#i feel the DIRE need to set things on fire

[singgibanggipoongpoongbanggi]

can we just talk about how EFFORTLESSLY and PERFECTLY seungcheol just exists?? like his existence is perfect in every manner and he doesn't even need to try and people actually get to look at him??? like look at him in real??

*slurps poison in a tea cup* I'm okay though

[hidtired]

Love Burns

(Daryl Dixon x Reader) Masterlist

Description: Some way somehow you crawled your way back from death. All to get back into the arms of one man. Daryl and the rest of the group were taking your death hard, your death was gruesome. So your disheveled arrival back to them was unfathomable… (Duel POVs)

6.1k words

Fall felt like winter. In a place made of concrete it was decided something needed to be done before winter truly came. The prison still needed a lot of work but with the new people of Woodbury things were getting done a lot faster. Only thing lacking was supplies. So a team was round up to go to a near hardware warehouse. Glenn, Maggie, Rick, Daryl, You, Carol, Sasha, Tyrese, and a few Ex Woodbury people headed out for as much as they all could carry. It was Hershel who suggested that this was dire because someone could get sick and that was supplies we just couldn’t spare. So… this wasn’t all for nothing. This run was the greater good for the prison. Even if it all went wrong by dusk. Even if it cost your life.

Almost all the cars had been full of things. It was decided to send a few of the new people back to empty their trucks and comeback. The chill was numbing everyone’s hands as they moved things back and forth. A fire was started inside the chain link fence. The U haul parked close to it to blocked the wind. Daryl had taken his bike, the psycho. But you had to admit the leather jacket he now wore looked good on him. You and Daryl, still no label but something was there. If the time spent cuddling him every chance you got inside the cellblock said anything. Always using the excuse you were cold, which wasn’t wrong. You’ve both kissed but that had happened only a few times. The only reason you had both gotten so close was the time spent after the farm fell.

It was decided in your mind after this run you would put all your card on the table. So while you were in the warehouse grabbing future farm tools Daryl walked past you making you turn and speak, “Hey, wanna share what little whiskey I have left when we get back.” Daryl turned a small smirk barely noticeably, he grunted before speaking, “Bring out booze? Must be a special occasion.” You glance away then back to him, gathering courage, “Just thought maybe it was about time we talked.” You smiled and walked past him with your head held high mimicking confidence. Little did you know you made the hair on the back of his neck stand and his heart beat just that much faster.

Finally dusk was fast approaching and everyone was gathered around the fire discussing before getting ready to leave. You sat staring into the fire half listening to the chatter of everyone. You had your arms around yourself trying to stop the wind. You were playing out things in your mind to say to Daryl. Trying to develop a way to get your feelings across. Strange how things escalate to life or death. Your peaceful gaze into the now hot coals was interrupted with sounds of gun shots drowned with screams and sounds of the dead marching. It was damn unlucky to have had two herds merge into each other at the warehouse. It was frantic but quick. You had been left to put of the fires. You had waited by the last smoldering one to beat the cold before all of you departed. When the gun fire and screams started you hadn’t thought to look behind you with all the action in front of you.

You heard a thunk before you felt something fall on top of you pulling you to the ground by your legs. You kicked and thrashed killing the walker that snuck up on you. However you noticed a wave of walkers now pulled down a part of the fence with their eyes dead set on you. A few slipping out of through holes in the fence. You unhooked your side arm from its place on your thigh. Pulling the knife you apparently stuck into the walker that jumped you. You look all around you trying to navigate options. But the situation that had originally got your attention also seemed to escalate with another wave of walkers come from every direction. That’s when your awareness made you freeze all together. A pain to your side close to your back. Lifting the layers of your cloths a mark of teeth bleed.

You had been bite.

Ice filled your veins, fear. Your grip tightened on your weapons. You stare as walkers closed the distance. Your name rung in your ears. Daryl scream for your attention, you slowly turned to him. He was a distance away behind a fence with others who seemed to escape the first wave they’d met. Even if you hadn’t been bite to may blocked your way to run into any means of safety. Daryl waved his hands trying beckon you to run to him. He looked like he was going to jump the already bending fence to get to you. Other faces you recognized to be the family you had found yelling in panic along with Daryl’s. You slowly pulled your shirt turning to them. Blood ran down dripping into your pants from the deathly injury. Others seeming to realize what had happened.

“NOOOOOOO!”

The pained yell Daryl had ripped out from himself being followed by the snapping fence falling to the pressure of the herd. Daryl still stood even with the danger coming to him, Rick clearly holding him back with Glenn running over to help drag him away. You smiled at Daryl some tears running down your face, probably the last Daryl will see it as his face disappeared from your sight. You turned around to the herd closer to you. A few walkers had gotten closer to you than you thought. This was your last stand. You fired gunshot after gunshot while managing to kill some with your knife. You tripped on one of the bodys you had put down. You fell expecting to quickly get back up and continue your count down to death bringing any dead bastard with you. But a flare of unexpected pain at your landing made a blood curdling scream vibrate into the air. You had landed into the fire pit. Hot coals with little flame burning you. Ambers exploding around you with your fall. Your open wound on your side sizzles adding more pain to the specific area. You instinctively jumped up away from the pit. Groaning while you forced yourself to stand vision blurred and legs wobbling.

It’s funny… to know you’re about to die. You could never imagine the things to go through your mind until it happens. Your past didn’t flash before your eyes. More thoughts of the future. How will people take your death? Maybe If this didn’t happen then how would you fit into there future. What if you had that drink with Daryl… That pushed you to now. Right now. You woke up. Groggy cold and numb. The smell of death strong. You weren’t sure if maybe you were a walker maybe it was all a dream.

The haze lifted with a spike of your adrenaline as your eyes focus. A walker close to your face with your knife jammed into its head. A gasp filled your lungs, you weren’t dead? You were lying on your stomach under the U haul nearly freezing. The body of walkers all around you seemed to be your insulation. You take in the scene around you, then you do the only logical thing, cry. A sob ripped from you, tears streaming down your now dirt covered face that was laying in the dirt. You were scared, in pain, and alone. It seemed like the only thing you could really do and have the mind to do. In the small gaps that walkers didn’t cover a slight glow came. You pushed through the body’s crawling between them until fresh air hit you. Dark gray clouds hung above you.

The night had passed while you were under the truck. You caught sight of the littered bodys around the area. It was quiet. Not a soul or other wise empty vessel around. You attempted to stand but fell when you became light headed and unbalanced. Another attempt had lead you slowly to your feet. You were covered in dirt. You could only think you were rolling around in it while keeping walkers away from you under the car. The longer you were awake the more you came back to yourself. A hand slowly moved to your forehead. You were cold but shouldn’t you have a fever by now? At the thought you moved some of the fabric from your bite only stopping when your cloths were singed to your body. Were the bite was now was left with a deep embedded scorch marks. Coals had seemed to burned you up to your shoulder and down to your hip on you left side.

The sight of it made you gag but you couldn’t feel a thing from it. The burns must have destroyed the nerves. If the infection of being bite wasn’t going to kill you the infection sure to come from this wound would. A flare of life filled you. A broken chuckle passed your lips filling the dead silence. You need Hershel badly and soon if you wanted a chance to live. A chance was better than what you had thought. You slowly turn around to the U hale in hopes you could drive it back but the tires were blown and a rainbow like liquid had formed a puddle. You probably shot at walkers while under there damaging the car. Like damaging the gas tank and somehow not exploding so you’ll take that win. No that meant you just had to walk several miles back to the prison. Suddenly you remembered you weren’t bond to the roads so maybe you were closer then you thought.

So you took off north into the woods, hopeful and better yet alive.

Daryl POV

Of course nothing ever goes smoothly and this damn run was no exception. It was so close, they were all packed and ready to go. A herd coming didn’t seem like a big deal just alerting them there was no time to dilly dally. So after killing a few and saving people who got surprised by it they stood behind a chain fences that wasn’t going to hold for long the more that pushed against it. Daryl’s eyes flickered to everyone behind the fence. Panic now felt when his eyes didn’t meet yours. He turned back around frantically until he say you standing facing what looked to be another herd. His eyes widened and your name was flying out of his mouth before he even knew he was doing it. You just stood there, not even in a defensive posture, just casually. Your head turned to meet his after hearing him.

Tears ran down your face but your face remained to looked shocked. Maybe you froze in panic so he gestured for you to come quickly but you didn’t move. Soon others joined in calling for you. But when you moved and lifted your shirt he felt like he was sinking. Blood dripped down your side and teeth were imprinted in your skin. His eyes flicked back up to yours to see you smiling at him. He was screaming and moving without a thought.

“NOOOOOOOO!”

A hand grabbed his shirt and then the fence in front of them fell. He still tried moving forward even then but other sets of hands now pulled him backwards. He grunted and gasped still looking at you as he was moved away. The smile on your face directed at him. The look in your eyes saying so many words that he didn’t have the time to decipher in the moment. He didn’t know the words coming from his mouth but he was yelling. For whoever holding him to let him help you in curses and cry’s. When he lost sight of you is when he faltered. More people seemed to be dragging him now. A gunshot went off making him jump in his skin along with the others around him. Sound now processing in his ears. Maggie sobbing along with muffled crying from others.

Everyone had assumed that gunshot was you giving yourself mercy. Then more came making him start dragging his heels again. You were fighting, you were bring some of the herd on them back to you. He was going to fight to get to you. But he froze along with the people clawing him backwards. You were screaming. No you were dying and they all were hearing it. It was guttural and sudden like you were surprised. He was yelling in tears now, “NOOO PLEASE-“ his words jumping starting people again to pull him away. Your pained cries fading when he was pulled into a car. Tyrese was the one locking him in place. Rick driving with Michonne in the passenger side leaning over like she was going to be sick.

Daryl was now desperate to grab air in his lungs as has he went limp in Tyrese grasp. His gasps filled with the now humming engine felt like he was spiraling. Sounds muffled and thoughts racing. ‘Just thought maybe it was about time we talked.’ The feeling from the words originally was like butterflies, now it was hornets. You always wiggled your away into his arms. Excuses of ‘it’s cold.’ or ‘But you’re always so warm.’ He knew for some reason you had taken interest in him. You had lit some dumb teenage feeling in him. Thoughts of you always crossing his mind throughout the day. Hopes of you trying to make your way into his space later in the day. The first time you fell asleep on him was when you crawled in his lap during watch and shivered endlessly while he held you. He continued to watch gaze flickering through trees while holding you and he knew deep down he was screwed.

The fear that kept him away and doubting had come true. He watched trees go by through the window in silence. Tyrese still holding him as he was lying across the seats. Like he would jump out the moving vehicle if given the chance. Even though he didn’t act on his feeling he had still loved you. He felt cold inside. The cold that would have drawn you to him. He will never hold you to him again. His hands trembled to his face and covered his eyes. Your screams echoing in his mind, your sad loving smile played into his mind. His palms dug into his eyes and he cried. His tears breaking seemed to trigger those around him. He heard Rick holding his breath as he sniffled. Michonne would occasionally suck in a gasp. Tyrese trembled with sighs and coughs trying to break the growing ball in his throat.

Eventually making it back to the prison Carl swung the gate open happily for two cars and Carol riding on Daryl’s bike. The unsuspecting grief hadn’t reached the prison but when they got out of the cars it was felt in waves. They were still seemed lost in thoughts, or lost in a moment. Carl looked on to his father who held is head down and hands on his hips. Maggie making her way to her father and cried silently when he hugged her with Glenn close by eyebrows furrowed in pain. When looking at Daryl it was clear to who they lost. He was stock still and pale, in shock. Hershel practically herded them into the cell block. Carol tried to come near him while walking there but he just shock his head and pushed past her.

They sat in silence sitting at the tables they had their breakfast just this morning. Daryl leaned on the wall keeping his distance. Rick was standing and looking on to everyone hunched in to themselves. Judith in his arms was probably the only reason Daryl didn’t go into a berserk rage. Though when Rick started retelling what had happened to the other that weren’t there he was gettin close to it. Nails digging into his palms and teeth clenched he still listened.

“Y/n’s gone… We were just about ready to go when a herd spooked us.” Rick sighed now looking to everyone’s face. “We had gotten behind a fence and Y/N was putting fires out…” Beth had clear tears now growing in her eyes as she listened. “We think a separate herd flanked us but we were so busy with the first to notice. She was across from us with a herd closing in from behind and in front of her. She could have possibly made it… if-“ he cleared is throat starting again. “If she didn’t lift her shirt showing us she was already doomed. I don’t know when or how, but she was bite.” Rick paused then chuckled wetly, “She had to go out being a badass, could hear it in my mind ‘Was it cool at least?’ Always theatrics with that one.” The thought bubbles in Daryl’s stomach, ‘she always said if she was ever going out it was in a blaze of glory, nothing “lame”.’ Daryl leaned forward off the wall moving to pass by everyone. Everyone had stilled at his movement but he just walked into the cell block.

He needed a minute, to cope, scream, cry, yell, he didn’t know but he felt like he was dying. He found his way up the stairs and pushing past the stupid Dino sheets you chose for your room. ‘They’re not ugly! We have a lot more in common with are extinct friends now. Though I would have preferred a meteor…’ He stared at everything that had been left where you had it. He stumbled to sit on the edge of your bed looking around. You had so many weird thing… you were so weird. A now deflated happy birthday ballon he remembered you yelling, ‘JACKPOT’ when you found it scavenging. Then his eyes locked onto a bottle of whiskey. It was not even half full but when he saw it tears started falling quietly. He picked it up and held it to his chest.

“Just thought maybe it was about time we talked.” That sentence would haunt him forever.

Your POV

You groaned like the dead as you made your way through the woods. Speaking of the dead they didn’t much notice you. That had made you spiral in the whole am I really a walker?! But then you remember you were covered in dirt and blood and walking like you had a few to many. You were starting to feel warm putting you into a cold sweat. It was hard to not think that maybe the bite was still going to kill you. You had burnt it with the rest of your back to hell. You probably look like you crawled out from hell. The thought made you dazily laugh out loud. Ok so maybe you were delirious. If that manic laugh that bubbled from you wasn’t any indication. You weren’t thinking straight. Only moving in the direction you think is to the prison? God you could go for some pasta right about now, Olive Garden salad and bread sticks… damn. Little mint at the end. You trip out of your thoughts slamming into the forest floor with a groan.

It had snapped you back into a clearer head space. Your vision swam a little but you started to push yourself back up. So turns out your near death thoughts weren’t as epic as you thought they were going to be, just bread sticks and mints. You sighed looking around trying to gain your bearings. You could hear some water to your right meaning you were indeed going the right way. Just 20 more minutes and you were back to the prison. You wonder if you could have had a dinner date with Daryl. I suppose you still could if you didn’t die. The poor man had tried running into a herd for you. You were getting more unbalanced as you walked leaning from tree to tree. Wood splitting and jamming into your hands, only adding to a list of injures. The worst part was you didn’t feel much of anything pain wise. The cold numbed you and your lack of cognitive ability was no better help.

The stream broke off flowing into the direction of the prison. You saw the bridge that held the water pump before the prison. You somehow managed to get back here. The prison was still quieter than normal. You could see closer to the gate a few people were clearing walkers, vision to bleary to know who. A thunk sounded coming into the middle of the inclosed clearing. Rick was cutting wood with Carl moving logs for him to cut. Slowly making your way to the fence you didn’t realize your throat was so scratchy, nothing but a huff of air coming out. That’s right, you had been screaming…. and crying. You lean into the fence hands intertwined with the cool dewy metal.

A walker was pushed against the fence to your right staring to Rick and Carl too. You slowly push down to the floor grabbing a stick. You pushed back up using the fence to walk closer to the walker. Taking a deep breath you kicked the back of the walkers legs making it fall to its knees. The walker grumbled in shock or protest but it was silence with the stick shoved in its eyes. The constant noise of the walker was acknowledged by the Grimes so when it abruptly stopped they looked over to where it was. You were leaning into the side of the fence as you heard feet approaching, “Who are- Holy shit!” You heard them running and the sound got farther from you. The heavy gate door grunted open and the running sound came back toward you. You tried moving along the fence, tripping yet again on the walker, this time only to your knees.

A shadow fell over you causing you to look up seeing Rick kneeling in front of you, hands moving to pull you up. Your adrenaline was dropping now that the task you set for yourself was complete. The fall made your head swim, voices now muffled as blood pulled into your head. You saw Rick talking but didn’t comprehend anything he said. He soon pointed at Carl and your eyes moved over to the boy. Walkers had made their way out of the woods at the commotion. You suddenly were being jostled now. Rick had put an arm to the back of your shoulders and his other arm to the back of your knees and lifted you into him. You were slightly over Rick’s shoulder as he quickly moved. Then you realized what Rick was yelling.

“HERSHEL! HERSHEL! HERSHEL!”

That was right, you wanted Hershel to help you… help you? What for again? Your mind clicked as you watched the door of the gate close behind you. Some faces now appeared as Rick continued to carry while trying not to dig his hands into your injury. You had been injured, right. Some looks you caught while over Rick shoulder was nothing you’ve seen direct at yourself. The group formed shuffling to the gate to get into the court yard. You recognized Maggie gasping and her saying, “Oh my god is she alive?! H-how?” You rumbled out a deep noise. “Cause I’m a badass.” You were becoming slack and your vision was blurring. You were trying to remain awake. Maybe for the face you so desperately wanted to see, and the other part of you was afraid you wouldn’t wake back up. But at last you involuntarily relaxed as you heard him, “Y/N!” His voice was pained and dry, but it sent a smile to your face before you went still as Rick continued moving you.

Daryl POV

He fell asleep in your bed. Selfishly taking in what little smell was left of your space. The whiskey bottle was held to his chest untouched. He kept waking up ever hour. He felt wrong like something was missing. His body knew that you weren’t with him and it made him restless. He would think about your screams feeling like he still heard them. He would play back random moments with you. He just couldn’t seem to move. Stuck laying down holding the bottle you both were going to share, stuck going in and out of consciousness. He was depressed he realized. It was the norm for his sadness to spark rage but he just felt defeated. With Merle he got angry, upset even. But he could still move. His world was still moving then but now he wasn’t sure how it kept spinning with you gone.

Everyone was already moving through the day doing tasks that needed to be completed. He heard the shuffles and whispers of his friends- his family. He would hear someone’s breath hitch while talking about you. He was left alone with Glenn being the one saying, “Leave the man alone.” With other things like, ‘when Lori died-‘ or, ‘if it had been Maggie I’d be the same.’ He would thank the man on another day. So here he is still, morning coming to pass, in your bed staring at the ceiling. He tried to not think about how you might be a walker wondering or even worse your body was still there. He would have to push himself up to that. But the silence around the prison seemed to have broke.

The heavy door that lead in from out doors slammed opened and a panicked Maggie nervously yelled for her father. “D-Daddy somethings wrong Rick’s yelling for you!” Daryl’s hearing perked up feeling the pit in his stomach drop further. Dread seeping into him, ‘Another bad thing was happening.’ He heard the clicking of Hershel’s crutch’s as he moved through the door that Maggie’s had burst through. Daryl squeezed his eyes shut before sucking in a breath in and huffing it out. He got up.

He got to his feet moving down the stairs buzzing with adrenaline. Not sure if he was going to have to protect people or kill someone. As Daryl pushed through the metal door to the court yard an icy wind blew through him. The hair on the back of his neck stood. He turned over to the commotion gathering by the gate to the yard. Scanning the area he didn’t see danger so he made his way over to the group. “Oh my god is she alive?! H-how?” Daryl’s eyebrows furrowed as he got closer over hearing people now.

“Cause I’m a badass.”

Although the voice was deep and scratchy he froze at the familiar voice. He only paused for a moment before he started running the rest of the way there, “Y/N!” His voice was slightly harsh with dis use and the ball of tension in his throat didn’t help much either. You were being held up in a weird way by Rick but you sluggish turned drooping slightly as you did. When your eyes met you smiled but it slowly fell as you went slack. Rick was moving again with the demands of Hershel yelling orders to Carol and Maggie to gather things. Daryl saw your cloths, burnt holes and black and red covered you. Your skin stuck sticking to fabric as deep char marks riddled your back and side. He was speechless as the group passed him but he still followed. Maybe he fell asleep again and was dreaming all this.

“I need disinfectant and a bucket of clean water!”

Rick had set you down on your stomach in an unused cell. Your arm dangled over edge swaying. He stood the watching in shock. People were scrambling around him. He didn’t realize he had gotten the bottle still in his hands before he looked down and walked over practically shoving it into the man’s arms. Daryl was wide eyed as he watched your still form, “Daryl I need you to cut off her clothes. Be careful of her shirt.” A hand clasped to his shoulder finally clicking everything into place. His hand had moved for his knife and he slowly cut down right side on a seam. He slowly plead the shirt from you. It would stick then tug and pull off of you making him cringe. Hershel started talking again as Daryl moved to pull down your jeans.

“You said she was bite?” Daryl let your pants fall to the floor as he looked back up to the side he had seen it. Your entire side was indented and black. Some black circles were higher up to your shoulders as your enter left side seemed to have taken most of the burns. He pointed to were he had last saw the bite. “It was here- shit she fell into the fire pit.” The screams he heard played back into his mind. The pain and surprise that had ripped from you. Hershel now with a cloth and water started cleaning the area removing the grim, “That means she might have stopped the spread of the infection with how deep these burns are.” Hershel paused looking over her body. He then put a hand to your forehead, “She’s warm but not feverish…” Hershel grabbed the bottle of whiskey again turning to Daryl and popping the lid of,

“Get out of here Daryl. Maggie! Carol! I need hands!”

He watched as the two girls push past him and before he was out of sight from you saw Hershel dump some of the alcohol onto the area. He stepped out turning to see worried and confused faces. They stared at him silently with the background noise of Hershel making demands of his helpers. Sasha almost whispered her question to him, "How is she still alive?" Everyone turned to her before looking at him expectantly as the wondered the same. Daryl looked like he was visibly thinking before he sighed, "I don't know. She fell in the fireplace is all I know." Rick looked to the floor nodding thinking back to when he first saw you and struggled to pick you up around what looked to be burns. Daryl spoke again almost hopefully, "Hershel thinks there's a chance she stop the infection from spreading with how deep the burns are."

Hopeful gasps filled the air. Carl was the next to speak almost as a demand, "Then we going to use all are medical supplies we've got if there is a chance." Rick whispered, "Carl..." but Beth jumped in. "W-we have it for reasons like these! I know she is technically bite but we have no clue if she stopped it, its worth splurging to see if this could save others!" Rick looked surprised at the outburst mouth opening about to speak before Glenn jumped in also pleading to him, "Well find more!" Other silently agreeing and nodding. Daryl looked between the group so determined about your life smirking at it even but, he knew what Rick was trying to say. Sure enough the man had chuckled shacking his head, "Why are you all looking at me for, I'm not the leader anymore. This is a matter for the council. But I think that decision has already been made." It had only started not to long ago with Rick being the stand in while everyone settled on who the council consisted of. Michonne clapped her hands together, "Right is has been settled then, what ever cost to keep her alive." It was a waiting game now.

