. I hope we can persevere. I hope she won’t grow to hate me.

I hope we can have a happy ending, rather than an abrupt and brutal conclusion.

Chapter 5

#g/t vore #gt vore #vore writing #vore story #unwilling prey #unwilling vore #v0re #v/ore #v.ore #soft vore #nonfatal vore

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