Days pass with the prison fueled with a hope. The once depressive air had lifted once Hershel declared you stable and with no fever. It was determined until a day later with still no fever you were not infected. The only problem now way you had yet to wake up. The girls had cleaned you of all the caked on dirt from your skin and hair they best they could with you unconscious and your injury. Daryl with any of his free time was by your side. He even took to sleeping in the bunk above you. He changed your bandage most of the time. You were on the your third IV by the 5th day. Daryl had a chair pulled by your side as he fiddled with his crossbow and bolts, your steady breathing having a calming effect on him. The breathing pattern faltered for a second making him look up to you. He stared for a moment before you seemed to grunt in pain. The hair was rising on the back of his neck. Hazy eyes open and your cuffed hand attempted to move but was halted by it be attached to the metal bed frame in the wall.

Daryl felt his heart race as he watched you slowly and groggily start moving. He reached to stopping your hand from moving with his own. "Hey, stay down." You groaned pain probably hitting you finally making Daryl call for Hershal. The clicking of crutch’s came closer but he looked back down to you at your sudden silence. Your eyes met with his and in that moment you saw straight into his soul making him feel exposed. All his nerves seemed to stand on end with your quiet gaze. A small smile creeping it way on your face. Daryl leaned down moving some hair from your face as you remained on your stomach. When he was crouched closer to you he whispered, “Hey darlin’…” You huffed out air and a tear ran down your cheek. He was smiling down at you feeling the weight of deaths grip finally releasing you back to him.

Hershel broke the moment but he never stopped holding your hand as the older man fussed over you. Your voice was rough to say the least. He winched at your first attempt at using it. “iM aLivE…?” Daryl squeezed your hand and the ball in his throat suck to his chest as he let out a chuckle. You seemed just as surprised of the fact just like them. You hissed before flinching forcibly relaxing your muscles but you still spoke again, “tHe BiTe?” Hershel had moved injecting something in your IV bag, pain killers hopefully. Your eyes barely following the movement as Hershel spoke calmly with a smile, “You’ve been out for a few days. No fever. We are working on the burns because they are festering but blistering. You killed the infection.” Your eyes squeezed shut and you sniffled a little tears poured from your eyes in relief. Daryl couldn’t help for his eyes to blur a little to. A hand fell to his shoulder, Hershel. “Her blood pressure is still low so keep her lying down. Try and fed her something small for now until she is up right.”

With that he hobbled away probably going to spread the good news that you are up. His attention snapped back to you when he heard a faint whisper of his name, “daryl.” You had a dopey grin as you stare up at him making the knotted ball in his stomach loosen. You smile falter and a harsh sounding, “woOaH-“ your eyes blinking like your vision got blurry. He intertwined his fingers behind yours as he keyed open the cuffs. “goDdaMn…. HaRdcorE dRugS hEllo~” Daryl chuckled seeing you sag in relief. Your eyes moved to something behind him a long, “hEeeY…” your lips pouting. He turned around questioningly at what you were staring at. The bottle of now empty whiskey, aah. He turned back to you running his free hand into your hair, “Don’t look at me I didn’t drink it.” You stare at the bottle softly saying, “How wiLl I woe a DiXon nOw?”

Daryl sighs feeling that ever burning in his chest when it comes to you. “Don’t think you need to worry to much about that, think he is beyond woed.” You dawn a familiar smirk he knows means trouble. ‘Mmm’ vibrates from your chest, “Good… been really laying it on thick as of late. Hell crawled back from death for the guy.” Your voice seemed to not rattle in your hushed tone. You seemed to struggle to keep your eyes open and focus you spoke once more before closing your eyes and falling to drugs and exhaustion, “So much for not using the med supply like Hershel said…”

Love burns with either the loss of them or the fact they exist in the first place, but you would say the fireplace hurt a tad bit more than loving your gruff hunter.

Feedback welcome and requests open!

[sluttysnowangel666]

The Woman Beyond the Wall

Cregan Stark x Wilding!Fem reader

Summary: Cregan must go beyond the wall to aid Castle Black after a large group of Nights Watch men are killed under strange circumstances, only for him to discover the “strange circumstance” is a beautiful and mysterious wilding woman that will make him forget everything he thought he knew.

not proof read yet!!

cw: angst, smut, dom fem reader, dom cregan, freaky cregan, reader is kind of odd 😭

word count: long af

part 2 , masterlist

⛫ ⛫ ⛫

Cregan sat, contemplating the decision before him.

“Forgive me, sirs. The kingdom greatly appreciates the sacrifice you men have made to serve the Nights Watch, but I cannot abandon my duties as a lord to go beyond the wall for Gods knows how long.” He tells them, hoping they won’t take offense to his declination to participate.

“We wouldn’t ask if we were not desperate, my lord.” The maester says, “But 15 men have disappeared just in this past exhibition. The Nights Watch grows scarce of fighters the more men beyond the wall continue to disappear.”

Cregan sighs, not wanting to go beyond the wall and leave his kingdom without a lord, but also not wanting to leave the Watch vulnerable.

“Alright, Maester Devron.” Cregan sighs, “We owe you men a great debt… I need to know what are these strange circumstances you speak of?”

“Men have reported finding the abandoned bodies with arrows in both their eyes, perfectly positioned every time. It’s rather… unusual how perfectly calculated the shot is. It never changes. Then, the bodies are positioned in circles, with no footsteps left behind. We fear it to be witching.”

A shiver ran up Cregan’s spine, but he hid it well. Witches were almost always stories told by Septs to children in an attempt to get them to behave, so to hear a maester say it was unnerving.

“Don’t be ridiculous, maester.”

“I am not jesting, my lord. When you find the group of men who disappeared only a fortnight ago, you’ll see.”

“When? Not if? How can you be so sure I’ll find them?” Cregan asks.

“She leaves them in the same place every time. About 20 miles beyond the wall, facing north.” The maester says.

Cregan sighs, already frustrated with the venture, and eager to kill a wildling.

———

3 days later, 15 miles beyond the wall, and alone in the blistering cold, Cregan couldn’t help but contemplate his decision. Although he was miserable, he knew it was the honorable thing to do. He wouldn’t have done it, if otherwise.

His horse stopped suddenly, its hair raising and body becoming stiff.

“Dusk.” He said her name. “Move.”

His horse ignored him, standing her ground. “Dusk!” He yelled at her.

She sensed something, but he didn’t know what.

They sat there for what felt like hours, but what was merely seconds.

Finally, the horse began to tredge forward… very, very, slowly. Cregan groaned in frustration, his hands gripping the reins.

They walked like that for miles. No matter how much Cregan tugged the reins, Dusk maintained her slow pace, as if anticipating something was nearby, ready to pounce on them at any given moment.

Night eventually came, and Cregan was forced to set up camp.

“Bloody horse.” He mumbled to himself as he tied her to a nearby tree.

He set up a fire nearby Dusk, then leaned against the tree she was tied to. He fidgeted with the dagger he kept in his armor, carving little dire wolves in the bark. He spoke to Dusk, hoping the already timid horse would comfort his feeling of isolation in the barren icy landscape. It didn’t help.

He eventually fell asleep standing up, leaning his weight against the tree, too on edge to leave himself vulnerable on the ground.

The fire near him had gone out, leaving nothing but the red glowing embers.

The wildling who had been following them for miles used this to her advantage.

She stalked quietly, her boots making no noise or crunch as if she weren’t even there, floating like a ghost.

She made no attempt to immediately kill him, but kept her bow poised, ready to grab an arrow and fly it into his eye if he woke. Normally, any crow out here would’ve been dead miles ago, but this man wasn’t a crow.

She believed him to be a lord, and when her fingers grazed the dire wolf on his chest she knew him to be a Stark. Excitement fueled the fire burning in her veins. She had never seen a lord, especially one so handsome.

Her fingers twirled one of his brown locks, but when he shuffled in his sleep she quickly backed away like a scared bunny.

She decided she would let the cold kill the handsome man, but not before taking a souvenir to remember him.

Her slim, dainty fingers wove into his furs, silently snagging the dagger strapped to his chest. She twirled it in her fingers, admiring the craftsmanship. No smith she had ever met was as talented as the one who made this dagger. She traced the wolf sigil on the handle, then ran the sharp tip of the blade along her finger. A drop of blood hit the snow in front of their feet, and then she ran, snow immediately falling to cover her tracks.

When Cregan awoke, he immediately knew someone had been in the camp. But, how? How could someone have even passed through without him waking?

He looked down, and picked up the snow with the drop of blood on it. His blood immediately ran cold, colder than it already was. There were no footprints. Where could this have even come from?

He checked himself, but was free of any cuts. It was here he noticed… his dagger.

“What in Gods…” He mumbled, feeling all around his body to make sure he hadn’t misplaced it.

He angrily yells into the trees, cursing and violently threatening the woman who stole his dagger, hoping she heard him.

And she does. She quietly giggles in a nearby tree at his brutish behavior. He kicks the burnt wood from the fire, startling his horse.

He mounts the horse, slowly trekking onward to find the bodies of the missing men.

Within the hour, he finds himself at the base of the men’s camp, their bodies positioned like how the maester said they would be.

Cregan sighs, dismounting his horse and staring at the corpses, their bodies frozen and not yet decomposed from the harsh cold.

He was, for the first time in his life, unsure of what to do. He knew the woman had already found him, but how was he to find her? He assumed she left him alive out of mercy, but he knew there was no chance of finding her unless she wanted him to.

“Fuck.” He mumbled, slightly embarrassed at his desperation. “Alright, witch! I know you’re out there!” He yelled into the trees, not actually knowing if she was out there.

She was, and she paid attention as he continued.

“I don’t know your goal, if you even have one!” He paused, not even knowing what else to say. “Stop killing these men!” He said, lacking in confidence. She giggled again. Quite an entertaining man he was.

He gave up, tired of feeling foolish. He began dragging the bodies into a pile, preparing to burn them. It took nearly half of his day, and when he was done he finally sat, sweating, despite the cold.

After his brief rest, he burnt them, saying the custom words, “And now their watch is ended.”

He watched, silently mourning the fallen men who gave their life.

Afterwards, he mounted his horse and started his journey back to the wall. There would be no finding the woman. She was rogue, didn’t run in a pack. He’d be searching for the rest of his life if he stayed.

He didn’t make it far, only a few miles before night fell upon him and his horse. He didn’t want to rest, but he had no choice. The day had worn him, and traveling at night was unwise when he couldn’t see his surroundings.

He set a fire again, and sat down, forcing himself to stay awake.

Suddenly, his horse whined. He whipped his head around, standing to his feet quickly.

“Whoa, whoa. Calm down.” He said, trying to shush the mare. The horse bucked, breaking its reins from the tree before scurrying off.

“Fuck!” Cregan cursed, angrily. What in Gods names was he to do now?

A voice rang out behind him.

“Pretty little beast you’ve got there.”

He whipped around again, unsheathing his sword.

A woman knelt across the fire, her bow and arrow already drawn. She wore gray, thick pelts and gloves, and a pair of fur clad boots. No wonder she was so silent. She pulled her thick hood off, revealing the most beautiful set of eyes Cregan had ever seen. The woman was gorgeous, ethereal. She literally took his breath away.

“Suppose I should say had there.” She teases.

“It’s you.” He finally says, after a moment of silence.

“Mm.” She hums in response. “And who might you be?”

“I think you already know, given you raided my camp last night.”

She laughs. “Raided? You southerners.”

“You’d do well to mind your tongue, witch.” Cregan spits at her, tightening his grip on his sword.

She notices and stands, raising her bow, “And you’d do well to mind yours, crow.”

“I’m not a crow.”

“And I’m not a witch.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Sharp little tongue on you. Ain’t you lords supposed to treat ladies with respect?”

“What kind of lady are you? Killing good men and desecrating their bodies?”

“I never desecrated them. In fact, I left them better than I found them.”

“Those were noble men.”

“Please.” She laughs. “Those crows were rapists and thieves. The north is better without them coming into our land.”

Cregan says nothing, so she continues. “I suggest you watch how you speak to me, Lord Stark. I could shoot this arrow right through those pretty gray eyes before you’d even realize what happened.”

“Try it, witch.”

“I already told you. I’m no witch!” She lets the arrow fly, only intending to let it kiss his ear and hit the tree behind him, but he raises his sword, and the arrow shatters against the Valyrian steel.

She lowers her bow, shocked, before her features return to their stoic form.

“It appears I’ve met my match.” She smirks, impressed.

“Perhaps you have. For that reason, I’d suggest returning my dagger.”

She pulls it out. “Oh, this pretty thing? I think I’ll keep it… Unless you’re brave enough to come take it from me.”

Heat flushed through his stomach. For the first time in his life, a woman repeatedly left him at a loss for words. He did not know how to approach her, or how to respond.

“You obviously walk these woods often. How do I get back to the wall?”

“Simple.” She smiles, “South.”

Cregan stomps towards her. She nervously laughs, backing into a tree as he presses himself against her, his height towering above her own.

“Show me the way or I’ll put your pretty little head above my mantel.”

She breathlessly chuckles, “All you have to do is ask nicely, Stark.” She places her hand on his broad chest, giving it a light push yet keeping her hands entangled in his armor straps. He grabs her wrist, pulling it from him. He removes her quiver from her back, tossing it on the ground. He takes her bow from her other hand, going to give it the same treatment before she stops him.

“No, wait, please don’t leave my bow.” She asks, genuineness in her voice for the first time. He searches her eyes, but finds no answer there.

“You won’t need it where you’re going.” He responds.

“Leave my bow and you’ll die in these woods. And trust me, southerner, you’ll die long before I do.” He looks at the darkness that clouds her eyes, then grunts and puts the large bow around his body.

She smirks as he ties her wrists together, dragging her along behind him. “We’re going now? These woods aren’t safe at night.”

“The sooner you’re no longer my problem, the better.”

She stops in her place, but he gives her a yank that pulls her to the ground, dragging her body behind him. “I’m serious! We need to stay at your sad little camp.”

“One more word out of you and I’ll cut out your tongue.” He says. He takes a few more steps, still dragging her, before stopping. He knows she’s right, but refuses to admit it. He growls in frustration, turning back towards the camp.

She laughs, still being dragged on the ground. What a strange woman. He thinks to himself.

He sits back in front of the fire, still holding the rope attached to her wrist as she crawls towards him.

“Do you have any food?” She asks. He sighs, taking out a little sack of dried meat. He holds a piece out to her, and not moving from her knees, takes it from his hand with her mouth.

“You’re bloody off.” He mumbles to himself. She laughs, a strange and wicked laugh in an attempt to scare him, as well as mock him for thinking she was a witch.

It works, as it startles him into giving her a confused look. He picks up a big pile of snow, throwing it into the fire to put it out.

He lays down on the snow, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. She crawls towards him, opening his arms and lying against his chest.

“Get off me, woman.” He says, pushing her.

“I’m cold! You’re telling me an honorable Stark is going to let a woman freeze to death?”

“Witches don’t get cold. Your blood runs with fire.”

“You southerners and your silly little-“ He pulls her into him, wrapping his big arms around her. He hates to admit it, but her warmth comforted him from the cold.

“I’ll keep you warm if you shut up.”

She listens for once, saying nothing and nuzzling her head into his chest. He sighs, not having the strength to push her away… but not really wanting to either.

Her knee forces his legs apart to push her leg between his, slowly lifting it towards his crotch. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing?” She says, playing dumb. He doesn’t respond. She wiggles her knee more, rubbing her thigh against the leather covering his manhood.

“Stop. Moving.” He says.

“Was I? Sorry, didn’t notice.”

He shifts, trying to keep her from noticing the bulge growing in his leathers.

———

Cregan awakes before her. He stares down at the woman against his chest, her cheeks are tinted from the cold, and her lips are parted slightly. He admires her for a long time before she stirs. He pushes her away, thinking she’s awake.

“Ow.” She grumbles, sleepily. “Why’d you do that?”

“We need to get moving.” He stands, brushing the snow off him.

“Can’t we just lay a bit longer? I didn’t sleep well with you poking me with that thing all night.” She says, running her hand up his knee.

“I wasn’t.” He responds quickly, pushing her hand down. She stands, stretching as best as she can with her hands tied.

They begin walking for a few miles, with her trying to make conversation with him.

“You’re a rather quiet man.” She says, when her previous questions get no response.

“I just don’t have many words for a woman like you.”

“I leave you speechless?” She says, with a smirk.

“Try annoyed.” He responds flatly.

She steps close to him, pressing her chest into his back.

“What are you-“ Before he can realize what she’s doing, she cuts the rope on her wrists on his sword.

He whips around, prepared to knock her unconscious, but she’s too quick. She ducks, kicking his ankle and sweeping him down.

He hits the ground hard, but is back on his feet almost instantly. She runs, fast, beyond him.

He chases after her.

“Witch!” He yells, turning to look for her in every direction after she seemingly vanished.

“I told you I’m not a witch.” She says, stepping from behind a tree.

He stomps towards her, grabbing her by both of her arms, itching to give her a good smack across the face.

He looks down at her, that sly little smirk on her face, her cheeks red and flush, staring back up at him through her wet eyelashes.

She moves her arms from his grip, tracing her skinny fingers up his armor.

“You’re…” He whispers, starting to lose his strength. “Unlike any woman I’ve ever met.”

She grabs him by his neck, and he gasps in shock, but it’s quickly cut off as she pulls him down to meet her lips. Her kiss is harsh and fierce. Cregan had known women, but never one so blatantly unapologetic to be herself. She growls like an animal, ripping to get off his furs and leathers.

He matches her intensity, kissing her with the same energy. He lets the anger she ignited in him release itself unto her by biting and kissing her neck. She tugs at his hair, grinding her hips into his.

“Are you a virgin?” He asks.

“Don’t be stupid.” She responds, taking a step back to remove her own furs. He steps back towards her, pulling them off her himself.

“I only ask for your comfort.” He growls, frustrated with her attitude.

“Comfort? This isn’t the south.” She pushes him back, standing before him naked and unashamed. He breathes in the sight before him, his length growing at her beauty.

She practically pounces on him, pushing him to the snow before he’s even fully undressed.

“You are a fucking witch.” He moans, as she crawls her way up his body to rest her wetness above his face.

“Are you hungry, wolf?” She asks him.

“Starving.” He whines, wanting to taste her.

Her grip on his hair pulls him towards her, finally bringing his mouth to taste her sweet cunt. He can’t help but look at her as he eats her. Her nose and cheeks are so red from the cold, all he wants to do is warm her up. His large arms have a hold on her thighs, his fingers resting between them. She pulls off his gloves, letting his fingers grip into her warm legs.

She moans and whines in ecstasy. The sound turns him into a wreck, clawing and gripping at her thighs to the point he draws blood. She doesn’t even care, relishing the sweet pain.

She pulls and tugs on his hair so harshly, forcing his face so deep into her cunt. If he even thought of stopping, she’d kill him herself. She grinds her hips into his tongue, crying and whining into the cold air. It seems as if everything has gone silent, even the winds, the world around them stopping to hear her sweet ecstasy. He moans her name into her cunt every time she pulls his hair, wanting to be her release. He’s desperate to taste her release, she’s desperate to give it to him.

Cregan, the man he was, never having been with a woman so lust driven, couldn’t help but urge his own desires to see her writhe in his arms. One of his hands left her bloody thigh, grabbing a cold chunk of snow to rub against her warm cunt. She gasped at the feeling, whining from the cold. He rubbed his fingers against her sweet spot. Her nails dug into the arm still on her leg, moaning his name as she finally let herself go onto his tongue.

He swallowed every drop, only wanting to taste her sweetness for the rest of his life.

When she came down, he shoved her off him, mounting her and positioning himself between her legs.

Her body was growing red from touching the bitter snow, but it seems like she hadn’t even noticed.

Cregan wrapped his hands around her throat, leaning in and giving her a deep kiss. “I could kill you right now if I wanted, get this whole mess you’ve caused for me over with.” He whispered into her lips.

“You won’t.” She whispered back. “Not before you get to even fuck my sweet cunt.” She reaches her cold hand down, snaking it into his breeches and rubbing his length.

“You’re right.” He kisses her again. “I want all of you.” She unlaces his breeches, pushing it down along with his soft clothes.

She glides him along her wet entrance, and Cregan groans. He pushes himself into her, eliciting a sweet gasp from her lips. He gives her no time to adjust, immediately thrusting his hips back and forth.

She moans, tears brimming her eyes, having never been fucked by a man so large as Cregan.

“What? Why are you crying? Never been fucked like how you deserve?” He growls. She does nothing but nod.

“Nothing?” He asks. “Have I finally shut you up?” He fucks her harder, and she pulls on his brown curls, using her other hand to scratch all along his back. Cregan loved the thought of it, coming home with battle scars from her. He kisses her jaw, licking her salty tears.

He stands and picks her up, worried about the cold getting to her skin. He pins her to a tree, her back scraping against the bark. It hurts in such a sweet way, better than the cold snow. She cries out his name so loud as he fucks her against it. His hands roam her body, wanting to feel all of her but also wanting to warm her up.

“Tell me it true, Cregan.” She moans, her naughty attitude returning with a smirk. “Are you going to kill me?”

She knows his answer before he even does. He growls as a response, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing that sweet cunt bested the Lord of Winterfell.

“I hate you.” He growls, fucking her even harder so she shuts up. “You killed innocent men.”

She laughs and moans at the same time, “I killed crows, My Lord.” He moans at ‘My Lord’ “I’d never… fuck… harm an innocent man. That’s why you’re here now, fucking my dripping cunt.”

He wraps one of his hands around her throat, the other holding her up, his thrusts growing sloppy as he nears his peak. “Fucking witch.”

To his surprise, her hand finds his throat too, but he loves it. He loves her aggressiveness. She matches him, she’s practically a savage wolf herself.

He wants to pull out, knows he should pull out, but he can’t find the strength. All he can focus on is the wetness surrounding his length. His hands grip her waist in such a harsh way it’s bound to bruise, and he relishes in the thought of marking her so those other wildlings knew she was his now. He had claimed her, and any other man who dared try to touch her would meet the Gods.

He grabs her and pushes her back into the snow, falling on her hands and knees. His hand takes a grip in her hair, pulling her head back toward him and forcing her to arch her back. He fucks her in such a shameful way. If any lady in Winterfell were fucked like this, she’d nearly be a whore. But she was not a lady, so he felt no guilt fucking her how she deserved, and how she eagerly wanted. Her hips bucked into him, matching his rhythm.

She cried such sweet moans at the pleasure, finding her peak so close. Her fingers spread into the snow, shaking, and she released onto him again, and he growled, fucking into her until he found his own peak.

His spilled into her so deep it touched her womb. She rested her face in the snow, panting. He pushed her off of his length, her body falling into the cold. Cregan stood, out of breath, staring down at the woman in the snow, her body curled into a fetal position as she laid there catching her breath. He was hooked. Obsessed with her beauty and madness, even as she laid there sweaty and cold.

He grabbed his furs and sat beside her, pulling her into his lap and wrapping the warm furs around her.

“You might catch a chill.” He whispered, slightly worried now that their lust had subsided.

“I’m a witch, right? My blood runs with fire.” She breathed. He laughed softly.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile, Lord Stark.” She smiled, a soft and sweet smile. His heart nearly melted.

After dressing, they began walking again.

“Can we make a quick stop?” She asked, not letting him answer before she ran towards a cave in the not far off distance.

He sighs, not making an effort to chase her.

He walks into the dimly lit cave. It appeared lived in. He eyed the area, while pulling at his collar, due to the heat in the cave.

“Is this where you live?” He asked, his voice echoed back to him, making him feel alone.

She nodded, undressing herself again. “It’s a hot spring.”

She jumped into the water, moaning at the warmth. He twitched.

“You gonna just stand there lookin’ pretty?” She asked, her thick northern accent appearing. He sighed, slowly taking off his furs and armor before stepping into the hot water. She spit some of the water at him with a little smirk. He tried to hide his smile, but couldn’t. He grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him and into his lap. She curled her legs up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Let’s stay here.” She said, voice unsure. “You’re a wolf. You belong out here, not in the south.”

He took her hand in his. “My place is in Winterfell.”

“Then stay with me just for tonight.” She said. He sighed, pressing a soft kiss to her hand and nodding. She rested her wet head against his chest.

“I won’t cause any more trouble for you, Lord Stark.”

He sighed, knowing what it meant.

He yearned to bring her back to Winterfell, to give her a place in the castle, and to take her in his bed at night, but she was too wild. She would cause too much trouble for the servants and handmaidens. She would never be happy either.

He made it count, fucking her over and over again in that cave. When they slept, he held her close to him, refusing to even let her roll over. Her head fit perfectly against his neck. It felt like a crime to let her go.

———

They had been walking for three days to return to the wall, only growing closer and closer with each moment they spent together.

“I thought you said it was a day’s journey.” Cregan said.

“On horse.” He shot her a look, frustrated with the forgotten mention. She only smirked. He didn’t want to part from her just yet anyway.

“Lord Stark!” A voice yelled. He quickly pushed her behind him, unsheathing his sword and searching for where the voice came from. He was terrified for her, but she showed no fear. He knew if they seen her, they would kill her immediately.

4 men in black, all on horses trotted up besides them, encircling them.

“Gods, I can’t believe it.” The Lord Commander said, “You Starks, damn it. You put the rest of the North to shame. I can’t believe you found the witch.”

“I’m not a witch.” She said, but Cregan only grabbed her and wrapped his hand around her mouth, preventing her from starting a fight. She kicked and growled into his hand, but eventually submitted.

“Why is she still alive, m’lord? You should have taken her head the moment you found her.” A boy said.

“It’s not that easy. She’s strong, more useful alive.” Cregan said.

She kicked her foot back into his shin, stealing his sword from his hand. Cregan yelled and grabbed his leg. He grabbed her arm with his other hand with a harsh grip. Her elbow met his face, knocking him on the ground as blood pooled from his nose.

“Took you long enough to find your own way back here, crow.” She said, looking at the Lord Commander specifically, the heavy valyrian steel sword dragging from her hands onto the ground.

He only snickered at her.

“Don’t hurt yourself trying to lift that sword. I’d rather watch Stark behead you himself.”

“Can’t do your own dirty work?” She sneers.

Cregan sensed the tension but said nothing. He stood and grabbed her by the back of her neck, pulling her back and taking his sword from her. He stared her down, breathing angrily, his eyes fuming with rage. He wanted to take her on the snow again as revenge for breaking his nose, but restrained himself.

She looked back up at him, anger in her own eyes, his hand lingered on the back of her neck.

Cregan turned back around to face the Lord Commander. “I will not behead her. She is a prisoner of Winterfell.”

The Lord Commander fumed. “She’s killed half our men-“

“You killed half your men when you sent them searching for me.” She spits.

“Enough!” Cregan yelled, but she ignored him. She broke from his grip and ran at the Lord Commander. The horses spooked, bucking the other men off them and scattering.

She jumped, using the stirs of the saddle of his horse to mount it. She pulled out the dagger she stole from Cregan earlier, and slit the Lord Commander’s neck.

Hot blood spewed onto her face as he weakly grabbed at her throat. She smiled, that wicked smile again, licking the blood that spat across her face, her eyes wide with madness.

“Goodnight, crow.” She whispered.

Cregan ripped her off the horse, throwing her onto the ground.

“Do you understand what you have just done?!” He screamed at her. She smiled up at him, blood staining her teeth. She kissed him, the blood on their faces smearing. He briefly matched her love with the kiss, before pulling away.

He tried snatching the dagger back from her, “No, it’s mine!” She yelled.

He pulled her by her collar close to his face, “You have to go now… or I’ll kill you.”

Sadness swept across her face, her lip trembling like a scorned child.

“Keep your fucking dagger, then!” She yelled, stabbing it into his shoulder.

Cregan cried out, letting her go, and falling to the ground. He ripped the dagger from his shoulder. She used this as an opportunity to take her bow back from his body.

She reached into her boot, pulling out an arrow. She knocked it and drew it back. Cregan weakly jumped on the Lord Commander’s horse. The other Night’s Watch men were returning on their horses, having calmed and gathered them.

“Back to the wall!” Cregan commanded them. He didn’t turn to look at her. He knew if he had, she would’ve shot the arrow right through his eye. Instead, she hit him in his rib, perfectly hitting where it would hurt, but wouldn’t kill him. Cregan yelled in pain again.

The men rode off, not stopping until they made it to the wall. Cregan passed out multiple times on the way, visions of her flooding his thoughts as the men had to drag him to the maester.

She stayed in the same place for hours, sobbing and sobbing, as the icy cold froze her tears. Only when night fell then did she turn and leave, knowing she would never see the Lord again.

[sepherinaspoppies]

Only If For A Night (i/?)

pairing: Dark! Book Aemond Targaryen x Modern! Reader

summary: In Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead), she gets forcefully transported to Westeros and meets her favorite book character, Aemond 'One Eye'. She asks and begs for his help to send her back home after realizing this was a world she did not want to live in. Unknowingly to her, her favorite fictional man had already grown too attached to fully let her go.

warnings for this part: profanity, tea drugging, blood magic, sexism, I think that's it... more dark stuff later. READER IS LATINA !

wc: 4,027

series masterlist

my masterlist

pt2

notes: originally I was gonna have this fic be a one shot but it is sooo long that I decided to split it into three. this is an introduction part, aemond will be on the next (I'm half way done with that part).

Chapter 1: Only If For A Night

She knows she is screwed when Doña Maribel broke the news to her that the last of the cempasuchiles were completely sold out in her shop. Making it five flower shops in the span of an hour that she walked to have fully run out of the bright orange flowers she needed for her ancestral altar that she and her abuela worked tirelessly on for the past few days. (marigolds, grandmother)

She wonders what to do next or perhaps where to go as she plays with the gravel beneath her shoes. Sure, she could walk another mile or so to another flower shop and try her luck there just as Doña Maribel suggested but she finds herself too tired to venture deeper in her small pueblo by herself. (town)

Even the walk back to her abuela’s was not something she looked forward to as of now. This was the time where she wished she had the ability to drive but alas she could not for even the streets of Mexico were more hectic and nerve wracking than back at the states. (grandmother’s)

She sighs in defeat. The cempasuchiles were the last thing on her abuela’s list of things she required for tonight’s first day of Dia de Los Muertos. The bright orange flowers illuminated the path of those who died, back into the land of the living and enjoy the offerings their family’s set up for them. (Day of the Dead)

Maybe for just tonight she could spare them.  

She sets her three mercado bags beside her as she sits down on a bench right next to a bus stop that could lead her directly to her abuela’s home. The smell of citrus of the lemon tree above her eases her disappointment and feels that this is the perfect spot to reread one of her favorite books. (shopping)

George R. R. Martin’s, Fire and Blood Vol. 1. She wondered what it was like to reside in a world of dragons (before they were all extinct), dire wolves from the North, red priestesses from Volantis, and mysterious yet powerful witches. To live inside the walls of the Red Keep and tour around the secret passageways and to fight for the rightful Queen of Westeros, Rhaenyra and the other members of the Blacks during the Dance of Dragons.  

Sadly, even if it was possible to venture deep into alternate fantasy universes. It all was pure fiction. Not real. Impossible. 

‘And so one-eyed Aemond the Kinslayer took up the iron-and-ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror, “It looks better on me than it ever did on him,” the prince proclaimed.’

“Excuse me, do you happen to know when the bus is due to arrive?” She snaps her head up meeting the most beautiful and enchanting woman she’d ever seen. Eyes round and greener than the trees itself during spring. Hair long and black like ravens in the night sky. She was tall, taller than most of the women here with skin like porcelain that had not seen a day of sun, a rarity here in Mexico. 

It was her mischievous tight lipped smile that made her feel loss of words. Unknowingly, this mysterious woman was the first person who spoke to her in English, not Spanish.

“Umm… I- I’m sorry?” 

The green eyed woman smirked as if she knew the small effect she had on her. Gods she was beautiful. 

“The bus–” 

She shook her head out of her revere, coming to reality. “Oh, I’m not sure. Perhaps a few more minutes.” She informed, pulling her mercado bags closer to her side, allowing the green eyed woman to sit, not wanting to be rude. 

She murmurs a quick thank you as she sits exceedingly close to her, shoulder to shoulder, flesh to flesh with her. Jeez, talk about personal space! However, the woman doesn’t seem to care or acknowledge that she has enough space for her own person. A feeling of uncertainty rests below her gut, telling her to be vigilant around her presence.    

“How long have you waited?” She asks, breaking away the long silence between them. She almost shivers at the intensity hue of her eyes that bore right through her. 

“About ten to twelve minutes.” She replies, looking anywhere else but her. 

A satisfactory look sketched around the woman's youthful yet elderly face which she found odd. What could be so pleasing about the bus not arriving? The woman said nothing, only sitting rather straight, almost elegant in her simple long green dress. Though, in the back of her mind, she wondered if she felt hot underneath the heaviness of the velvet fabric. She sure as hell did.

“Wait, how did you know I spoke english?” She asked as the hairs on her arms stood up straight in some kind of chilling fear. 

The woman’s eyes lowered and centered on the object sitting up on her lap. “Your book gives it away.” She snickered softly, tilting her head reading the bold letters of her very worn book she got at the thrift store for just two dollars. “An interesting read.” The green eyed woman said whilst her face held no sincere fondness of it for someone who found it interesting. 

“You’ve read this before?” She asked curiously, little taken back, that she finally found someone else who read Fire and Blood Vol 1. Or anything by George R. R. Martin. 

“Yes, almost like I've lived through it” 

She opens her mouth to speak but the green eyed woman beats her to it. “I don’t mean to pry but where are you headed?” The smile falls off her face as she remembers the warning of stranger danger she learned as a kid. 

The woman must have noticed the dubious look upon her face as she threw her head back in a laugh. “I ask because it seems a storm is coming our way. And it looks like an angry one.” 

Sure enough, as she looked up the sky had turned into a deep gray with heavy clouds ready to pour any minute. Well this wasn’t forecasted in the noticias this morning, otherwise, she’d carry an umbrella. Or better yet, she wouldn’t have walked all this way if a storm was brewing. (news) 

“My cottage is not very far from here,” the green eyed woman revealed, standing up from the bench, overlooking the seriousness of the clouds. “It is just around the corner. Would you like to come?” 

She wanted to say no, that she was better off walking an hour back to her abuela’s house, even if it meant that she’d catch a cold in the pouring rain with blisters all over her feet. Besides, she did not know anything about this woman. Every bit of her mind screamed stranger danger! Don’t go!

But as she glanced between the heavy clouds and the green eyed woman with her hand extended out, all that doubt and worriment went away. 

“I don’t even know your name,” she pointed out. If all goes bad, at least she had a name to tell the authorities.

“My name is Alyssandra Riveras.” The green eyed woman smiled, bowing at the waist. 

Though still somewhat skeptical, she walks alongside Alyssandra to her cottage. She makes small mental notes in her head, counting the red stop signs, right and left turns and any other landmarks of important significance. 

She was almost positive she could point her way back home. It did not help that five minutes into their journey, it started harshly pouring out of nowhere like a bucket of water had been poured all over, blanketing her vision. 

Alyssandra’s cottage had sat on the outskirts of the pueblo, isolated from all civilization, hidden around tall and green pine trees. A faint voice in the back of her head screamed to run and never look back. She ignored it.

From a close distance, she was able to distinguish a small window with overgrown vines and branches wrapped around the perimeter of the cottage. Bones, bells, and crystal windchimes hung from the roof and windows, mostly likely put up for some kind of spiritual protection. 

She was no stranger to the craft. Although raised catholic, both her mama and abuela had hung an old broom above their doorway to keep away unwanted guests and negative energies as well as pinning the mal de ojo sigil around the walls for the look of evil and envy against their family. (evil eye)

“Cempasuchiles,” she murmured in awe when Alyssandra’s small garden came into view. It was the most of the orange flowers she had ever seen, all bright and lively and huddled together. 

“When the storm is over, you can grab as many as you’d like,” Alyssandra offered, peering over her shoulder, unlocking the door to her cottage. She nods following her inside whilst giving a grateful smile. 

The interior of the cottage was small, meant only for one person to take residence. The same size as what a studio apartment would be back in the states.

In no way was the inside minimal, in fact it was the opposite. Almost all of the walls were covered with shelves with small trinkets adorning inside such as little statues, crystals, herbs and other supplies. 

In the center of the room lay a huge stone like table, old and antique bearing the resemblance of something medieval. And something about it, sent shivers down her spine along with the same faint voice, telling her to run. 

She ignored it, again. 

“Give me your belongings, and change into this,” Alyssandra says, tossing a strappy white chemise. She exchanges her poor-soaked mercado bags that contained pan de muerto, churros, and tamales for her ancestral ofrenda. (bread of the dead, offering)

She turns around to protect her modesty, seeing as there was no other room to change nor did Alyssandra point her to the bathroom, so she lifts the drenched garment over her head and sheds away the last clothing she had on her body, leaving her completely bare in her birthday suit. 

She couldn’t help but to feel Alyssandra’s eyes watching her very intently, examining every inch of her body as if it met her standards or so. She knows she should use her hands to cover up and give Alyssandra a piece of her mind, or better yet introduce her to a knuckle and hand sandwich for the way she was looking too closely.  

Yet her body feels frozen, unable to move under the green eyed woman’s gaze. 

“Would you like some tea to keep you warm?” Alyssandra asked, moseying to the kitchen. 

She blinks, whatever paralyzing feeling she had dispelled away. “Um, yes thank you.” Alyssandra nodded, pulling what looked to be a kettle on the stove. Meanwhile, she slipped on the white chemise in a hurry to not feel as exposed anymore. 

She takes the time to analyze the rest of Alyssandra’s cottage as she hears the droplets of rain hit the rooftop harder and the sound metal being filled with water. Various of the same purple flower plants were placed near the entrance, she notes to herself that these couldn’t possibly be lavender but another species or something within the same family. 

A small cot laid in the corner close by the hearth, with multiple open ancient books and scrolls spread on top of the bedspread. She almost wants to look through the pages and read Alyssandra’s interests but she doubts she could as she observes the handwriting is unreadable from where she stood. 

She walks forward to where the hearth is, feeling slightly warmer as something immediately catches her eye. Above the mantle, hung on the wall was a medium sized portrait of a small boy, appearing no more than three years old. He stood straight, almost regally with his hands behind his back. His face held no gentleness or warmth like a child should have. 

Gods forgive her, but the child looked cruel like the gueritos who bullied her in elementary school when she was just trying to make new friends. (white boys) 

Though, for an evil looking child, he sure was beautiful. The most striking thing about him was his set of eyes. Wide with his left eye a dark violet and his right a dark green similarly to Alyssandra’s. His hair was straight and cut short right below his ears. She looked closer at the portrait, thinking if her eyes deceived her as she noticed the peculiar color of the boy’s hair. 

Silver. 

Curiosity takes the better of her as she asks, “Is that your son?” 

Alyssandra turns, holding two mugs of steaming tea. “Yes, that’s my beautiful little boy,” She places both glasses on the stoned table before she sits adjacent to her. It doesn’t go unnoticed by her the sad look on Alyssandra’s eyes. “He looks like you,” she points out though it’s somewhat of a lie in hopes to lift up Alyssandra’s spirits.

Alyssandra throws her head back in a chortle, “For all my hard work and labor, I had hoped he looked like me but nature loves to play its cruel jokes. He is a replica of his bastard father.” The thought of her son’s father left a sour and disgusting taste in Alyssandra’s mouth. 

Alyssandra focused her attention back to her, “What about you?” She asked, sitting rather too straight. 

“Do you mean if I have kids? Gods, no.” 

Alyssandra smirked, “I take it you don’t like the idea of children. I did not either but after years of solitude, I changed my mind. I had other children before my son, but all of them died before they were due. You, however, are still young. Your mind can still change.” 

She shifted in her seat anxiously, sipping the odd taste of the herbal tea Alyssandra provided. It wasn’t like she did not like children. She respected children and found them quite cute with their little tiny hands and feet and infectious laughs. But besides the point of appearance, children were a tremendous amount of responsibility that she found herself not ready for.

Not now. Not ever. 

She could barely handle taking care of herself. Much less care and provide for a child for eighteen years or so. 

“I don’t—” 

“Oh but you will,” Alyssandra fired back without so much as blinking an eye. 

She grimaced, knowing where this conversation was heading. And it was about to be a not so pretty one. She glanced at the window by the door, the rain was still heavy if not more.

“I thank you for giving me shelter. But I really must go. I was only just supposed to be out for some groceries and my abuela is probably wondering where I am.” Polite and respectful enough just as her mama taught her.

She grabbed her belongings that were hanging by the fire and stuffed them inside her mercado bag. Her hand was on the cusp of prying the door open when Alyssandra rushed to her side, wrapping her hand around her wrist. 

“Wait. Please don’t go.” Alyssandra pleaded, “It’s just that you remind me much about myself. I didn't mean to cause offense, I’m sorry.” 

Run. Say no and run now, While you still can…

There it was again that same paralyzing feeling closing in on her feet, preventing her to move. It was strange like a shield gluing both her legs down. 

She nodded, murmuring ‘fine’ under her breath as Alyssandra slowly led her back to the woven chair with such gentleness as a porcelain doll. “I still need to call my abuela, so she can know I’m alright.” 

Alyssandra twisted her face in a wince, “I’m afraid we’re too far out for any signals to catch a telephone call.” She held back the overweening snicker to herself, it was why Alyssandra chose her cottage to be settled this far out in this very modernized realm; so no one could find her. 

Alyssandra wasn’t lying. No matter how hard she hit her Iphone against her palm or moved it around, there had not been a single signal bar glowing. She wondered if her abuela had started to grow worried and perhaps began to search for her. She hoped she didn’t and that her cousins kept her preoccupied with the rest of the decorations to notice the duration of how long she’d been out. She also wondered if they were still going to the cementerio, to clean and decorate the graves of their loved ones but with the amount of thunder and rain, she’d doubt it was still on the agenda. (cemetery)

Alyssandra prepared some more tea as the fire gradually faltered down. This one had a different taste than the previous one with tiny purple petals floating around. Alyssandra watched very intently as she sipped every last drop while she scarcely touched her own mug.

The green eyed woman began asking her multiple personal questions, mostly about where she was originally from (due to the fact that her vocabulary deemed to be more vehement in English than Spanish), her family, and if she had any siblings. She had answered them all. Letting her know that she was just visiting from the states to celebrate Dia de Los Muertos with her family she had not seen since the death of her sweet abuelo. (grandfather)

Alyssandra’s eyes glimmered even more when she explained how strangely, her very stern and overprotective mama had suddenly let her travel by herself to a country she had never been to in years since she was small. Her mama preferred her to be where she could keep a close eye on her because ‘uno nunca sabe’ especially if you’re a woman. (one never knows)

It was odd, alright. Especially when her mama gave her money that she didn’t have, and enthusiastically wished her good fortune on her travels. Yup odd…

But not to Alyssandra.

Alyssandra sat down after cleaning both mugs ready to ask the hard hitting questions she’d been warming her up to. “Have you ever been with a man?” Her eyes widened before breaking rounds of deep laughter that made the sides of her ribs ache and cramp. 

However, there wasn’t an ounce of amusement displayed on Alyssandra’s face, but rather annoyance. What was so funny? It was a simple and uncomplicated question that meant no harm. At least not to her. He couldn’t harm her any more here. Alyssandra guessed perhaps it was the side effect of the tea making her humoristic. 

“No,” She replied, wiping the humoristic tears at the corner of her eyes. “The opportunity has never presented itself?” Alyssandra asked.

All the humor that previously lingered had gone swiftly away, realizing that Alyssandra was indeed asking something so personal to her. “No,” She shook her head, feeling her face hot and red. “People don’t look at me as someone they want to be with. They’d rather be with someone exciting, adventurous, and outing. And I’m neither of those things. I’m a homebody who’s idea of fun and adventure is living through fictional books.” She answered truthfully, too truthfully. 

Alyssandra watched her face transform into a deeper shade of red. “What is it?” She questioned, taking a hold of her hand, taking in the role of someone empathetic. 

“I want my first time to be special. Like the fairytales I grew up reading about with the grand Prince sweeping the young maiden off her feet and taking her to his castle…” The way her eyes reflected small flashes of light made Alyssandra almost feel guilty for her true intentions once the repercussions of the tea ran out. 

She remembers when she too wished for a dashing knight in shining armor to take her away, far away from the shit she had been through; the pain, the suffering, and the poverty. All of it. As Alyssandra grew well into her womanhood, she realized there was no knight coming to save her. Instead, there was a selfish Prince who spared her for his desires and her many talents beyond the acts of the flesh.  

But Alyssandra needed her to go. She needed that piece that was stolen from her. She didn’t want the risk of going back and facing him again and repeating through the hell and agony he put her through. So sending her for it seemed like the better alternative. 

“I know you probably think it sounds stupid–” She stammered, her face still beet red. 

“I don’t think it sounds stupid,” Alyssandra softly smiled, giving her hand a light squeeze. Judging by the serene look upon her face, it was a good lie that she seemed to believe. 

She smiled. Finally, someone who didn’t think of the idea of waiting for the right person was silly and unrealistic. 

Her smile deterred, sensing something trickle down her nose, dropping against the skin of her hand. 

Blood. Her blood. 

Run! 

“Alyssandra?” She whispered, puzzled at the sight of more blood spilling out of her nose. Every strand of hair in her arms stood, sensing a new type of alertness course right through her. She glanced at a very blurred Alyssandra with what looked to be a smirk written on her face. 

“W-What’s happening?” She stood from the chair, but that soon turned out to be a bad idea as her knees gave out, sending her straight to the stoned cold floor. She glanced up, watching as Alyssandra sauntered in front of her, and as much as she wanted to crawl away her body was glued to the floor. 

“Look,” Alyssandra said, crouching down at her level before she took her in her arms like a newborn baby, weighing little to nothing. “We don’t have much time. When you wake up, I need you to retrieve something of mine…” 

She felt her back collide on top of the stoned table, “What was in that tea?” She questioned but Alyssandra was quick to shush her. “It doesn’t matter now. You drank it all willingly.” There was no argument there. 

Alyssandra pulled out a jar with overflowing cempasuchil petals inside and circled the petals around her. Almost like a ritualistic circle she used to watch the brujas next door do. (witches)

“You need not to be afraid. You will not be harmed as long as you do what I say. Exactly as I say.” She gulped, nodding seeing as she had no other choice. “Bruja.” She spat but Alysssandra only chuckled, “I’ve been called much worse, little dove.” (witch)

Through the corner of her eye, she saw Alyssandra holding out a small knife. “I am in need of a sapphire. It was stolen from me many years ago. It is one of a kind, which is why when you see it you’ll know it is mine.” 

She momentarily shut her eyes as the dark haired woman rapidly cut the middle of her palm spewing her blood on top of the petals. “Once you’re successful, you’ll come back here with the sapphire and gather some of my materials. The marigold petals with your blood coating them; The blood of whom you took the sapphire from and lastly you’ll lay on top of my precious table here to be transported back.” 

There was an evil smile on her lips that she desperately wanted to punch it off. “And if I don’t get the sapphire?” She questioned. 

Alyssandra combed away her unruly braided hair, “Then I won’t bring you back and you’ll be stuck there forever.” 

Fuck. 

“Stuck? Stuck where? Where am I going?” 

Alyssandra clicked her tongue, “A place where fairy tales do not exist, my little dove.” If she wanted a Prince to sweep her off her feet. Alys would gladly give her one. 

She attempted to wiggle herself out of this pendeja’s spell but whatever Alyssandra mixed in the tea it was compelling her body to still and her eyes to slowly falter shut in a peaceful sleep. (dumbass) 

“However I should warn you, this spell is only valid until tomorrow. Until Dia de Los Muertos is over and even if you do achieve in retrieving the sapphire but it is after November second, you'll be permanently trapped with him.” 

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[trashogram]

He Chose You (Pt. 2)

Lucifer/Reader

Rated E for the smex coming next chapter I SWEAR. ((Also there will not be any non-con in this fic, so please don’t worry. You’ll see when you read.))

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 13.5 | Part 14 | End

Tag Requests: @loslox, @for-hearthand-home, @navierkalani

‘The worst thing they could be are swingers.’

Your heart was racing, and you felt ridiculous for how uppity you felt at the prospect of having dinner with your two elderly neighbors. 

Normally, meeting new people would cause a healthy amount of anxiety in you. You’d grown up into a recluse and upholding social niceties took most of your energy. It was even worse to be in their home, and among people that you likely did not have much in common with. 

These were personal reassurances that you told yourself after denying the first invitation for dinner with the Farrows. The guilt you felt, paired with the subsequent relief of not having to spend more than five minutes with your chatty neighbor, stirred an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach. 

Of course you’d been unable to stop thinking about what a wretch you were, how karma was going to bite you on the ass for denying an old couple some company. 

And oh Karma did come back to bite you. Hard. 

You felt like you were hanging by a thread at work. Three weeks into the job and you’d already been reprimanded. Even the memory of your supervisor looking down her nose at you from the other side of her desk made your eyes water. 

“We have a ‘three strikes’ policy here. I’m afraid this will count as your first.”

Never having been fired from a job notwithstanding, you felt like the idiot your parents always purported you to be. 

If you’d have just stayed in your hometown, living off your parents’ good graces and kept your head down, instead of prancing out the door as if you had self-respect and no need for a safety net… 

Maybe things wouldn’t be so dire. 

Maybe you wouldn’t be on the verge of having a panic attack at this very moment, feeling the anxiety and restlessness from declining the previous invitation tenfold. 

With a deep breath in and out, you crossed the hall with the hesitance of a mouse approaching a snap-trap. You knocked on the door to Unit 606 with a shaking hand.

There was a moment left to blanch at the realization that you hadn’t brought anything with you. Like the shittiest, most thoughtless guest ever.

——

“You made it!” Mrs. Farrow held her arms out dramatically. “Come in! Come in! You’re right on time! Oh and you look lovely dear!”

“Thanks.” You felt heat rise to your cheeks as the door closed behind you. 

The layout of the apartment was a mirror image to yours, but you were overwhelmed by just how much stuff had taken up the space. From the kitchen to the living room, the apartment was brimming with kaleidoscopic color. Antique statuettes of unknown deities, handcrafted vases and sculptures in-set with gems and gold filigree, expertly framed posters of old Hollywood, and Persian rugs beneath well-worn furniture were visible from just a cursory glance. 

It distracted you from the unusually bitter, earthy smell that assaulted you upon entering. 

“Wow,” You said in genuine awe. “Your home is lovely.” 

“Aw, you’re too kind sweetheart. Too kind. Here, let me take your shawl - we’ll hang it up on the rack here, see.” She took your cardigan and placed it on an old hat stand before steering you out to the living room by the back of your shoulders.

There was a man sitting in a leather armchair adjacent to the couch. He was wearing a tweed jacket and his silver-blond hair had been combed back finely to show a pale, wrinkled face and eyes so dark they shone almost black in the lowlight. 

He looked at you with interest once you’d finally caught onto his presence, and opened his mouth to speak.

‘Quack!�� 

“Lou!” You laughed as the duck came racing over on its little legs. 

Without delay, the bird climbed onto your flats with an impatient flap of its wings, trying to balance while looking up at you adoringly. 

You couldn’t help but reach down and pat his little head, murmuring ‘hellos’ and ‘how you doing buddy?’ softly and sweetly. 

The man opposite you both smirked. “My wife was right. He’s quite taken with you.” 

“I’m always right!” Mrs. Farrow called out from the kitchen. 

You looked to the kitchen and back to, presumably, Mr. Farrow, an uncertain smile on your lips. 

“Welcome to our home.” The elder man’s voice was almost hypnotically deep. His hand was outstretched and waiting. “Please excuse me for not greeting you properly. When you get to be as old as I am, your body does everything it can to make you stay put in one place.” 

You shook your head. “Oh no, please don’t worry about it! I understand.” 

Mr. Farrow’s smirk seemed to soften as you spoke. 

“Please make yourself comfortable, my dear.” When he gestured to the couch, you awkwardly shuffled to sit down. Lou was right on your heels, loathe to spend even a second without your warmth. 

The duck ended up snuggled on your lap after begging to be lifted as you sank into the plush sofa. And you were grateful, hugging Lou to you gently as if he were a plush toy. 

It helped take your mind away from that spine-tingling feeling when it made a comeback — the way Mr. Farrow’s eyes glittered when he looked at you and his duck. 

‘Oh god, they probably are swingers. And they lure in their targets with this crazy well-trained duck.’ You thought, punching yourself in the face mentally. ‘And you fell for it. Walked right into their den of debauchery. You stupid bitch.’ 

“Here’s some water, honey. We’ll save the stronger stuff for dinner.” You jumped in your seat when Mrs. Farrow appeared at your side, setting a glass of ice water down on the end table beside you. 

You reached for the glass as its contents sloshed over the edge. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Farrow.” 

Mrs. Farrow beamed. 

“What did I tell ya, Warren? Isn’t she lovely? Just a peach. Lou is smitten.” She patted your shoulder. “And it’s Cassie, honey. Call me Cass.”

“You were right, Cass.” Warren Farrow intoned. 

He took on a conspiratorial tone as he addressed you once more. “You must know, my wife hasn’t stopped talking about you since you met the other day. I wondered if she was preparing us for a new roommate.” 

Heat flooded your face for the second time. “Aw.”

“Oh poo, as if you wouldn’a done the same.” Mrs. Farrow sniffed derisively. “Dinner in 5 minutes!”

Her exit left room for you to start a conversation, but you couldn’t find it in you to say anything. Mr. Farrow kept staring, smiling, which made you stroke Lou’s feathers for comfort that much more. 

The silence lasted a little while, save for the clinking, crackling, thudding from the kitchen dining room. Aside from catering to Lou, you surveyed your surroundings in an effort to avoid bouncing your legs.

The Farrows didn’t have a TV, only a large fireplace that they’d positioned their furniture around. There were displays on either side of the grate. On one stood an oversized chalice with intricate, swirling patterns. The other had a statuette of a goat-headed figure sitting crisscrossed on a throne, one arm poised to reach out to the sky.

“Baphomet.” 

You turned from the sight, head swiveling to face your human companion. He was eying you keenly again. 

“O-oh, the statue is…?”

Warren nodded. “Baphomet. Conceived as a false god around the time of the crusades. Most people see him as a depiction of Satan these days.” 

The association wasn’t too far-fetched, you figured with another look at the figure. Its goat-head and large horns were the most eye-catching thing about it. 

“I apologize if the sight upsets you, dear. I hadn’t thought to remove it before your arrival.” 

“Oh no, please. It’s alright.” You said. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s very interesting.” 

The rumbling hum at your side seemed to signal approval, or maybe general geniality with your neutral response. “Are you religious by chance?”

You turned to Warren again. 

“Ah, no.” You replied apologetically. “I grew up in a Christian area, but I was never very involved with the church.” 

Warren nodded. “That’s just as well. The institution and its practices can be stifling. I was never very involved with it myself.” 

“Religious artifacts have always been fascinating to me, however. There’s no shortage of temples and synagogues in this world.” 

“Have you been to many? For the history?” You were genuinely curious. 

The old man nodded again, stately and dignified even as he puffed up in his armchair like a peacock. “Cass and I are seasoned travelers. We’ve been to all 7 continents at least twice, seen the wonders of the world from the Hindu shrines in Malaysia to St. Basil’s Cathedral. I have a particular fondness for those countries surrounding the Mediterranean Sea. I was able to convince Cassie another trip to Rome wouldn’t put us in the poor house last year.” 

Your little huff of laughter was sincere, though the idea of traveling to Rome - or anyplace outside of the familiar - sounded amazing. “I’d love to be able to do that.” 

Warren’s head tilted to one side. “You’re quite young, I’m sure you’ll get the chance if you haven’t already.” 

“Sure.” You scoffed before immediately falling into contrition. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me —”

“Dinner time!”

Mrs. Farrow hollered from the kitchen, stopping you from trying to come up with a suitable excuse for yourself. 

Luckily, Mr. Farrow chuckled good-naturedly. He rose from his chair stiffly, legs visibly straining. “No need to apologize, my dear. But we best get going before the Missus comes out and drags us by our ears.”

——

All things considered, the dinner was perfectly fine. 

The jitters never left your frame, but you had chalked that up to a simple byproduct of your skittish nature. The red wine that Cass had insisted upon you made you feel warm and solid, at least. 

As did the fact that Cassie Farrow could hold entire conversations all on her own with very little effort or input from yourself. 

“You got a boyfriend, honey? Or girlfriend? No shame in that at all. We may be old but by no means bigoted. We’ve been all over the place, seen so many things - what’s natural to you and me could be the furthest from, in certain places. Isn’t that right, Warren?”

“Men in Ancient Greece often had relationships with other men.” Warren replied. “Royals in Europe had extramarital affairs with different sexes. It was all about keeping the bloodline pure, but romance was a different thing altogether.” 

“I haven’t dated in a while, actually.” You said. “It’s not been a priority.” 

Cassie nodded, exuberant as she drank from her wine glass. “That’s good too! Plenty of independent women these days! It’s about time, I say.” 

‘Quack quack’

Lou was beside you, red eyes locked in as he gazed upon you at the dining table. It made you giggle.

“Mm!” Cassie had a spastic moment. “I almost forgot!” 

The chair lurched out from under the old woman as she rose and scuttled out of the room. It left you blinking, and out of the corner of your eye you saw that same smirk on Warren’s face before his wife had returned. 

She had a small wicker basket in her arms. 

“This is for you, honey. Housewarming present from your kooky neighbors across the hall.” 

As she drew nearer, you caught a glimpse of the contents, some of which shone beneath the light of the overhead chandelier. 

“Thank you! You really didn’t have to.” The basket was pressed into your arms and Cassie was back in her seat before you’d finished your sentence. 

“Nonsense. It’s the least we could do. I still can’t believe no one welcomed you for a whole week!” 

The basket was lined with shredded filler, and nestled in between were little gemstones and crystals.

“There’s jade and ruby in there, and I believe there’s moonstone as well.” Mr. Farrow recalled. “Is that it, Cass?”

“Yes, yes, and carnelian too. It’s all scattered about there, with the Scrabble and the socks and the hand cream and oh!” Mrs. Farrow laughed. “Forgive us honey, we saw that little rubber duck and just had to get it for you.” 

There was a little rubber duck. It was a novelty type, with a tiny red jacket and a tiny black top hat. 

“It’s a carnival barker. No, it’s something like that. It’s on the tip of my tongue.” Your nose scrunched in thought. “Oh, a circus ringmaster!” 

“Exactly! See, what’d I tell you, Warren? She loves it!” 

“I believe I was the one who suggested it.” His voice carried through the otherwise silent dining room. 

“Oh well maybe it was, so what. She likes it. Don’t you, honey?”

“Yes, but…” You felt funny again. Tingly. “This is too much. Really. You’re both so kind but I can’t accept this.” 

A hand laid gently on your shoulder and you looked up at a frowning Warren Farrow. “It’s no trouble at all, my dear.” 

“The cost must’ve —”

“No cost, really. Gemstones and crystals are quite popular these days. You can find them all over. And the little trinkets are just the same. Given to you in good faith of course.” He patted your shoulder gently. 

You swallowed, eyes once again roving over the little mundane treasures. Silken feathers brushed against your ankle under the table and you met those red eyes, sparkling like the crystals in your basket. 

Lou was such a funny little thing. So expressive, he looked as if he were waiting as he stared at you. 

So funny. 

… You felt funny. 

Perhaps the anxiety from before was doubling back, just like that prickling sensation. It was less of a tingle and more a shiver or chill as you sat there. 

“I think it’s about time for dessert, don’t you?” Mrs. Farrow was saying somewhere far away. “You like chocolate, sweetheart? I made mousse, all fancy-like. It’s not as fancy as the kind you get at that restaurant downtown, the Ivy, but they’ve got fancy ingredients and such…” 

Reaching up to wipe the sheen of sweat from your forehead, you felt heat coming off from between your temples. With a shaky breath, you slumped down in your seat. 

The basket was gone. 

Your chair was scraping against the wooden floor as it was pulled out from the table. 

“Are you feeling alright, my dear?”

Wrinkled hands swept the hair from your face as your eyes rolled in their sockets. Words couldn’t get past the cotton-dry feeling in your throat. 

“It’s the wine, the wine. Said she’s not much of a drinker, it has to be the wine.” 

Cass’s voice was dampened and thick, like it was trapped underwater. 

Or perhaps you were trapped. Your head was spinning, limbs heavy as if you were a puppet sans strings. You had to be picked up from under your arms like a toddler and pulled upright. 

The next second you were walking through your neighbors’ kitchen, the door held open for you. 

“Maybe we oughta call a doctor? Honey, can you hear me?”

“I… yes. I can hear you.” It felt like an Olympic feat, but you spoke clearly. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s happening.”

You stumbled against the wall and strong arms caught you when your knees buckled. It was Mr. Farrow allowing you to lean on him, solid as a rock. 

“Cass is right, you had quite a bit of wine.” He said. Another pat to your shoulder.

Did you? You could’ve sworn it was just a glass. 

Your apartment was barren and blank, the smell of laundry comforting against the memory of that earthy incense smell. 

“Get some rest, honey. We’re right across the hall.” 

“Thank you.” You breathed, lying on your sofa bed. “Again, I’m very sorry. Thank you for the welcome.” 

“Oh no, thank you.” 

——

When you opened your eyes next, you were shrouded in darkness. The outline of your entertainment system was in front of you, and the kitchen at your right. 

It was raining outside; little raindrops smattering against the glass. The sound was normal, no longer muffled until you were straining to hear it. 

‘Well that’s good.’ 

The heavy feeling in your arms was still present. 

‘That’s not so good.’

You felt perfectly sane and hysterical at the same time. It was like being caught in the eye of a storm. The danger had abated momentarily, but would begin again shortly. 

Your door opened, and in your peripheral you saw a shadow cut across the wall as a new figure emerged from the hall. 

You squinted in the dark. ‘Lou?’ 

The duck’s silhouette stilled as if you’d spoken aloud. You could feel something shift in the air, tension breaking through to your mind when it could not seize your body. 

That shift grew stronger, sucking in the air around it until a dazzling flash and crack of light blinded you. 

Lou’s shadow was gone. Or… it had changed. The shadow on the wall wasn’t a duck anymore it was… 

Your blood ran cold as the man stepped into your apartment and let the door close behind him. 

“Hello there!”

[serendipitous-girl]

𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐢 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫

⊱✿⊰ summary: riddle's mother had many rules for him one of which: focus on studies and forget about love.

⊱✿⊰ warnings: forbidden love except its jst bc riddle is silly billy, i wanted this to be romeo and juliet coded kinda but it doesn't work that well. Omg unless i make it like reader if from the rival school and riddle loves her teheheheh ahem ignore that, reader is yuu and should be gn (correct me on mistakes but be nice or i will ignore u) mild spoilers for book one!

⊱✿⊰ notes: i have no notes bc i started rambling in the warning section uh i think im high off of oxygen. might make a part two idk confessions perhizzle??

riddle lived his life on certainty. he woke up every morning, knowing exactly what he would wear and eat. he knew who would be troublesome and what classes he would be attending. he knew everything down to each very specific detail. which led him to believe in one more certainty: he was allergic to you.

he had to be! why else would his heartbeat accelerate so quickly? why else would his hands feel all prickly and warm whenever you grabbed them because your excitment bubbled out of you. why else would his stomach feel like it was being dropped to his feet whenever you smiled at anybody else other than him? it was the only logical decision.

"uh, no riddle. you're in love." trey had commented one day, after the housewarden had finished complaining about his strange encounters with you. riddle assumed trey was joking, riddle didn't fall in love! he had studies and other important things to do, he had no time for such foolish affairs.

he felt his gaze follow your movements across the dining hall, as you dished out some tuna for grim to eat. riddle grimaced, internally cursing himself for his face heating up. stupid allergic reaction.

he just about flung his lunch tray when you spotted him, bouncing merrily over. he was going to die and you were the causation. surely there was some sort of rule you were breaking for making him feel so entirely insane. it was like being overblotted again except this times it because you were sending him to an early grave.

"hi, riddle!" you giggled, plopping down in the seat beside him. how could a magicless being trapped in the wrong world be so merry and joyful? how were you so....beautiful?

riddle clenched his fist at the sudden thought he had, accidentally squeezing the juice box he had in his hand and making the liquid come squirting out. he gasped at the sudden sticky mess, his cheeks turning as bright as the roses the queen loved so much. how dreadful.

"hello, [reader]." he said, trying to stop his voice from shaking. you didn't notice anything, thank the great seven for that. although you were still looking at him strangely for the juice mess he had created.

effortlessly you grabbed some napkins, cleaning up the table before grabbing his hand to clean the liquids on him. he froze, every nerve ending in his hand getting immediately set on fire.

abruptly riddle stood up, knocking the napkins out of your head accidentally. with a curt thanks he scurried off, walking stiffly like his muscles has suddenly turned to concrete.

with steam practically radiating off his face he marched to his room, trying to prevent the allergic reaction from taking dire affect. he had to be rid of all relations with you, he must! or else surely he would die from your close proximity or your melodic laugh or your pretty face or-

see, you were even deluding his thoughts. whatever disease you have cursed upon him was nothing less than burdensome. he needed to be rid of it, of you immediately.

lori © 2024. please don't copy, modify, or do anything weird with my writing! i like reblogs and comments but please be kind as this was my writing.

[llamagoddessofficial]

📚 d’you…have any more, perchance?

Every now and then, I watch too much Game of Thrones, and I imagine the UF skeletons as a royal family who each bonds with a dragon that grows up beside them. Whilst Gaster and Papyrus have dragons that are as 'tame' as dragons can be, Sans (the mercurial and violent crown prince) has an equally violent dragon that frequently sets things on fire and eats people. Its behaviour gets more dire as it gets larger and larger, going from eating rats in its fits of rage, to eating cows and even people. The dragons would kinda thematically represent each skeleton's inner true feelings; Papyrus holds himself to strict high account so his dragon obeys commands but can be incredibly vicious when given the chance to let loose, Gaster understands himself in his old age so his dragon is serene, but Sans is confused and angry so his dragon wildly lashes out.

You show up in court, for some reason or another, whether an invited member of aristocracy or a low-born working there. Sans' dragon is instantly smitten with you. The beast that hardly lets its own master touch it will follow you around and bump its snout against you as gently as it can without its massive size bowling you right over - it frequently carries you off to its nesting tower when it's tired, and (alarmingly) seems to want you to ride it. The dragon's attachment to you leads to Sans spending more time with you... his crush on you is gradually revealed.

Something something, love softens all beasts, Sans just needed real connection instead of being berated by his family, you get the idea. I'm a sucker for love being the answer.

[scramratz]

Rant abt your Cds I'm curious

OK HERE GOES SCRAMS 2024 CD COLLECTION TIER LIST

(Disclaimer: these are just my personal opinions and if yours differ from mine, fine. It’s not a sin to be wrong)

S TIER-

Goo-Sonic Youth: Straight bangers all the way through. Girls love it when you show them your Sonic Youth cd. Extra points cuz the pamphlet unfolds into a sick poster

Midnight Vultures-Beck: Good album to clean the house to. Every song a banger. Beck as a person sets off alarms, though 🤔

Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot-Sparklehorse: Genuinely my favorite artist and album of all time. Fall asleep to Homecoming Queen often.

Siamese Dream-Smashing Pumpkins: Fire straight though. Good when you’re in a depressed 20-something mood. Better than Mellon Collie in my humble opinion.

Gorillaz-Gorillaz: The start of one of my favorite bands and objectively one of the best bands in the world don’t fight me on it I’ll kill you.

A TIER-

Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots-The Flaming Lips: Solid album. Iconic cover art. “Do You Realize??” always got me feeling feelings

Violent Femmes-Violent Femmes: Top 3 favorite band. Every song went platinum in my household. Would have been higher but reminds me of my mom too much.

Dig Me Out- Sleater-Kinney: Got it because the name sounded familiar. Ended up loving them! Doesn’t sound right if it’s not played loud, though, and considering I live in an apartment, I don’t play it often.

Fear Yourself-Daniel Johnston: Got it because I love “Hi, How Are You” but haven’t been able to find it anywhere. Was pleasantly surprised! Hits the same melancholy spot but slightly more upbeat.

Figure 8-Elliot Smith: My favorite sad boy that definitely DIDN’T kill himself. Not my favorite Elliot album but every one of his albums is A tier personally.

The Diary of Alicia Keys-Alicia Keys: WENT QUADRUPLE PLATINUM IN OUR HOUSEHOLD. Prime cleaning the house on Sunday music. Dragon Days is seriously underrated.

Garbage-Garbage: Don’t know how to say this without sounding insane but this album sounds like the color #DC007F and I like that color a lot

2-Mac Demarco: The CHOKEHOLD Mac Demarco had on us artschool bitches in 2016 OMG. Was gonna change my name to Viceroy

B TIER-

Money for Nothing- Dire Straits: Top tier dad music.

Lumine fever- The Adrenals: Got it cuz the cover looked cool. Was pleasantly surprised! They rock the adequate amount

Rocket to Russia- Ramones: They’re good but I don’t get the hype honestly. They’re the Flavor-Aid of Punk

Starfish- The Church: Only love one song on it, the only song anyone likes tbh. The rest are your standard 80s deal

Crooked Rain-Pavement: I really love Pavement but there is a thing as too much Pavement and I think I’ve reached it

Yankee Hotel Foxtrot-Wilco: Honestly should have been in A tier but all the pretentious music dudes I’ve met has soured this album for me so it goes in B outta spite. Jesus Etc my fave song tho

An Evening with Silk Sonic- Silk Sonic: Nice, short, gets me in a happy mood. Does what it needs to do!

Prolonging the Magic- Cake: John McCrea don’t really be singing, do he? He just fancy talkin

C TIER-

Gigantic, Fuel, and The Nixons: I got all 3 on sale and they all sound the same and that sound is…ok? Like it’s alright background music

Blind Melon-Blind Melon: What was with 90’s bands putting random kids as their album covers? Decent listen, though.

Summerteeth-Wilco: Good background music. I can’t remember any songs off it.

Los Angeles/Wild Gift-X: I like X but I hate that fucking album art omg it’s so hard to look at. I like their songs individually but as a cohesive album, eh.

D TIER-

Throwing Copper-Live: bought it on sale with the above 3 but liked this one substantially less. Only redeeming quality to me is the album art.

Ben Folds Five-Ben Folds Five: Misleading considering there’s only 3 of them. He sounds like my ex boyfriend from highschool before I realized I liked girls

F Tier-

The Ragetones/Fall Apart-The Ragetones: Saw them play at a shitting basement show. Everything sounds better when you can barely hear yourself think.

F Punk-Big Audio Dynamite: Found it at the thrift and rehomed it outta pity. Sounds like the 80s in a bad way.

[izukusjuicythighs]

bkdk fics i read because was it ever casual

Horikoshi keeps feeding us bkdk crumbs like wtf??at this point they HAVE to be canon bkdk hospital kiss confirmed I was izukus freckle ALSO IM KINDA IN A BLOCK RN whenever I finish a fic my yappin brain always has something to say but rn its real quiet so uh🤡

left me no choice(but to stay here forever)

summary: Izuku learns early on in life that the people he loves will always leave him.

So when Kacchan asks him to be his boyfriend, Izuku kisses him and starts grieving for the inevitable.

words: 6,925

chapters: 3/4(updating)

notes: im quite aware that its a bitchy move to inflict pain on ppl but jm gonna do it anyways lol READ THIS AND WEEP I literally wanted to gorge my heart out and then slap all of my love into izuku idk it evokes complicated feelings??normally hate reading unfinished fics BUT THIS!!gave me a life changing experience within 7000words dammit

be my good luck charm

summary: See, the thing is, Midoriya Izuku had been born with a curse. It’s not a curse that’s particularly visible. He doesn’t have horns, or a tortured face, and it’s not the kind of silly curse like a friend of his had way down south in Diagnor, wherein the girl had been born without the ability to say the word duck. Midoriya Izuku is just extremely unlucky.

(Or the AU in which Izuku's the world's unluckiest traveling merchant, and Katsuki is someone who may be able to help him. For a price, that is.)

words: 6785

chapters: 1/1

notes: cute lil oneshot for yall cuz mha fans r in dire need of fluff rn yknow why🤭 how to date a hottie101 by bkg: set ur crush on fire to show ur undying love(WRITE IT DOWN WRITE IT DOWN)

Barberries and Variegated Knotweeds

summary: The Fight Another Day Agreement is a required legal document for all professional heroes. In the event of a life-threatening injury and the hero and their proxies are unable to respond on their behalf, medical professionals may do whatever it takes to keep the hero alive.

For Izuku, whatever it takes means removing flowers from his lungs, forcing him to forget about the love of his life. The aftermath leaves Izuku bewildered at the sight of a man with spiky blond hair and red eyes the color of Japanese barberries.

words: 19,286

chapters: 4/4

notes: YET ANOTHER HANAHAKI FIC WITH IZUKU WHUMP I just love seeing my favs go through it🤠I've read so many hanahaki fics ud think I'd be used to it but NOPE THIS SHIT HAD ME ON THE EDGE OF MY SEAT was ready to downgrade 1 dimension to solve this shitstorm myself

If It's You

summary: “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Katsuki said. “You did not just ask me—me—to try and date your loser step-brother.”

He wasn’t even going to say Deku’s name out loud. Wasn’t giving him the time of day, even in a conversation about him. That weird awkward virgin was not worth his precious time, and certainly not what Kirishima was suggesting.

“But Bakugouuu,” Kirishima wailed, hanging off Katsuki’s arm with monster meathead jock strength. “My dad said I can’t date if Deku doesn’t date. Do you understand what that means?”

“Less chance of knocking someone up and creating more of you in the world?”

words: 16,863

chapters: 1/1

notes: 10 things I hate about you but make it bkdk I LOVE THIS SHIT angsty dramatic misunderstanding high school aus are my JAM also somewhat gives off from the sidelines vibes so if ur into that defo read

Down the Red Line

summary: His mom is the first person to know about it. She finds out when Izuku asks ( in a very cute three-year-old way) why can’t he see the red line that connected him to Kacchan in the last picture they've taken. The one where they were about to enter Kindergarten on their first day.

"Red line?"

"Yeah, Mamma. This," Little Izuku says, raising his pinky finger to show her the thing tied to it.

Izuku has been able to see the red strings of fate since birth. It's no surprise that his is connected to Katsuki.

words: 7,804

chapters: 1/1

notes: one of my absolute favs since 2021 MAKES ME SO FUKCIN MAD I have to put my phone down and contemplate life for a few mjns while reading it but it's so good??my red string is tied to thjs fic pls

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Ten (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. 

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: Hope you like this next instalment! It’s a long one, and it’s a flashback, so it feels like a HUGE RISK to shove this in so far into the story. However, this memory of Santiago’s and reader’s is SO vivid in my mind I feel I could basically use it as a patronus charm. Therefore, if you’re at all invested in these two by now, I do feel like the payoff is worth it, and that it will set you up PERFECTLY for the next, concluding chapter! (Also: ooh, intrigue, as we get to see how they were with each other back in their youth, you know?). Anyway, as always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. ILY :-*

P.s. there’s a timeline goof as a song mentioned in this, although recorded in ‘88, was not released until 2015. But we’re just gonna look past that, okay? 😝 In this world it was released early. 

AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!

Word count: 16.6k for this part. (SORRY!)

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

Many years earlier

Santiago is tired. Ready to crawl into the cocoon of his bed and draw the covers over his head, refusing to surface again until he’s dragged feet first outta there. Unfortunately for him though, sleep is not on the cards. 

Instead, he has a vitally important mission to attend to. And, in the face of a mission, this particular soldier never settles for anything less than completion. That doctrine is especially true - he has proven time and again - when it comes to taking care of you. 

Tonight, Santiago is tasked with making your birthday a memorable one; or, as memorable as he can muster with the $40 he currently has to his name. 

“Civilian aircraft, man. Where’s a goddamn helo when you need one?” you fruitlessly complain as he nods along in sympathy.

Evidently, sleep is the last thing on your mind. You’d been looking forward to cutting loose for weeks, with this night touted as “the birthday to end all birthdays”. Serendipitously, this was the first time your birthday had coincided with a period of leave since you signed up to serve and, thwarting all that, your connecting flight was grounded unexpectedly.

Santiago feels crushed - on your behalf - that the plans have gone so pear-shaped. 

“One o’ these days, getting shot for the Motherland will gain me some fucking privileges, huh?”

Santiago flinches at that particular addition. He doesn’t like to think about that day. That day’d had him waking up in frequent cold sweats going on a year now. He’d put himself on the line countless times - no problem- but almost losing you had been decidedly different. Had been the single most terrifying moment of his career (and his life) to date, all told. Which sure was saying something considering the hairy situations he routinely found himself in. 

Graciously, your present circumstances are considerably less dire. You’ve still been griping, of course. And, your complaints have not succeeded in changing a damn thing. It is now abundantly clear - if it wasn’t already - that the two of you are stranded for the night. So, here you are, holed up in a dingy and characterless airport motel in Philadelphia. 

It beats enemy fire, for sure… but even so, Santiago is acutely aware of how much you’ve been looking forward to this. To the rare chance to catch-up with your far flung squad mates, scattered every which way across the globe since graduating basic. He knows too, that the anticipation of this reunion had acted as your glue - had held you together - through what had been a particularly brutal deployment. 

“I haven’t seen Miller in months, man. I need to give that bastard some grief soon or I’m going to lose my damn mind.” 

“We can call that pendejo tomorrow,” Santiago soothes, popping a stick of gum and beginning to chew obnoxiously. “Hey. We can even pool our insults, huh? Really get him going.” 

You raise your palms, pressing the heels of your hands into your eye sockets. “Shit. I just miss the fucker, Santiago.” For the first time tonight he hears your voice break, your stoicism cracking apart and revealing your soft middle. 

“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

Santiago knows how crushed you are. And so, for whatever it’s worth, the man resolves to show you the best night he possibly can, all circumstances considered. 

“Come on,” he encourages, kneeling before you as your lower lip quivers. He plants a hand on your thigh and jostles your leg gently. Meanwhile, you sit slumped on the long edge of the lumpy motel bed, beginning to feel rather more sorry for yourself. “You and me, baby. I’ll make this night special, I swear. Just give me a chance, huh?” 

“How?” you sound, throwing your palms up and gesturing to your dismal surroundings. “This place is barely even a step-up from the barracks.” You eye a particularly suspect stain on the carpet with disdain. “Actually, I think it might even be a step down.”

Santiago’s face crumples obediently in a measured display of sympathy, but honestly, his first instinct is to chuckle. You look so forlorn in this moment, Santiago has to consciously suppress his smile. You are the most stubborn, ferocious, determined person he’s ever met. You are fucking tough. Hell, he’s seen Staff Sergeants buckle in a crisis before you’ve even come close to breaking - and yet here you are. Almost in tears because you can’t make your birthday party. It’s all a little incongruous to him that out of everything, this would be the thing to take you down. 

At the same time though, of course. He understands it perfectly. 

Santiago has understood for a long time now that you possess a (well-concealed) softer side. Knows it better than most others do, in fact. As you’ve gradually allowed him to sneak past your militia-guarded perimeter -only a soldier of his calibre capable of making it, he’d wager - he’s begun to catch more and more frequent glimpses of the achingly soft heart you guard within. If your tough exterior had initially magnetised him to you, it was your soft heart which ensured he’d stuck around.

Solemnly then, he pats your thigh in a consolatory gesture. Of course, Santiago gets it. He knows it isn’t the presents or the attention or fuss which you’ll miss tonight - though they would have gone over well too, he’s sure. He knows that it is your brothers (in arms, if not blood) that you are feeling the loss of. The squad mates you love dearly, and to whom you are loyal with a tenacity Santiago has rarely witnessed. A loyalty he too feels blessed -strictly in the lapsed Catholic sense - to be on the receiving end of. 

Valiantly fighting back glassy tears, you pop your lower lip in a display of petulance as he rubs reassuring circles into your knee. “Philly sucks ass.” 

This time, he can’t quite quash his smile all the way. 

“Philly sucks ass, huh?” he repeats, buying himself time to think. 

Santiago isn’t sure whether you know that for a fact. He isn’t even sure you’ve ever been to Philly before to assess how much ass it does or does not suck. But, he does know that, irregardless of facts, you seem altogether determined to wallow in your self-pity. 

Santiago has noticed this about you. How you always developed an inalienable picture in your head of how you hope things will end up. It’s inspirational at times - your ability to visualise victory, for example, even in the most dire of circumstances, has held missions together. Has held him together. At other times though, it only set you up for disappointment. How could it not, when, through no fault of your own, you cannot reliably manifest the various futures you set your heart on. 

It’s not as though you ever ask for a lot; but sometimes, in your profession, even asking for a little is asking far too much. 

Still, it is brave, Santiago thinks, to hope for things. For his part, he has learned the hard way not to hope for anything much. 

Your shoulders sag in time with his as he exhales a breath and, though your display is dejected, Santiago gathers a soft smile. You are stubborn, that’s for sure, but in him you’ve met your match - or so he likes to think. Santiago is perhaps the only person who could reasonably claim the title of being twice as stubborn as you are, and (while he realises deep down he probably shouldn’t wear that as a badge of honour) he has often pushed his theory to its limit. And so, stubbornly, refusing to give up, Santiago rises to standing. He fishes around in his jeans pocket, yanks out a fistful of dimes and small bills, and brandishes them victoriously. 

He waves them enticingly in front of your face then, but you forlornly swat them -and him- away. However, he knows from the dull, reluctant spark in your eyes when he makes his pitch that he is finally on to something. “I saw some peanut butter cups in the hallway vending machine,” he sing-songs, with a hopeful raise of his eyebrows. He knows fine well they’re your favourite, and he can’t believe he’d forgotten his secret weapon: chocolate. “We can clean them out, take a cab, find some shitty ass dive bar, and have ourselves a sweet ol’ time. Whaddya say?” 

Nothing else had worked, and so Santiago is eminently thankful when a smile finally twitches your mouth. Honestly, he’d been about one attempt away from offering to eat you out all night - and he hadn’t been sure whether that would’ve made you happy, or would’ve resulted in you verbally lambasting him.

On balance, he figured it was probably best that he didn’t risk either kind of tongue-wagging. 

“Fine,” you concede whilst swallowing a mischievous grin, not at all eager to let on that Santiago has finally cracked you. “But don’t you be expecting to muscle in on my Reese’s, understood?” 

Santiago chuckles warmly, slipping into Spanish. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Birthday Princess.”

You snort at your newly bestowed title, playfully adjusting an invisible crown on your head, and you extend your palm towards his to shake on it. The gesture, as Santiago’s palm over-enthusiastically clasps yours, causes dimes and bills to scatter chaotically to the floor. A shit-eating grin etches itself across his face and meanwhile, your boisterous laugh rings out through the tight space. “Shit, Pope. Don’t drop it on this grim-ass fucking carpet.”

“It’s been worse places, trust me.”

“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?” 

“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”

“And you don’t know where the hell he’s been?”

“The opposite. I shared a bunk with that hijo de puta, I know exactly where he’s been.”

With easy laughter eddying between you now, you both crouch, carefully gathering up the spoils of the latest Pope/Catfish wager to change hands. 

“I really need to meet that guy.” 

“Sweetie, you’ve met him.” 

Your hand brushes Santiago’s as you transfer him a mess of coins, sending a trail of goosebumps shivering up his arm. It always surprises him how soft you feel to the touch, accustomed as he has become to his own calloused hands - and to those of even rougher men than him. 

“Garcia. I swear to you I’ve never clapped eyes on the bastard.”

“You just don’t remember him.” 

“Shit. Well maybe he’s not very fucking memorable. Jog my memory. What did we talk about?” 

His shit-eating grin is back. “I dunno. But I bet you talked for the both of you.”

“Hey!” you protest, batting Santiago lightly -more or less- in the upper arm. 

“I just mean he’s quiet. Takes a while to warm up, that’s all. But he’s a good guy. You’ll like him, I promise.” 

“Okay.” You shove the remaining dime into Santiago’s palm.

“Okay?” 

“He’s clearly special to you, so he’s special to me too. Introduce me to him. Again.” 

Santiago smiles at you, gentle crinkles forming around his eyes. He’s already told Frankie so much about you, and he really thinks the two of you will get on. “Deal.” You both stand, and Santiago once again extends his cash-filled hand towards you. 

With a cheeky grin you chide him, not eager for a repeat calamity, but your tone is fond. “Don’t you dare shake on it, idiota.” 

Your smile digresses to your eyes. You extend your palm to pat him on his stubbled cheek - in a gesture weighing heavily with affection. Your lips animate, and Santiago wonders whether something sentimental might actually come to the fore. 

You whisper, low. “You have thirty seconds to get me my peanut butter cups.” 

He chortles and, for the first time (perhaps since imagining his head between your legs), Santiago is eminently excited to see where the night will lead him. 

Safe to say, he might be dog-tired… but he finally feels like staying awake. 

***

Despite your very vocal distaste for the music, and the clientele, and…well, just about everything in the first dive bar you and Santiago stumble across, the combination of cheap beers and even cheaper shots has succeeded in getting you efficiently merry. And, despite your earlier reticence, you now seem plenty eager to continue the party. 

Considering he could only afford cab fare from the motel to a dead neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city, it wasn’t going too badly, he thought. Though, Santiago had hastily steered you outta the first joint when a group of creeps had started leching on you. He knows you can handle yourself and he wouldda been happy to back you; but tonight especially, conflict is the last thing he wants for you. He figures you’ve had more than enough of that to last a lifetime. That you finally deserve a little peace. So, instead, he links your arm in his to keep your tipsy ass steady as he steers you down the main drag, desperately searching his mind - and scanning the unfamiliar streets - for what to do next. 

His mission, as it stands, is to satiate your threefold desire - for drinks, dancing, and good music. Tricky, given that he is already down to $10 dollars, give or take - and he’ll need that for the cab ride back to the crummy motel. 

Truth is, as he ambles with you for a few blocks, he is running out of ideas for how to show you a good time. What’s more, ever since he first entertained the idea, in his desperation, all his dumb ass can come up with is to offer to eat you out until morning. It’s pretty much becoming an intrusive thought at this point and, as the sordid image of you spread out for him further invades his mind, he quickly tries to blink it away. 

He doesn’t want to be that guy. You receive more than enough unwarranted attention as it is. And besides, Santiago would never want you to misinterpret that the reason he hangs around is to -eventually- get in your pants. 

You are so much more than that to him. Sometimes, he even has to keep his distance, so that in moments of weakness he doesn’t forget it. 

You’d held him at arms length for a while there too. 

Soldiers; not friends. 

He hadn’t won you over, he knew, because of his sparkling wit and charm. You’d been drawn to him because he was competent. Surprisingly level-headed for someone so baby-faced. You’d wanted people you could work with. People you could trust to get the job done; because you had to trust them with your life. 

The two of you have some undeniable chemistry, that’s for sure. At least, on his end, he’d felt something fierce and magnetic right out of the gate. Even so, from the outset, and even as your friendship had deepened, the two of you had seemed to quickly forge a tacit agreement. 

Friends; not lovers. 

You had made the assessment quickly, jointly, unconsciously. After all, under the rather intense circumstances in which you’d met? You’d each needed a friend - a genuine friend - far more than you’d needed a lay. For you especially, as he understood it, the former had been far more difficult to secure than the latter, especially as a woman in a highly-charged cesspit of toxic masculinity. And for him? Well, as talented as Santiago is at gaining connections, he doesn’t find all too many people he is willing to go deep with. To trust - and he trusts you with his life. 

When he’d found you then, he’d grabbed firmly on to you, and had resolved that nothing would get in the way of the friendship you’d forged. Not even - or perhaps especially not - his own… urges. 

Still. It’s not like he’s never thought about it. Not like you’ve never gotten him a tad… flustered. Indeed, as the rhythm of your steps marching in time beside him lulls him into calmness, feeling safe, his mind wanders in precisely that direction. 

So what though? He’s only human, right? Prone to fantasising; like he is now, he supposes, as he thinks vaguely about licking and kissing down your enticing, bare expanse of stomach. About popping the button on those low slung jeans. Shimmying them down over your hips just enough to sink his mouth over the mound of you and suck. 

Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something. 

He swallows then, feeling guilty for being such a horndog, and he turns to you. You seem to be perfectly content. To be enjoying the hit of fresh air, the apples of your cheeks sheened, with a subtle glow, from the exertion of your dance moves back in the dive bar. And honestly? Looking at you? As guilty as he feels for thinking about you like that, Santiago can’t muster a single better idea of what to do with you. 

He pushes it down, of course. Chalks it up to being just a tad pent-up following a seemingly endless deployment. That’s all it is, right? His dick is just looking for a little relief, and you are the closest, attractive body capable of providing him a warm welcome? 

Sure, he rationalises. That’s all it is. He can find a girl one night soon and take her home, like he’s done plenty of times before to work out his urges. Except for the fact that seeing you out of those (helpfully) modest fatigues is reminding him you are exactly his type. 

“You’ve gone quiet, Pope,” you frown as he -no doubt- looks at you dopily. “What are you plotting?” 

With your question, Santiago tears himself violently from his thoughts as you interrupt their increasingly feral trajectory. Still, in scrambling for a deflection, all he is able to land on is something else deep and wet. “The Mariana Trench,” he fumbles. 

Hell. Maybe he isn’t quite as smart as he gives himself credit for. Or, maybe all the blood is simply rushing to his crotch instead of his brain - for some reason. 

Even so. He urges himself to get his mind out of the gutter and to focus up. You deserve so much more than bearing the brunt of his accumulated sexual frustrations. So. Much. More. 

You laugh at his response though, oblivious as you are to his inner monologue, even linking your arm into his more tightly - as though he isn’t a huge perv. Your bright, infectious, beer-addled laugh bounces off of the surrounding asphalt and concrete. And, whilst it ricochets off of everything else, it sinks into him, mixing just a little more of you into his generic, rapidly dissolving fantasy. It offers a luminous gilding around the edges of his hazy desire, stirring in a vivid and more golden want than he has strength in this moment to acknowledge - never mind name. 

“Okay, weirdo. Sure. You’re thinking about the butt crack of the ocean? Miller been feeding you National Geographic documentaries again? You guys do know pay-per-view exists, right?” 

“Fine. You got me,” he confesses, your paces slowing as you gradually halt by the crosswalk, the two of you realising you have no particular destination in mind. “That was bullshit. I was actually thinking about what the hell I’m gonna do with you next.” 

Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly. 

Santiago looks you up and down where you stand, out of habit more than anything - a result of that now familiar “buddy up” system soldiers make use of to check each other for injuries. Sometimes, with the adrenaline and the shock, you don’t even know you’re bleeding out. This time, thankfully, the only ailment Santiago notices is the goose flesh prickling your skin, and he wishes that he had a jacket to offer you to keep you warm. 

“Oh?” You turn your body in to face him. Sway just a tad, eyes a little bleary, and Santiago instinctually plants his hands around your waist to keep you stable, touching on the smooth, bare skin where your ratty old band tee fails to meet your waistband - by approximately the width of four thick fingers. You shiver even though his touch must be warm. “Okay. Well what are you going to do with me, Santiago?” 

You blink at him then, your eyes wide and - dare he say - hopeful, one eyebrow arcing in idle curiosity. 

You are typically the decisive one. You are always clear on what you want. Tonight, however, it is evident that you are counting on him to lead you somewhere. 

Even though he doubts his ability to take the lead, rather fortuitously, Santiago does (miraculously) manage to stumble upon one single idea outside of the realm of cunnilingus… “Hey, come here,” he coaxes, taking your hands in his. “Close your eyes.” You oblige him, folding your grip around him, firm and sure. His heart swells a little at the instant, implicit trust you exhibit - no hesitation. “Do you hear that?” 

Santiago’s eyes remain open, observing you as your eyes blink clumsily shut. You slide your soft hands up his forearms, bracing yourself with a gentle “woah”, no doubt as the closing of your eyes makes your alcohol-saturated world sway and swirl just a little more intensely. “Listen, cariño,” he scolds good-naturedly, cupping his palms at your elbows. “Do you hear it?”

He can’t help but smile as your face scrunches in adorable contemplation. Then, he can’t help smiling even wider, as you begin to tap his arms and jump excitedly up and down on the spot. You hear it too then. The distant thud of music bouncing off of the tall buildings. 

“Music!” you exclaim excitedly, opening your eyes and grinning at him, still bouncing on the spot like an excited kid. 

The full beam of your unfiltered smile knocks him for six for second. It has been a while, honestly, since he’s seen it glow that bright. Turned all the way up. You’d gone through some shit on this deployment. Blood, horror, pain; rinse and repeat. Some of your spark had understandably dulled, and honestly, he had worried -in part, a little selfishly- that it might never come back to its full strength.

Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong. 

Santiago had quickly come to learn that you possess a singular combination of character traits - and not only the magical ability to piss him off more than anyone else could. No, in fact, he’d learned quickly that you possess a singular kind of zest for life. One which he’d feared was too pure to survive long in the dark. Honestly, he’d believed your optimism and your joy was naive at first. Something to be knocked out of you in boot camp. But he was wrong so far. At every turn you endure. At every turn, you shine. As he feels increasingly bogged down, saturated with inky, oily shadows, you are bright. His guiding light, always calling him home from the edge of the dark, shadow-coiled path he skirts. 

“Do we follow it?” you ask excitedly, the glint of adventure in your bright eyes, and in that moment he could swear he’d follow you anywhere. 

“Yeah. Of course we follow it. It’s our goddamn duty to follow it.” Santiago stomps his boot and waves his arm in a sloppy military salute - the kind that would earn him fifty push-ups back at base. You follow suit, even more sloppy, but entirely resolute in your faux seriousness. 

“Tonight, I swear my oath and pledge my allegiance to music, so help me God.” 

Santiago stomps emphatically again, for effect - an overblown, cheesy action-movie-style salute, his strong jaw set in an overly caricatured display. You beam again, a face-splitting grin, and he…

…realises he is having fun. 

In this moment, you are giddy. You are bright. Full of life, and Santiago briefly wonders if this is how things could be. If it could be like this all the time if only you could get out. If you could leave the military behind. God. You are the last person he wants to lose from his side, but a knot twists in his stomach at the thought you should get out while you still can. Before it drags you down like it is him. Before he drags you down with him, since you’ve seemingly tied your fates to his with red bloodied ribbons, wound between your bones and his. 

He doesn’t have much time to consider those things though. To let the blood seep into the edges like it always does; because you start running. You take Santiago’s hand in yours and run towards the distant thud of noise, leading him behind you and laughing and whooping as you do. Making a grey night in a grey part of town feel vibrant. Making him feel vibrant by association. He realises only then how numb he’s felt lately. How your buoyant smile had been the only thing to feed his own these past months. 

You are so much more than a throwaway fantasy to him. 

You truly are the friend he’s needed so desperately, and feels so, so lucky to have found. 

He runs with you, and he hopes, silently, selfishly, somewhere in the pit of him, that your paths never wind in different directions. 

He’ll follow you anywhere. 

***

After a few, giddy, chaotic minutes of tracing the ricocheting sounds, you find yourselves in the lobby of a seedy hotel, breaths sawing in and out of your lungs and mirthful, intermittent giggles spilling out of you. 

“I’m on the guest list!” you insist with a hiccough, trying your utmost to blag your way into the wedding party contained beyond the double doors; the established source of the music. 

Your assertion is much to the chagrin of the teenaged, stoner-looking kid on the front desk, who is clearly milking his new-found authority for all it’s worth. 

“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?” 

Santiago looks at you expectantly, his arm slung casually around your shoulders, his chest already shaking and nose scrunching with a mildly tipsy, sleep-deprived concoction of mischief. 

“The name’s Trench,” you deadpan, and the poor fellow actually begins to skim his index finger down the alphabetised list. “Mariana Trench.” 

Santiago eyeballs you. Honestly, half of him is awed by your balls, even as the other half is despairing of your chosen (and completely unnecessary) alias. Still, he sees the funny side, of course, and has to swallow a hearty laugh by faux coughing into his fist. 

There are not many factors helping your case here; especially the fact your body is already unconsciously bopping along to the music. Santiago has to physically encourage you back to your spot with his arm around your middle, and, as the rhythm continually beckons you forth, he hastily tucks you into his side in a fruitless attempt to subdue you. 

By the time Santiago’s gaze flicks back to the kid at the desk, he’s folded his arms over his chest like a stern math teacher, clearly enjoying his upper hand. “Dude,” the kid probes sceptically, perhaps sensing that Santiago is the more sensible (or at least more sober) of the two of you. “What are the names of the bride and groom?” 

“Nicole and Dio,” Santiago fires off smugly, causing you to first gasp and - second - to gawk at him like a fish (which is funny, because for all you know he’s made those up too). 

“How did you know that?” you hiss-whisper, thinking you are being oh so subtle, and Santiago elbows you discreetly in the ribs for your trouble. This time though, he is unable to stifle his laughter entirely, a throaty chuckle shaking out of him, and the crinkles around his eyes rehearsing deeper future furrows. 

Meanwhile, whilst the kid at the desk continues to eye him sceptically, he cannot refute Santiago’s knowledge. The soldier silently praises his undeniable powers of observation - and the fact the kid seems to have entirely forgotten about the huge fuck-off sign standing in the entrance lobby. 

“Yeah. Still no.” This kid is a tough nut. 

“Shit,” you plead. “Well can I at least use the restroom?” 

“I guess that’s fine,” the kid concedes with an eye roll, gesturing towards the left hand side of the lobby. 

You saunter off, beelining towards the door with such ferocity that you whack your hip off of the doorframe on the way in there. 

Santiago winces in time with your “ouch!”, but as you throw your arms in the air, triumphantly insisting you are fine, he turns his attention back to his mission; to get you whatever you want for your birthday. 

Sporting the friendliest smile he can muster in the full knowledge this kid behind the desk hates him already, Santiago mosies up to the counter. 

“Come on, buddy. Hook us up,” he reasons. “It’s a Tuesday night and everywhere else is closed by now.” 

“Dude, your attempts to get laid are not my issue.” 

“No. No, it’s… She’s my friend. It’s her birthday and-”

“-Then take her to a fucking Chilli’s, bro. Still not my problem.” 

Santiago huffs, still trying to keep his face neutral. Non-threatening. He needs to step things up before you return from the restroom. 

“Listen, buddy.” The kid scowls at him then as if to confirm - I’m emphatically not your buddy. “Do you know what it’s like to be shot in service of your country?” 

“What?!”

He nods behind him, in your general direction, his eyebrows pumping up towards his hairline (and reaching for a hasty explanation before the kid presses the under-desk alarm button). “Because she does.” Santiago rests his folded arms up on the counter. Leaning-in. Going all out with the eye contact. “When I tell you she’s had a shitty time of it? Lying on the ground, bleeding out. So, look, man. I just want to give her a good time tonight, alright? Would you please help me out, man? She’s fucking earned this.”

A gulp trails down the kid’s neck, and he tucks his long, straight blonde hair behind his ears. “You’re intense, bro. Anyone ever told you that?” 

Santiago opens his mouth again, wishing to further embellish his case; but before he can do so the kid caves, waving his palms in total surrender. “Fuck, man. Do what you want, but for the love of God, would you just stop talking to me?”

“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”

“Yep. Whatever. Don’t get paid enough for this shit, bro.”

Santiago hears the door swing behind him, and joins you just in time to lead you further into the building, pleased that he is able to report victory. He’s almost forgotten about the front desk already - until the kid calls after him, growing bolder the further you two retreat, apparently. “This is why I’m a pacifist, dude! You might wanna think about it.” 

“Sure thing,” he calls back over his shoulder. “I’ll give it some consideration.”

Then, Santiago gently ushers you into the corridor leading towards the party, taking a moment to celebrate his “smooth-talking”. Before he can even think about bragging though, you throw your arms up in the air in a tada gesture and exclaim “you are welcome!”. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you you’d had no part in getting past the gate, and so instead, he opts to finally vent his quashed laughter. The fact you’d name-dropped Mariana Trench, specifically, supplies a giggle hearty enough that it makes his abs ache.

“Oh. By the way. How do I look?” you question, when the two of you are just shy of making an entrance to the main hall. 

Santiago turns to you and looks you up and down. Notices the fresh application of smeared red over your plush mouth. Surveys your jeans and tee with approval, as though you are outfitted in a gown. “Good, chica.” 

“Good!” You step forward then, towards him, and lay your palms flat on his upper chest. “Now. You know what I wanna do?” For a split second, with your proximity, and the husky thrall of your voice, Santiago finds himself imagining what you might want to do to him - if he should be so lucky. “I wanna dance. Will you dance with meeee, Santiaaaaggooo?” 

Santiago feels a lump lodge itself in his throat. Tries hard to forget that… well… red lipstick and dancing? They are - more often than not -  your highly decipherable code for being horny. Shit - he wonders if you are as pent up as he is. 

“You got it!” he musters, getting himself quickly in check. Christ, he needs to prioritise getting laid  - just as soon as he is no longer wholly dedicated to your birthday. 

“Yay!” 

You lead him by the hand and, once again, Santiago does not complain. Then, swinging open one of two double doors, plastered with unsightly fire regulations, you enter the fray. 

The doors open on a busy room, bathed in beams of chaotic coloured light. In reality, the interior is drab. A sad, grey, carpeted room. A few busted ceiling tiles up top. The circular event tables are flanked by a sorry stage at one side - fronted by a sticky, modest square of dance floor - and a small bar at the other. Finally, the far wall is edged with a rather depleted buffet, and intermittent bowls of greying macaroni. Whilst the room itself is nothing to write home about, however, the jubilation inside makes it feel positively wonderful. 

Santiago feels only for a split second like he is intruding. Within moments, he is all wrapped-up in the buzz. Enveloped by it. The band’s amps are turned up far too loud. The dance floor is awash with couples gyrating on each other and groups of singles circling each other, looking for an in. Throngs of friends and family are grouped throughout the room, laughing and chatting, taking photos on disposable cameras and clinking glasses, and when the two of you enter, matching smiles plastered on your faces, no-one even bats an eye. 

“We’re really doing this?” Santiago raises his voice above the tremor of the music. “Crashing a fucking wedding?”

“Relax! It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever done, Garcia. It’s not even against the Geneva Convention.” 

“Jesus! I’m not a fucking war criminal!”

“Relax, Santiago,” you encourage, tone soothing and your hands massaging into his shoulders; and, finally, he lets himself. For once, he lets his guard down. So, as you travel deeper into the room, Santiago begins to move a little less like a soldier on patrol, and allows his gait to loosen up. Allows himself to approach the room not as a soldier on high alert, but simply as some guy with his buddy, looking for a good time. “Attaboy,” you encourage, seeing him visibly unclench - a rare thing. “We’re good, alright? Hey. I’ll even leave a pack of Reese’s on the table. That way, we even brought a gift.” 

“And you’ll keep a low profile, right?” 

“Of course!” You flash him a faux innocent grin, which he sees right through. 

Yeah, figures, he thinks. Honestly, he isn’t sure you are capable of blending in - stealth ops aside, of course. But here? Without your camo and a distinct lack of a gilly suit? Baby, look at you, you’re gonna be noticed. 

“Alright. We dance. Just keep it low key or-“

“-Sure, sure,” you dismiss, waving your hand through the air as though to erase his plea. “But first, tequilaaaa!” 

Evidently, you are ignoring him completely, and yet the beaming smile on your face is so utterly worth it that Santiago could care less. “Eh. Whatever you say, Princesa.” 

You wink at him. “Now you’re getting the idea.”

Santiago watches you skip gracelessly over to the bar, making zero attempt to blend into the crowd (unsurprising). You order up two shots, downing one instantly and handing the other to him with a jubilant, mildly devilish grin. At this stage, Santiago is deliberately a few drinks behind you, having wanted to remain sober enough to take care of you. So, he figures he has a little wiggle room remaining before he reaches the point of no return. Egged on by your encouraging nods, he tips it down the hatch. 

“Cheers!” you exclaim, clumsily clinking your little plastic shot glass against his. The remains of the amber liquid still glisten on your mouth, lending an appealing shine to your red lips. As you mop the drips away with the back of your hand, you slightly smear the shade towards your cheek. 

Before Santiago can rectify the situation for you though, you’ve once again taken his hand and trailed him behind you, clumsily weaving through the crowd as he interjects “sorry!” each time you bash - either your body or his - into someone else’s. Before long though, the two of you are safely tucked right in the midst of it all, adding to the messy, merry throng on the compact dance floor. The amateurish but jubilantly played rock covers from the band began to vibrate all the way through his chest as you position right next to the speakers. 

As the vibrations tickle through him, bass inflating like a balloon in his rib cage, drowning out his thoughts and his heartbeat, you dance. With his thoughts silenced - or, rather, out-volumed- he slips into his body as if it is his own again. As if it belongs to him, and not just to some notion of God and country. 

You, for your part, dance as if compelled to. As though, after living for so long with your body following orders, exercising control, being disciplined, staying in line, you can finally let it be free. Can finally let it express itself.  

You move well, Santiago notes as he allows his own body to limber, freeing up his arms and his hips and feeling the buzz of the music and the alcohol thrum pleasantly through his body. It all feels somewhat alien to him now, his body stiff and lacking muscle memory for such imprecise, unplanned movements. You though? You move with abandon. With joy, like you never forgot how to feel it, belting the lyrics right from your chest. Jumping and waving your arms when the guitar solo drops. 

It makes him deeply happy to see you like this. What’s more, amidst the dance floor of preened, deliberate women encircling your space, their movements seemingly contrived to be appealing, alluring, sexual, your reckless expression is far sexier to him. You feel freed, wild - and it almost feels dangerous to him. This clear absence of regiments and rules and barriers feels dangerous, even the barriers between your body and his disintegrating as you dance closer, the beat shaking you together like sand on a drum skin. 

Indeed, your bodies are pushed ever closer and closer as the surprisingly heaving crowd compresses you tighter and tighter in the minimal, sticky-floored maneuver room. And so, after you’ve suffered one too many bumps and restrictions from stray shoulders and elbows, you finally give in to it, looping your arms around his neck and choosing to dance with him. 

Instinctually, automatically, Santiago’s hands fall to your hips, gripping you there as your body sways and rolls in time to the music, the raw, dirty hard rock vocals moving through you and bedding down into your body. 

At first, when your body presses up against his and the hot breath of your laughter fans over his neck, Santiago thinks about adjusting. About sliding his hands back up to your waist, where -perhaps- the gesture may seem less intimate. May allow for a little more room and a little less contact. 

It isn’t as though the two of you are strangers to touching. You are both tactile people, and besides, you’re often in close quarters. You’ve slammed each other to the mat plenty of times. He’s had your sweaty, writhing body all over his. Your grunts of submission sounding in his ear. Huffs of exertion fanning against his neck. Thighs locked with his. His hips pinning you. But this? This is a little different. It isn’t precise, technical touch. It isn’t objective-driven. There are no clear rules, besides friends not lovers, and even that distinction is starting to feel a little blurry. 

No, this kinda touch is something else. It is raw. It is instinctual; and that scares him, in truth. 

However, it doesn’t scare him nearly enough to want to stop.

He does not move his hands from your rolling, swaying hips. Can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gives in to it. To the music. To the feeling. To you. And, when does, he finds himself surprised by how fluidly your bodies move together. Symbiotically. Like a team. Like you do in battle, sure. In the field. Like it is the most natural thing in the world; but this time, your combining is not at all driven by survival. It is driven by living, and Santiago could swear, in this moment, that he has never felt quite so alive. 

The room is getting hot. The undulating crowd of bodies surrounding you is only adding to it. Exertion is glowing on your skin. He can feel it up against him, your sweat bleeding through your damp t-shirt where your breasts press into him. Can feel it beneath his fingers, tacky and slick, as he wraps his hands around that bare flash of skin at your midriff. God, you are smooth, and soft, and slick, and he is momentarily transfixed by a bead of sweat sinking down the centre of your chest, disappearing beneath the “v” of your shirt. 

Someone else’s body briefly presses up against his in the crush and he cringes away from the feel of their slick skin… but you? Yours? You feel good to him. He doesn’t mind it. 

That scares him too; but still, not enough to stop. 

With a joyous, unfettered laugh you claim back some space, spinning Santiago underneath your arm, your dance moves growing increasingly outlandish. Of course, Santiago follows your lead. Always does. And, before long, the two of you can barely dance from laughing and can barely laugh from your insistence to keep dancing. 

It feels good. Good to push your respective bodies to their limit on your own terms for once. To be with each other, side by side, in a scenario which could not be further from life or death; but that feels a thousand times more vital and central to being alive. 

Seeing your smile strobe as the blue party lights slip and flash over the planes of your face, the beats and riffs pulsing through his body, Santiago feels giddy and he feels bright. With laughter bobbing in his throat and aching in his sides, he feels goddamn luminescent, and so he can’t help but wonder. Can’t help but wonder if this is how he would feel all the time. If he got out. If the two of you could just be people, instead of soldiers.

Santiago holds on to it. He holds on to you. To the feeling of freedom. Of pure, unfettered joy. Of this strange peace amidst the blurry, heavy noise. 

He holds on to it while he can. He smiles with you until his face hurts. Laughs with you until his breath wanes. Dances with you longer than he should, song after song. Dances until he is sweating through his t-shirt, a dark “v” of sweat trailing down his chest. Dances, long after that now familiar heat in his newly ailing knees has crossed into discomfort. Dances closer and closer to the speaker until the music is indistinguishable from him, beating through his chest and down into his bones, and still; the two of you move your bodies. The two of you cling to each other like your life depends on it - and perhaps, precisely because of all the times it has. 

When you lean forward, cupping his ear, your lips almost pressed right to his skin to be heard over the din, a warm snake travels down his spine. “See! We still haven’t been found out!” You draw back to flash him a mischievous grin, your eyes glinting with a spark far more warming than the heat which already slickens his skin. 

You are most definitely up to something. You dip forward again as he strains to hear you. “Wanna be a little bolder?” There is a dark and delicious lilt in your voice. A tempting thing, enticing him into trouble - as per usual. 

He does though. Wants to be a little bolder. 

He wants to kiss you, in fact. To test the limits of just how well your bodies can move together. But…  just like all the other times tonight he lets that desire atrophy. Pushes it outside of his body. You are so much more to him than the tingle in his dick. Offer him so much more than whatever parts of you he could seek out with his hands and his mouth, skin finding skin, finding deep, dark wetness. 

If you wanted it, hey, it’s not like he would say no. He isn’t that strong; but he’d decided long ago that when it came to crossing that line, he would simply follow your lead. 

“What did you have in mind?” Santiago asks, dipping his own lips towards your ear. 

Your response is not quite what he expects. You simply throw both arms up into the air, your eyebrows jumping up with them. “Karaokeeee!”

It is a pleasant surprise, to be honest. He loves to see you like this. To see you have fun. Chasing your whims. Getting to be damn silly. For so long, everything has been so grim and so serious.

However, even if your suggestion - at first - inspires a broad, nose-crinkling smile, Santiago looks up at the freestanding mic in horror next - when he realises exactly what you are about to do. “Shit. Sweetie. It’s not-” 

-It is already too late. You are already clambering up on stage and taking your position by the vacant mic spot. “…It’s not karaoke,” Santi mumbles under his breath, mentally readjusting his level on how wasted you are. 

“Come with me, Pope!” you shout down to him, making grabby hands towards him. Next, you commandeer the mic pole as the frontman - who had simply stepped out for brief swig of water - looks on in confusion. 

Santiago sighs and slides his palm over his face, for he knows, fine well, exactly what is about to go down. That, after all the times you’ve saved his skin, tended his wounds, and -damn- even been shot to keep him safe, he for sure isn’t about to let you make a fool of yourself. At least, not alone. 

Cringing already from the forceful embarrassment of commandeering an entire stage at a wedding he’s just crashed, Santiago sets his jaw in resignation and hops semi-gracefully up there, rising to stand right next to you. 

“What happens in Philadelphia…” he mumbles, before bracing himself and accepting his fate. 

He raises his arm as a shield against the intense spotlight, and can suddenly see that the whole party is looking by now, heads whipping around following your triumphant “woop” into the microphone. 

He makes a mental note to explain to you what the words “low profile” mean later, as clearly, you’ve completely failed to grasp that concept. 

Santiago gulps as he looks out across the confused sea of faces, his mouth suddenly bone dry as he prays that no-one will actually yell “who the fuck are you?” Then, not for the first time this evening, he desperately attempts to conjure up a plan of action. Once again, he is pretty sure that cunnilingus won’t quite cut it here either. 

His goal right now is two-fold. To enable you to sing on stage, like you want to, and to avoid being forcibly removed from the venue. It is unfortunate that the former goal seems to void the latter, but hey. He’s been in stickier situations. And, with luck, Santiago remembers one useful thing. The fact that -according to damn near everyone- he’s a charming little fucker. Now, he supposes, is as good a time as any to put that theory to the test. 

“Nicole and Dio.” He gestures to the bride, and motions to gesture towards the groom too. That is, before realising he has no idea who “Dio” is in the crowd, so instead, he lets his arm flop uselessly back to his side. Next, he takes what he feels is a well-earned moment to let the feedback from the microphone die, wincing slightly at the noise, and becoming acutely aware of the sizzle of nervous sweat burning off of his forehead. “I think it’s safe to say,” he ventures with a little more confidence, straining to remember his cousin’s wedding and every platitude he might repeat, “that a love like yours comes around once in a lifetime. I know I speak for both of us when we say we’d like to wish you a lifetime of happiness together to enjoy it.” You helpfully lean forward in that moment and give another celebratory woop. “Thanks for that, sweetie,” he deadpans, wiping his brow just as urgently as he scans the room, searching for something -anything- he can pull from to meet his twinned objectives. 

Suddenly though, against all odds, he actually spots his way out. Emphatically, triumphantly, he points towards the Irish flag proudly adorning the far wall, and dearly hopes he is on to something. “A million tiny things had to align for you two to come together. You could even say it was fate. So, in tribute to the miles travelled by your ancestors, here it is. This one is for the Irish-Americans in the house!” Firstly, he is relieved, to say the least, when that statement earns a hearty cheer from the crowd. “Let’s hear it for Metallica; Whiskey in the jar.” Secondly, he is relieved when that statement earns further cheers, particularly from you. 

Next, Santiago looks confidently to the band, deciding he will simply stare at them pointedly until the drums kick in. “For Nicole and Dio!” he adds with a flourish after an uncomfortably long moment of inaction; and, as the crowd gets behind Santiago, who on earth are they to deny him? 

“Everybody on the dance floor!” you add, with an enthusiasm so overblown it can’t fail to be infectious.

Still, when Santiago finally thinks he has it nailed, you turn to him with a sudden and pronounced wash of horror on your face. “Garcia. Shit. It’s not karaoke!” 

“Princesa,” he soothes as the band kicks in, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist to avert your knees buckling in fright. “If it’s not karaoke, why the shit do I have a mic and a backing track, huh?” You still look unsure. “Come on, sing it with me. You’re hot as hell up here, don’t go shy on me.” 

Santiago turns, forgetting the crowd entirely as his mission revolves wholly around you. 

He begins to sing to you, gaze soft and encouraging until you relax back into it, your broad, electric smile returning. He tugs you closer into him, snug and safe until you grow bold enough to sing along with him into your one shared mic, gradually letting go and -bolstered by him- giving it increasing amounts of gusto. 

The pool of guests at your feet are going surprisingly wild for it too, almost every one in the room having now descended on to the dance floor.

“Here,” he encourages, as soon as he feels you’re ready, handing the mic off to you for the remaining verses of the song. “You got this, sweetie.” 

He lets you have your moment in the spotlight, cheering you on from the sidelines as you sing and air-guitar your way through the final chorus. You aren’t necessarily singing at your best after belting out lyrics at top volume, but what you lack in vocal ability you sure make up for in spirit. You have bags of that, and you perform it with plenty of showmanship, throwing yourself all over the stage and making Santiago’s face split with joy as he whoops along with you, fist-pumping enthusiastically. 

You even end the song by taking a knee and exclaiming “Nicole and Dio!”, raising your mic arm triumphantly in the air like the rock star you are - which is a huge relief to Santiago, as it had looked for a moment like you were about to stage dive into the completely unsuspecting crowd. 

You wrap it up to what Santiago will later describe as rapturous applause. You milk it for all it's worth, before relinquishing the mic to the actual band and skipping over to your biggest fan. 

“Was I fucking amazing?” you ask, bundling him into an enclosing hug. 

“Holy shit. Felt like I was watching Kerrang.” 

You punch him playfully in the arm for his shit-eating grin. “Dickhead.”

“What’s next for the Birthday Princess?” Santi asks, hopping off of the stage and guiding you safely down too. 

He’s secretly praying you’ll say “back to the motel”, but it doesn’t surprise him at all when you throw your arms jubilantly into the air and yell: “more dancing!”. 

Santiago brings the pad of his thumb up to the corner of your mouth, finally smoothing away that damn lipstick smear he wishes he’d gotten to before your impromptu stage show. “Go for it, hermosa,” he insists fondly. “I’ll be with you in a sec, yeah? After pulling that shit, I don’t think we have long before we get busted. You gonna be ready to hustle soon?”

You nod, fist-bump him, and skitter off to the dance floor, your seemingly boundless energy carrying you right the way through towards dawn. 

Santiago will give this track a miss, he thinks. His knees need a goddamn time-out; but his eyes still linger on you, shining fondly as you are folded into the crowd. 

***

“Touching speech, lad,” a low-timbre voice sounds to Santiago’s left. “But who in the devil are ya?”

Santiago, who is sat blissfully nursing a glass of ice cold tap water, immediately swivels on his barstool. This puts him face-to-face with an older gentleman, of considerable stature. 

The man’s crinkled, bushy-eyebrowed face is stern; but not unkind, even as his chin juts up in challenge. Santiago rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. There is no point trying to wriggle out of this one, and he’s already sure of it. 

“Okay,” he responds, his voice slow and low and his palms raising defensively in the air. The man might be both older and frailer than Santiago, but he exudes a certain authority which trumps his own youthful confidence. In short, Santiago certainly doesn’t want to piss him off. “You got me. It’s a long story, and we weren’t technically invited… but we don’t mean any trouble, Sir. And, hey, we did bring a gift,” Santiago adds for good measure, not entirely convinced that the mushed up peanut butter cups in your jeans pocket will make any shade of difference now - but hoping. 

The man presses his lips together and hums, as if mulling over the guilty party’s fate. After a moment of contemplation though, the older gentleman unceremoniously releases some of the rigidity from his body, slumping down into Santiago’s neighbouring bar stool with a sense of resolution. A gulp trails down Santiago’s neck all the same. “You a military pair, kid?” the man asks casually, making-out like he’s thoroughly absorbed in rolling his cigarette papers, but his sharp eyes still finding time to needle Santiago incisively. “I know the type.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Hmm. Well.” The man licks along the long edge of cigarette paper with the tip of his tongue. “You came clean, I’ll keep quiet. Besides commandeering the stage(!), you two don’t seem like too much trouble.” 

“Thank you, Sir.”

“I’m Colin, by the way. Nicole’s granddaddy.” The man extends a hand and Santiago shakes it. 

“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.” 

Santiago would’ve allowed some of the tension to seep out of his own rigid body by now; except for the fact he can sense the man is not quite finished with him. He lights the tip of his cigarette with a battered-looking, engraved lighter, smoke swirling around him and becoming one with his white-gray, thinning hair. “Since I’ve been so generous, lad, how’s about you explain to me the circumstances that brought you to crash my granddaughter’s wedding?” 

From the man’s unwavering stare, Santiago knows fine well this is a demand and not a suggestion. He rubs his sweaty palms together, finding himself reluctant to spill but with little apparent choice in the matter. Still, as his gaze flicks back in the direction of you, he feels a softness overcome him. “It’s her birthday. We’re on leave. Had a big trip planned to reunite with some buddies but the airport-“

“-ah. All shut down.” Colin nods in partial understanding, taking a long drag on his smoke. 

“Yes, sir. So I, uh. Well, I had to improvise.” 

Colin’s eyes flutter briefly closed. Then, a small flicker of a smile appears, as he - apparently - achieves a fuller understanding than Santiago’s divulgence should have allowed. An understanding which Santiago isn’t sure he has attained himself, as it stands. Is he missing something? “I see. You wanted to show her a good time.”  

“Yeah. Yessir.” 

To Santiago’s utter surprise, the man’s hand clasps down on top of his closest shoulder, the cigarette still pinned precariously in between his forefingers, and the smoke tangling around Santiago’s curls like future grays attempting to stick. “What are you drinking, lad?”

“Uh. Water,” Santiago replies simply, recalling the glass sweating on the bar top. 

“Not any more.” Colin signals the bartender with a barely perceptible raise of his chin, and manages to convey his order simply by raising two of his fingers in the air.

Santiago watches as a bottle, sporting an affixed yellow post-it note, is grabbed-up from its secret hiding spot under the counter. Must be the good stuff. 

When served, Colin slides one glass over to Santiago with the back of his age-spotted palm. “You don’t have to drink it, o’ course - I’ll just think you’re a rude fecker if you don’t.”

“Thank you, sir.” The two men swivel on their stools to face the bar and Santiago takes a sip, doing his best to hide his reaction to the intensity of it. 

Colin guffaws. “Yeah. That’ll put hairs on yer chest.” 

Santiago splutters, attempting to quickly smooth himself. “Cheers. To Nicole.” He hoists his glass in the air. 

“Aye. Here’s to that.” 

Santiago smiles, clinking his glass with Colin’s and hoping against all odds that you might come and rescue him soon. 

You don’t, but mercifully the chat is suspended for a moment as the man coiffs his cigarette and his drink, and Santiago even suspects he has been forgotten entirely as another guest draws Colin into niceties and conversation. 

Therefore, after a few warming swigs have slipped down his throat, each one followed by a grimace, Santiago turns, realising it has been a minute since he’s had eyes on you. He quickly locates you on the dance floor, boogying with some tall, white guy. A guy who is - with your encouragement - getting rather handsy. Seeing this, all of Santiago’s muscles tighten and he feels the vague urge to leap up off of his bar stool - that is, until Colin interjects.

“Can I give you some advice?” 

Santiago’s initial thought is “no”; but he has a feeling Coilin may offer his unsolicited advice regardless. “Don’t crash weddings?” he jests half-heartedly, the lion’s share of his attention still on you and that guy’s damn hands. 

“Marry her.”

Santiago’s gaze flips immediately towards Colin, his face the picture of abject confusion. “Sorry. Who?” 

Colin chuckles to himself, evidently quite tickled, and nods his head gently in your direction. “Your lady friend.” 

Santiago saws his palm over the five-o-clock shadow adorning his jaw. A weak, throaty chuckle bobs in his throat. He finds it funny. Preposterous. “With respect, Sir. That’s not gonna happen.” It is knee-jerk. Santiago had sworn off marriage long ago. Had long ago given up on the prospect of any form of happy ending. Besides, you and him? He doesn’t think so. 

“Oh. Boyo,” Colin begins, his tone juuuust condescending enough to make Santiago stiffen. “You find someone who makes you as happy as that, you marry her. Trust me, lad.”

Santiago purses his lips. Tightens them into a thin line. “We’re not… together.” Not that it’s any of this guy’s business what you are to him; but he’s just not getting it. 

“You love her,” Colin says softly. Almost gently, as though he’s breaking bad news. 

”What?” Santiago shakes his head incredulously, blinking several times in succession. 

“I can barely see past my own arm these days, lad, but I can see that much.” 

There is that hand, clasping his shoulder again. This time it feels different. “You love her.” 

The first time Colin had spoken these words, Santiago had bristled. Felt provoked. He should feel similarly now too - he knows it - but upon hearing them for a second time, a sudden clarity settles over him. In fact, he’s never felt less confused by a statement in his life. 

He feels his mouth go dry. A sudden ringing in his ears. He could’ve sworn he had hands and feet earlier in the evening, but right now he can’t feel them. 

Of course he loves you, he thinks, reaching for logic. For rationalisations. But it’s not like that. That’s simply what happens when you go through so much together. You bond, intensely. That’s all it is. All it amounts to. 

Colin has this all wrong. 

Santiago looks at you then. Really looks at you, as you grab your dance partner by the shirt and shove your tongue in his mouth, pulling away from the kiss with a wolfish grin. Some kind of feeling he can’t hope to name tightens like a fist in his stomach when you do that. “She’s…” Santiago wants to protest. Wants to say that no, he doesn’t. But those aren’t quite the words which find their way out. Instead, he says quietly, like he’s delivering bad news now: “she’s my best friend.” 

“Ah,” Colin breathes, in a fresh tone of relief. As if satisfied. As if he has now achieved full understanding - even if Santiago has not. The older man stubs out his cig and downs the dregs of his whiskey, cheersing Santiago once more with a clink of his empty glass. “There you go then. Isn’t that the same thing?”

Isn’t that the same thing?

It is a blur from there. A blur as Colin once again outstretches his hand and Santiago obliges by shaking it, his arm feeling limp and useless like a bag of cotton-wool. It is a blur as Colin wishes him well with a jolly “take care, lad,” sauntering away with no concern for the destruction left in his wake. 

It is a blur as you sidle over, as though the volume in the room has been turned down all of a sudden. It becomes gradually louder again as you approach. 

You. 

You. 

You.

“Fuck, you okay, Garcia? You look like you’re about to puke.” 

There’s nothing here. 

Nothing with you. 

Nothing he could have with you. No way. 

“Seriously! You look queasy as hell.” You place your hand across his brow to see if he’s burning up.  

“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly. 

You nod, still looking sceptical but opting to buy what he’s selling. “You just tired? Too much dancing?”

”Heh. Something like that.” It is a struggle to push the words out, but he surprises himself. Gradually sinks himself back into the room. Back into his body. 

Santiago notices the brief spark of an idea fleet over your face as you regard him and, in the next moment, you dip forward to chastely kiss him on the cheek. He feels a deep, blooming heat develop under his skin, his cheeks darkening with a crimson flush, and he resists the urge to clamp his palm over the spot your lips touched. “What was that for?” 

A delicate smile dances on your mouth. “Thank you, butthead. I’m having a good birthday.”

It’s what you don’t say. It’s what your eyes are telling him. Your body language. Your touch. You’re telling him things you’ve been saying for a long time now. Things which, thanks to Colin, beg a whole load of new questions.

You slip your hand down his arm, grasping his hand in yours. For a moment he just stares, looking down at your hands clasped there together. He is vaguely aware of the track switching in the background, to a slower, more heartfelt tune, and, by the time he drags his eyes back-up to yours, he figures he’s got a head start already on what you’re about to ask. 

He makes it so you don’t even have to. “One more dance?” 

He stands, capturing your waist with his wrapped arm, leading you back towards the dance floor. The surprise and relief and glee on your face as he preempts you is almost too bright for him to look at. 

“You even know how to slow dance, Garcia?” you ask as he maneuvers the two of you into prime position, right in the beam of a sweeping purple spotlight, the dancefloor filling exclusively with swaying couples as the tender, swooping song resonates through the room. 

“Haven’t slow danced since prom,” he admits. “But I’ll follow your lead, Princesa.” 

“You a’ways do, asshat.” 

“You know? You’re not wrong. Now, come here.”

He holds his arms out and you step into his sturdy circumference, no hesitation. Trust implicit, your bodies moving in sync. You drape the loop of your arms gently around his shoulders, your twined fingers brushing the nape of his neck, sending a warm shudder through him. His hands hover helplessly for a moment, but he eventually settles them on your hips, drawing your body closer, tightening the space between you as you each sway together, cheek to cheek. 

“I - I can’t believe you did this for me, you know?” Your voice is lower, dropped in your throat. Heavy with solemnity as though you are thanking him for taking a bullet for you or something. “Tonight. The karaoke. Everything.” 

“Well,” he dismisses, against the shell of your ear. It’s not nearly enough.“You got shot for me, so...”

Your light, lilting laugh fans across his check. It isn’t funny at all, wasn’t a joke; except that it’s so tragic it kinda has to come full-circle, he supposes. “Fine,” you offer. “Call it even?” 

Even? 

It could never get close to even. 

Santiago feels a surge of emotion welling in him. Like suddenly there is a mechanism dredging all the settled silt back up to the surface. It rises all the way up - into his chest, into his throat. He pulls back slightly until you are face to face, his expression far more severe than the situation merits; but he can’t help it. It feels barbed, difficult, coming out of his mouth, but it needs to be said. “You have no idea what you’ve done for me, you know?” His eyes are glistening, a telltale softness nestled beneath his thick brows, and his thumbs unconsciously rubbing circles into the meat of your hips. “You’re…. I… I mean. You’re… my best friend.”

You gawp back at him for a moment, visibly caught off-guard by his emotional intensity. Then: “oh no,” you whisper-shout into the space between you, as though if you push too much sound out, the emotions might overspill along with it. “Don’t get all soppy on me, you hear? You’re the only fucker who knows I have emotions, and I damn sure wanna keep it that way.”

His gaze flits all over your face. “Secret’s safe with me, Princesa.” 

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

He smiles at you - a smile that only reaches his eyes. 

You nestle yourself back into the crook of his shoulder, your body pressed right up against his. One hand grasping at his back. The fingers of the other clasping his shorn head, dancing over the prickled hair of his army-issue buzzcut. 

He holds you, and in turn you hold him even tighter. You hold each other tightly until you are no longer even dancing. Until you are simply an island in a sea of undulating couples, holding on to each other for dear life. 

It scares him.

It scares him to his depths that he never wants to let you go; but not enough to stop.  

As he pulls you close to him, buries his face in your neck and embraces you tightly, he thinks about it. He thinks about whether he believes in happy endings. He thinks about whether his, if he could be so lucky, would involve you. 

Those thoughts are interrupted when he feels a wetness bloom on his shoulder. Feels you jerking and sniffing against him, and he experiences your sudden outpouring of pain as acutely as though it is his own. 

“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”

”I’m not sad, idiot.”

”No?”

”No. It’s…” You sniff. “It’s just been so hard lately. And, you know. Tonight has been so… It’s been so…” 

He thinks he knows what you mean. Thinks he understands you completely. “Perfect?” he ventures. 

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.” 

He holds you as you cry. And there’s not a chance in hell he’s letting you go. 

***

Considering your intoxication level, the sudden onset of tiredness, and your tears, Santiago figures it’s about time to head. He manages to get you in a cab back to the motel eventually - only after you’ve visited the ladies restroom, become fast friends with an equally drunken Nicole, bestowed her with peanut butter cups, and promised to meet-up next time you’re in the city. By this point, you are already dropping, and the soporific movements of the cab have you falling asleep draped over Santiago’s lap. 

He pays the driver when you arrive, stirring you with a warm hand smoothing up and down your back. He tries to be calm. Soothes you with his voice; because he knows all too well that for someone in the military, a rude awakening is no small thing. 

He walks you to the room and helps you sit down on the bed. Tugs your boots off for you as you opt to bury your nose deep in your own armpit and sniff. 

“Ew. I need a fucking shower.” 

“Fuck that. You can shower in the morning.” 

“I stink.” 

“Trust me. You’ve smelled much worse.” He smiles softly as his comment earns an indignant snort from you, but the ire in your face is quickly snuffed as he looks up to you a little too softly. “Let’s get you dressed for bed, alright, birthday girl?” 

“Mmm hmm. Okay then.” 

He swallows a smile at seeing you in this sleepy state. It’s not often that you allow anyone else to take care of you. In fact, Santiago feels a strange surge of honour - a glow within his chest -  that tonight, he is the one who has the privilege. 

You unabashedly begin to strip off your jeans and top next, and Santiago quickly scoops up an oversized t-shirt from the gaping mouth of your hold-all. “Here,” he says, swallowing the tremor in his voice as he gathers the fabric up and guides the garment gently over your head to cover you. Gingerly passes your arms through the right holes. “That’s it. Put this on, alright? Can you get your bra out from under there?” 

You maneuver the clasp and straps beneath the cover of the shirt until you are pulling the bra out from the confines of your tee, triumphantly flinging it across the room with a soft “woo!”, to which Santiago’s lips twitch in silent amusement. 

“Need to brush my teeth at least,” you argue, holding your arms up and out - making grabby hands to signal for his help. 

“Alright. Sure. Let’s go together.” Santiago helps you stand. Maneuvers and encourages you onwards. He wraps his closest arm around your waist, and his other hand catches the arm you throw out to him so he can keep you steady.  Then, steps in sync, you pad the short distance to the bathroom, Santiago lightly directing you away from bumping your hip on the doorframe (again) as you pass through it. “That’s it. Little off course there,” he chuckles. “Almost as bad as Ironhead’s God-awful driving.” 

You turn your head over your shoulder and scold him good-naturedly. “Ouch. Don’t remind me.” 

“Yikes, sorry. Too soon?” You’d teased Will for the unfortunate humvee training exercise that had put you in med bay, but Santiago guesses you aren’t quite ready to have him joke about it yet. 

“Never getting back in a car with that bastard in the driver’s seat, trust me. Fella takes off-road a little too literally, you know? Still have that goddamn tweak in my back too to prove it.” 

“You do, huh?” Shit, you’ve certainly hidden it well enough - had insisted you were unscathed, in fact, when sober - and so Santiago mentally logs that information for later.

With a little bit of wriggling around, you squeeze into the tight bathroom space. When you reach the bathroom sink, Santiago is still behind you, his hands now clamped on your hips and keeping you steady. When you turn on the faucet and bend enthusiastically towards the stream of water however - hinging at the hips and dipping to splash your face with cold water - Santi punches out a strangled note. Which is natural, he thinks, given that your panty-clad, half-bare ass is thrust further into his hands (and his crotch), with decidedly no room in the cramped space for him to back-up. “Woah, Jesus. Keep it vertical, would you?” 

“Shit, sorry. Liked that did you?” you mock, with a dirty, chaotic snigger. 

“I’m only a man, Princesa.”

With a nervous twist in his belly, Santiago flees to the more expansive space of the bedroom, leaving you to complete your task. Feeling somewhat claustrophobic, he throws open the window, thankful when the relative cool of the night air kisses his skin. The room has grown hot and sticky all of a sudden. Too close. Lord knows why. 

He perches himself inside the opened wooden square then, the flung-open frame an awkward perch. He rests with one leg hiked up on the ‘sill and one foot bracing him on the floor, his back reclining against the biting vertical edge. 

Only when you reenter does he reluctantly drag his eyes away from the black night and into the soft, shadowed shell of the dreary room. Despite this dimness, he can barely bring himself to look at you in this moment. It is as though you are too bright for him, and so he quickly -and uncharacteristically- averts his eyes. 

Still, you’re like a magnet, and his gaze quickly relocates you without much trouble. 

“Feel like staying awake a little longer?” 

Despite looking bleary-eyed - dead on your feet, even -  you nod in response to his proposition and, much unlike earlier, Santiago suddenly feels he wouldn’t dream of sleeping. You perch yourself on the edge of the bed and flick on the lamp, casting a sallow glow throughout the room. It makes you look at once dream-like and infinitely more real to him, as the glare highlights the goose flesh trailing up your arms and thighs. The tired circles under your eyes. He doesn’t know how you make such details attractive, but as far as he is concerned, there is no bad light to cast you in. 

You lay down, legs stretched out on the scratchy comforter, and torso propped against the stiff, unforgiving pillows. You make space for him to lie down alongside you, and yet Santiago opts to hover, not ready to relinquish his window seat. It’s as uncomfortable as it probably looks, however, and so he fumbles in his pocket for a smoke, figuring it as good an excuse as any to be sitting up there - instead of lying next to you. He stares out into the blackened parking lot with enough vigour to convince an onlooker it is entirely compelling - instead of looking at you. 

You are quiet for a moment following and Santiago lets it hang, exhaling twists of smoke from his mouth to the window. Flicking his spent ash down onto the asphalt below. Then, you expel a blustery sigh.

“Shit,” you grumble. You click your tongue. Santiago turns to see you lying flat on your back now, staring contemplatively up at the dusty, motionless ceiling fan, arms folded behind your head. “That guy I made out with.” 

Santiago takes an even deeper drag on his smoke; perhaps unconsciously hoping that if he is occupied long enough, he won’t be required to respond at all.

Your head lollops to the side, your gaze finding his. “Do me a favour and don’t tell Tommy I did that, okay?” 

Fuck. 

“Wait. Tommy?! You and Tommy?” The words are expelled faster than he would’ve wanted, almost making him choke on a cloak of hot smoke. “Tommy fucking Nelson?”

“Yeahhh. We’ve, um, sorta… been hooking-up lately.” 

Santiago quickly inhales another drag, smoke seething out of his nostrils as he flicks the used cigarette butt down to the asphalt below. He is grateful that the lungful gives him a second to think before he speaks - yet apparently, it is not quite long enough. “Shit. The guy’s so stacked I swear he must have abs on his dick.” 

You laugh; and Santiago decides that, based on the beauteous sound of it alone, Tommy fucking Nelson doesn’t even remotely deserve you. 

“I dunno about abs on his dick… but he’s got enough to work with, know what I mean?”

Santiago continues to peer out of the window, and so you don’t see his face crumple with a frown. “So he’s good, huh?” 

You scoff to yourself. “Oh. Fuck. Not really. He doesn’t do much of the work…” Your dirty laugh sounds out. “Fortunately, I’m a goddamn miracle worker when it comes to getting myself off.”

Strike two. Tommy Nelson definitely doesn’t deserve you. 

You giggle. Giggle like this is a girls’ fucking sleepover. Like you are revealing some - far more innocent - secret to a best friend. 

But… of course. Because that’s precisely what he is to you, right? Nothing more, nothing less. And that’s never bothered him before. Has never bothered him until precisely now. 

What exactly has gotten into him tonight, then? Why does some old guy have his head in a spin? Why is he delaying crawling onto his side of the bed? Why can’t he look at you? 

Further delaying the inevitable, Santiago pats down his pockets, hoping for another cigarette with which to prolong his diversion by the window. However, he comes up short. Has no other recourse left besides brushing his teeth, kicking off his shoes, stripping down to his boxers, and laying his body out alongside yours. The mattress dips as he settles on top of the covers, and you swivel on to your side to face him. 

“Hey.” You prod him in the pec. “What about you anyway?”

“What about me?”

You reach down. Snap the elastic hem of his boxers until it pings back against his toned stomach. “Been getting any lately?” 

He makes a vague, non-committal sound, hoping it will be enough; but, of course, you don’t stop there.  

“Your dream girl… Let’s see.” Your eyes spark, far too animated considering such a long night. “Wait. Don’t tell me. She’s… nude. Huge breasts.” Santiago had wanted to roll his eyes at you, honestly, but he finds he can’t quite quash his smile. “She’s… I know… draped in the American Flag.” His face splits with mirth. “Reciting the Fifth Amendment.” You prod him emphatically in the pec. “Plus she plays bass in a Pearl Jam cover band and gives next-level blow jobs.” His gaze sweeps over your shit-eating grin like a paintbrush over a canvas. Like fingers down a guitar fret. Like it belongs there. Like he belongs here. “Well?” you’d needled. “Am I warm yet?” 

“Wait, I think I know her.” Santiago snaps his fingers. “Hey. Yeah. Didn’t she hook-up with Benny last week?” 

You twist as chaotic laugh spills out of you, throwing your arm over him and dipping your head towards his bare chest. It is a small thing. A minute, unconscious action. A brief touch. A single moment. Except… the way it makes his stomach lurch makes it completely undeniable to him. Undeniable that the only girl doing it for him is you. 

He realises it all now though, as he looks at you. Realises he’s been seeing you in pieces. In fragments; because of course he has. Of course, because he’s been trying to survive, and if he’d dared to think, instead, about living? Well, then he’d have far too much to lose. 

“Come onnn,” you purr, jutting out your bottom lip, entirely oblivious to the way the ground is disappearing from beneath him as you remain curled into his side. “Give me some gossip. It’s my birthday!” 

He swallows. Tries to pull himself together. Tries to be exactly what you need him to be. 

“Christ.” He nervously scratches at the stubble sprouting along his jaw. “Well. Let’s see. First of all, I’ve spent so long without any action but my own goddamn fist that even Morales is starting to look appealing.” 

“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”  

“He should be so lucky. Anyway. He’s got a girl back home. High school kinda sweetheart deal.”

You scoff. “What? For real?”

“Mm hmm. He’s in it too. His eyes mightta wandered occasionally - but as far as I know his dick never has.” 

You pump your eyebrows like that surprises you. “Good for him.” And then: “It won’t last though.”

“Christ. You’re really that cynical already?”

“Something like that,” you smirk. “Guess it comes with the old age.” 

“Oh yeah. Speaking of birthdays…” Santiago pushes off his elbow and swivels, reaching to fumble a tiny, square parcel from his jeans pocket. He settles back into position with a grin on his face, extending his gift toward you. You eye it sceptically, but with casual intrigue. 

“Fuck me. Something else from your trousers that’s been manhandled to death, Santiago? You know how to treat a lady.” 

He can’t explain why he feels nervous as you weigh the package in your palm. “It’s… for protection.” 

“A fucking condom?”

“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?” 

You rise up, settling cross-legged on top of the covers, and Santiago shifts to mirror you, with a lopsided, self-conscious smile. You pause, looking between him and the package with a gentle, subdued glee. You gingerly peel the red tissue paper away, revealing the gift nestled within. As soon as you observe what is inside, however, the glee evaporates from your face. You look down at it, for once rendered speechless before you say his name, the sound as thin as the wisps of smoke still eddying up on the ceiling. “Santiago.” 

He swallows. Saws his hand across his stubble, suddenly worried that the gesture is all off. “It’s-” 

Your eyes snap up to his, your expression raw and soft. “-I know what it is.” 

You look back down to the gift now, warmly. Lift them up, a string of black rosary beads unfurling. The beads his mom had gifted him for protection the day before he’d shipped out, clamping her hands over his and reciting a prayer he didn’t believe in, but which he’d felt all the way down to his marrow. The beads that he’d kept on him ever since, usually nestled in the pocket of his tac vest. The beads which his mother had prayed would keep him safe. Would protect him, when it had turned out to be you who had answered her prayer. You who had protected him, at whatever cost. 

“But I can’t-“

Stupid. You’re stupid. Of course you can. 

“It’s no big deal. I’m just a cheapskate,” he minimises. 

You inhale, about to launch a protest, but you must read something altogether too earnest in his face, since any such argument is subdued as soon as you look at him. Instead then, you hold them up once more, your eyes glistening as you admire the cheap, plastic beads for far more than they are worth. 

“But won’t your mom-“

“Be mad I gave them away?” You let the beads pool in one palm, the red tissue paper now strewn over your lap like swatches of blood. Santiago clamps his hands over yours, nestling the beads safely within, in a gesture which mirrors his mother’s own plea a little too closely. He empathises with her then. With her fear of being left behind. With her fear for his soul and its fate. “Are you shitting me? You saved her angelito. She’d probably sign the goddamn house over to you. I mean, shit - she’s already been bugging me to bring her new hija over for tamales.” 

He hasn’t ever told you that before. Maybe that’s why you do it. Why you gently cup his face and dip to render a light, chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. When you draw back from him, you look almost as surprised by the gesture as he is.  

“Santiago.” Your eyes well-up. “It really means a lot.” 

He doesn’t have words for a moment. It does. It means a lot to him, and he’s struck with sentimentality when he realises that it means something to you too. He nods once, gaze gently dancing over your face. 

“I mean it,” you squeeze out through welling tears. “This is the sweetest thing-“

“-Shh. Oh no. No, no, no,” he captures your tears with the crook of his forefinger just as they spill over, motioning as though he is attempting to restore them to whence they came, a soft yet playful concern dancing over his face. “Quick sharp. Put these back,” he whisper-shouts, faux urgently. “No-one can know you feel things.” 

His remark causes you to laugh through your tears, as you hastily lift a balled fist to scrub them away. The sounds dissolve into a pleasant yet taut silence, leaving the two of you simply looking into each other’s eyes. 

You are the first to break it, dropping your gaze down towards your lap. 

“Listen. Thank you.” 

“It’s the least I could do.“

Your expression grows more troubled then, a divot notching in your brow and your head shaking softly side to side. “Santiago. I need to say this. You… you don’t owe me any debt. Okay? And… and don’t you even think -ever- about trying to repay it. You hear me?” 

He owes you everything, and he’ll repay it however he can; but he isn’t about to argue with you. Instead, he simply nods. Forces an even, concessionary smile, leaning into a swift topic change. “You tired yet?”

“Yeah. Exhausted.” 

“Let’s lie down then, alright?” 

“Mmm.” You set the beads down so carefully on your nightstand that it constricts his chest, arranging them in a nest of tissue paper. “It’s just… I…”

“What?” 

He flicks off the lamp and you lay down on your back, staring up at the ceiling fan, the room now illuminated only by the distant glow of the motel’s neon sign across the lot. It bathes the room in a purple-tinged dark. When your voice comes back, it is small. “It’s just that I… I don’t want this night to end.” 

Santiago lays himself out, right next to you. “Then let’s try and stay awake, huh?” 

“Yeah. Let’s do that.” You shiver; then, instead of crawling beneath the scratchy comforter like he expects, you curl into his side. Rest your head against his chest. Santiago’s arms hover over you for a moment, as though he doesn’t know what to do. In actual fact though, it comes far too naturally to him. 

He wraps you in his arms, and begins to smooth one hand up and down your back - of course, being careful not to venture too low, even as you torque your body into his touch. 

You exhale against him. Hum, up against his bare, tan skin. Drape your arm over him, and, reliably, there is that knot again. That fist, tightening inside his chest. 

“Hey,” he croaks, voice smaller than it needs to be. “Birthday princess?” 

“Mmm.”

“Do you…?” 

“Do I what?” 

He hesitates. Stares coldly and contemplatively up at the ceiling fan himself now even as he bundles the warmth of you in his arms. “Do you believe in happy endings?”

He feels your breathy expletive fan over his chest. “Fuck. That’s a big one.”

“Sorry. Forget it, you don’t have to-“

“-No. I do,” you say with certainty. “I do believe in them.”

Santiago hopes that you can’t feel his heart thundering beneath the shell of your ear. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Except… not for people like us.” 

His brow tightens, mouth turning down at the corners. “Why not?” 

“Well,” you muse, wriggling pointedly until his hand - stopped dead with suspense - resumes its ministrations over your back, his fingers obediently seeking out the knots and notches until your airy hum sounds again. “Because our hands are too bloody now to build anything good. Right?” 

It’s strange because, right now, caressing you like this, he could almost forget that his hands are blood-soaked. Your touch is the only reminder he’s had in some time that his hands can indeed be loving. In fact, the whole concept of war feels so entirely incongruous to him while he’s holding you. Like it could not be further away, even though -in your lives- it is only ever around the corner. He pushes his response out from the depths of his chest. “Don’t you think that’s just a little bleak?” 

“I dunno.” You shrug, and he doesn’t enjoy how sad your voice grows . How old you somehow sound all of a sudden. “It’s just… They told us we’d be heroes, Santi. But… When was the last time you felt like one?”

You’re my hero, he thinks loudly, in the achingly quiet room; but, he catches the words before they make it out of his throat. In the end, nothing more than a small, reined-in grunt manages to escape. 

“Why do you ask, anyway?” 

Because you deserve one. More so than anyone he’s ever met, you deserve one. 

His fingers and the heel of his hand continue to massage the dink in your back, rooting out every source of tension. Learning how to take the pain apart for you like a weapon in his palm. “Dunno,” he lies. “The wedding. All that.” 

“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.” 

“You’re fucking brutal, you know that?”  

“And you’re hilarious. Shit. Happy fucking endings? Man. At this point, I think I’d settle for a happy middle, you know? Before I go down in my inevitable blaze of glory.”

“Don’t say that,” Santiago scolds, his voice taut. “I hate when you talk like that.” 

He doesn’t blame you. For being cynical or pessimistic - not really. Doesn’t blame you one bit. Not after you’d legitimately looked death in the face. He understands well enough what that can do to a person. How it can change them. How, even someone like you, who always saw a clear, bright path ahead, could begin to doubt the clarity of that vision. 

Absent-mindedly, you circle the pad of your forefinger in the valley of his pecs. “What about you, then? Do you believe in all that stuff? Marriage? Happy endings?” 

“Meh. Not so much,” he answers honestly, fissures in his voice. Maybe it is his ingrained Catholic guilt talking, but he certainly doesn’t feel like he deserves a happy ending. Not after the things he’s done. Not after all that blood.

“Then how about this, Santiago Garcia,” you begin, tone much more playful, like you’ve had a bright idea. “Would you settle for a lifetime of trouble-making with your ride or die?” 

You extend your pinky towards him for the most sacred of all vows, and he curls his own little finger around yours.

He intends his response to feel light-hearted. Equally playful. He really does. But, when the words escape his lips they are heavy. Dripping and weighed with sentimentality. “With you, honestly, it doesn’t really feel like settling.” He suddenly feels like someone is sitting on his chest. Like the air is scarce and sharp with some incendiary cloud - about to ignite and burn everything he’s known to the ground. 

“Kiss ass,” you poke lightly, and a wistful smile briefly dances across his features. 

“It’s only what you’re due.” 

“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?” 

“Sure. Maybe you can get Tommy-abs-on-his-dick-Nelson right on that.” 

You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”

Santiago jostles you gently in his embrace. “Hey. Speaking of. Sorry you got lumbered with the sideshow tonight, by the way.”

“Fuck off, Pope,” you huff, like he’s just said something which causes deep offence. “Of all the chumps I couldda been stuck with, I’m glad it was you.” Santiago’s heart flutters, his chest blooming with a hazy, metered-out warmth when he hears you say those words. “Now. Wish me happy birthday one more time, and then sing me a damn lullaby, would you?” 

Santiago crushes his chin down to his chest to get a better look at you, having decided that you must surely be joking. “Huh?!” 

“We all knew about your guitar skills but you have a beautiful set of pipes too? Been holding out on me, Pope. Now, sing!” 

“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”

“It’s only what I’m due, right? Come on, I haven’t got all night, asshat!” Somehow, the derogatory term sounds imbued with a deep fondness somehow, and it blooms through him. 

“Alright. Alright. Keep your panties on.” Shit - you had better. 

“Thank you.” 

Santiago dips his chin so he can reach your hairline. Settles a chaste kiss there, which lingers a touch too long - but which he can’t possibly cut any shorter, his eyes closing as his lips brush your skin. “Happy birthday,” he breathes, completing part one of your demand. With any luck, he thinks, you might fall straight to sleep like this - before he even has to serenade you. 

He stills as your eyes flutter closed, listening out for the slowed pace of your breathing. That is, until you open one eye and whisper-hiss up at him. “Sing.” 

A resigned amusement twitches his plush lips and he finally obliges you. He begins softly speak-singing, hoping his soporific and sandy tones will lull you towards sweet dreams, his broad palm still sweeping up and down your back. 

“She gives me everything

And tenderly…” 

A soft smile graces your features as you note his song choice. “Cobain? You’re such an angsty little gremlin, you know that?” 

“I can stop at any time,” he threatens, teasingly. 

“No. No, please.” 

He clears his throat. Lets his voice grow a touch more full and resonant, despite it being scuffed by tiredness and smoke.

“The kiss my lover brings,

She brings to me-ee,

And I love her.” 

It is a little funny, at first. A little awkward; until suddenly, it isn’t . Until, suddenly, a weight settles in your brow. Until his voice begins to falter, cracking apart with emotion. 

He hadn’t been able to say it. Clearly not even to acknowledge it. 

He hadn’t been able to find the words to tell you what you mean to him. To explain the pit in him which had opened up when he’d almost lost you. Didn’t have the words to tell you you were the reason he’d prayed for the first time in ten years, pledging loyalty to a God he hadn’t believed in -hadn’t needed - until he was begging Him not to take you. He didn’t know how to describe the way it had felt for him to kneel by your bedside, his mother’s rosary beads clutched in his palm so tightly the cross has drawn blood - even as he’d openly cursed them for protecting him and not you, and had cursed you for the same. 

He swallows the hard, tight knot which has gnarled in his throat. Wonders if maybe he can stop, because singing feels like purging himself of far too much of the pain and love he has buried, and fuck, it hurts on the way out. 

He does consider stopping. That is, until your small, grief-laden voice sounds out as though it hurts you too; but that you need to hear what he is finally telling you. “Please. Don’t stop?” 

It is a question, this time, not a demand; and yet, Santiago couldn’t dream of denying you. 

And so, with a weight in his brow, he keeps on singing. 

“Bright are the stars that shine,

Dark is the sky. 

I know this love of mine,

Will never die.”

It is at this point his voice cracks wide open. It is at this point a single tear slips across the bridge of his nose as he sings it out loud. Something he’d known for a long time, in truth, but hadn’t quite found the words for:  

“And I love her.”

The room seems eerily still as you each hold your breath. He doesn’t know where to go from here - but luckily, you always seem to know the way forward. 

“You know,” you say softly, voice wet with emotion. “It’s a real shame. Because if you did believe in happy endings?” 

“Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper.  

“You’d look pretty good as somebody’s endgame, butthead.” 

An emotion Santiago can’t name twists through his middle, like he is being wrung out. Like his blood-soaked soul is finally being purged. It is no wonder then, that his words come out dripping red. Soaked in cynicism. With a disbelief that anything good -for him - is deserved. “Let’s get each other through the happy middle first,” he says, as hidden tears glitter on his long lashes. “Then maybe we’ll see about endings, huh?” 

You don’t speak for a moment. Simply swallow in the near-dark. But, it is not lost on him that you hold him just a shade tighter. Then, when he hears a gentle intake of breath from you, he knows your request before you even utter it. 

Please. 

He resumes his singing. Slower, more off tempo. Begins to repeat the lines, over and over, softer and softer, until your breathing is deep and soporific. Until your weight on him is heavier. Heavier from sleep, and heavier from this new knowledge he has gained. 

And, there it is. The end of the night, and yet Santiago cannot dream of sleeping. Not yet. Can only watch you, hold you, listen to your soft breathing, his heart full with a new understanding. And understanding he didn’t invite, but a welcome guest all the same. 

He resolves it then. Resolves that, even if he doesn’t deserve a happy ending, he will do everything in his power to make sure you get yours… 

Even if that means letting all hope of you -for him- go. 

So, as he cradles you in his arms and stares unsleeping up at the ugly ceiling fan, Santiago contemplates it. 

Contemplates in great detail the four days with you that irrevocably changed the course of his life. 

The day he met you.

The day he almost lost you. 

The day he realised he was in love with you. 

And the day he started running from that.

The first day had been two years ago, the second had been five months ago, the third had been today, and the fourth? 

The fourth will be tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, he will start running, because his feelings for you are far too deep and huge for him to handle. 

He doesn’t even pause to wonder whether he’ll ever allow himself to stop. After all, once Santiago Garcia has a mission, he accepts nothing less than completion. 

Maybe he’s no hero; but he always gets the job done. 

[maybegays-blog]

Ethereal Chemistry

Prologue

Lady Dimitrescu x Scientist! Reader

All Chapters

Warnings: Rushed

—

The faint hum of machinery filled the air as you worked diligently in your lab, surrounded by beakers, test tubes, and the soft glow of monitors. Your latest project was coming along nicely.

Just as you were about to delve into the next phase of your research, a familiar voice echoed through the intercom.

"Hey there, [Y/n], mind stepping into my office for a sec?" It was Alan, your colleague and occasional partner in mischief.

You paused, a mix of curiosity and caution flickering within you. Alan's sudden request for a meeting wasn’t unusual, to say the least.

But as you were busy with your project, annoyance built up at being interrupted.

‘Ugh, what does he want now?’ You muttered to yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose in irritation.

With a sigh, you set aside your work and made your way to his office, your footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

Pushing open the door, you found Alan seated behind his desk, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. "Ah, there you are," he said, motioning for you to take a seat. "I've got something I want to run by you."

You settled into the chair opposite him, your curiosity piqued. "What's on your mind?" you asked, curiosity evident in your voice.

The man leaned back in his chair, his expression serious yet tinged with excitement. "You ever heard of Mother Miranda and the four lords?" he began, his tone measured and deliberate, curiosity shining in his eyes.

You quirked your eyebrow at the sudden question. "You mean that cult Chris was so worked up about?" you asked, a flicker of unease creeping into your voice.

He nodded solemnly. "Yes."

His determination seemed to intensify at the mention of Chris.

But there was something in his demeanor that set off alarm bells in your mind. The way he couldn’t hold eye contact, the slight twitch of his lips—it was clear that he was hiding something.

"Alan, what aren't you telling me?" you pressed, your voice tinged with suspicion.

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the floor before meeting yours once more. "Okay, I may have... hacked into some important files," he admitted, his tone sheepish.

"You what?!" Your eyes widened, a mixture of shock and concern coursing through you.

The gravity of his confession weighed heavily on your mind. You both knew very well that this could get him fired, or even worse.

"You shouldn't be hacking into any files, Alan! How do you ‘accidentally’ hack anyway?"

"I was just try’na gather information. You know, for research purposes!" His tone grew louder as he tried defending his actions.

You rolled your eyes and sighed, crossing your arms. "Whatever. Why did you call me in here?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes gleaming with newfound determination. "I have a plan," he began, his voice steady. "We gather the necessary resources and equipment in the village, discreetly, of course. Then, we'll put it to good use."

As he vaguely outlined his plan, you couldn't help but feel a knot form in your stomach.

This entire thing felt wrong. The risks were too great, the consequences too dire. But your colleague seemed unfazed, his confidence unwavering.

"Come on, [Y/N]," he urged, leaning in closer. "With your expertise and Astrid's help, we could make this happen. Think of the knowledge we could uncover, the things we could achieve!"

You hesitated, torn between your curiosity and the sense of foreboding that lingered in the back of your mind.

But when he mentioned Astrid, your other friend,(and his sister), joining the venture, a glimmer of hope flickered within you. If Astrid was on board, maybe together you could keep an eye on Alan and ensure things didn't spiral out of control.

With a heavy sigh, you nodded reluctantly. "Fine, I'm in," you said, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "But we need to be careful. We can't afford to make any mistakes."

Alan grinned, a spark of excitement dancing in his eyes. "Don't worry," he reassured you. "Together, with you and Astrid, we've got this covered."

[mashiraostail]

could you elaborate on that wyll turn om your wrote? pretty please? 👉👈

being a wyll fan is literally looksmaxxing.

nsfw under da cut!! My Wyll bias is sooo gnarly i could write a book about him he's sooo handsome.

You were hobbiling towards camp, the sun was already lowering in the sky, not that you had the energy to lift your head up to see the sky and notice. Wyll had your left side and Karlach your right, you were dragging your feet letting the duo mostly carry you.

"I think," Karlach hoists you up a bit, "we should ban the casting of haste on our good friend here for at least 5 days."

"Possibly six." Wyll agrees, squeezing your waist a bit.

"Never again." You turn into him, in favor of Karlach.

"I'm sorry, Gale was hoarding scrolls." Wyll hobbles a bit at the sudden shift of weight but he still helps you along none the less.

"I wasn't hoarding anything!" Gale argues, "don't blame this on me! I'm carrying all the stuff, I've repented!"

You chuckle a bit, "don't be mean to Gale."

"Defending Gale??" Karlach guffaws, "oh god, they're delrious." She hoists you over her shoulder, "Wyll standby, they might need mouth to mouth."

You laugh but reach out for Wyll nonetheless, "Wyll! Get me down!"

You lock eyes for a second with him, not before he gives your body, hoisted upon Karlach's shoulder, a once over . He can see your exposed sides through your armor, the fabric rumpled up so he could even see down to the small of your back. When he looks at your face he can't deny you do look a bit delirious. Your eyelids looked particularly heavy but you were smiling at him sleepy and content.

"Come on, give them to me Karlach you're scaring them." Wyll chuckles a bit and gestures for you.

"I don't know if you can keep this one on a leash." Karlach shakes her head, "what if they really have lost their mind? What if they're a doppelgänger?"

"Is it so odd they would be nice to me?" Gale sounds offended, "I'm shocked, and offended. We really are good friends, the two of us!"

Karlach sets you down on the ground once you can see your camp in the distance and you stumble into Wyll. He steadies you by your waist.

"Alright, be careful." Wyll wraps an arm around you, "Karlach don't shake them around so much next time."

You're laughing, giggling, turning into him. He uses his free hand to rub his face and look anywhere but you. You don't notice the way Karlach snickers but he sure does.

Back at camp the others were already settling in for the night, dinner had been started and everyone was lounging around pretty contentedly given the dire situation you all found yourselves in.

"Let's get you settled down then." Wyll helps you down to lounge against a log by the camp fire. "Are you alright?"

"I'm alright." Your head lolls to the side, "exhausted."

"I can imagine." Wyll produces a small flask of water and hands it to you, "have something to drink. I'll get you dinner." He starts to stand, "and try to wash up a bit? I'd hate for you to fall asleep covered in the dirt from today."

You nod lazily with no real intention of heeding his words, you could sleep in your armor right now. When he returns his own armor had been discarded and he had dinner in hand for you, to be fair to pot wasn't far away but you were almost certain you'd be sleeping right against this log tonight.

"Will you be alright if I go help Karlach out with some things?" The way you reach out for his hand makes his stomach flutter nervously. You're looking up at him with tired eyes, your dinner sitting beside you, forgotten.

"You won't stay with me? I need some place more comfortable to lay on." The back of your head is resting against the log you're leaned on. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

'I....will be back for you as soon as everything is sorted." He feels your thumb slide over his knuckles. You're pulling his hand subtly, enough so that he can feel and just take half a step towards you.

"Can't you sort it later?" You pull again and of course he kneels, not before choking back a gasp tinged with equal parts arousal and surprise. When you're closer to eye level he can see the way you fight to keep your head upright, the way it subtly lolls every time your eyelids linger closed. He supposed it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, to yield to you. He could lay down right beside you and your would go to him, wrap your arms around him, he could take a deep breath of you and enjoy the feeling of your skin against his. He'd wanted to do nothing more since your initial getting together, but he had difficulties finding the right time for such indulgences given your rather dramatic day to day lives. You seemed to not share his troubles, dusting your fingers over the tattered hem of his shirt and down the short hairs trailing towards his pants. He'd seen you look there before, but in the fleeting moments you spared with him you tended not to linger on it.

"Gods-" He doesn't manage to choke it back this time.

"Wyll," He feels your other hand starting up his arm.

"What are you doing now, I can't-" He's willing all the heat out of his face as your hand closes around the crook of his neck, "what are you doing now?" If you can sense his nervousness you don't mention it.

"Oi! Wyll!" Karlach's voice echos all the way across camp, it makes you jump.

"I'm sorry-" You scrub your face, "I'm tired it's...poor impulse control. Karlach is looking for you."

"Karlach is-" Wyll looks over his shoulder, "I'm....I mean she doesn't...it's not pressing." He clears his throat, "if you..have something you need from me?"

"Wyll!"

"It sounds pressing." You look up at him, "I'll..be here I can't move." You flop backwards and the loss of proximity makes Wyll feel cold. He gets up though, seems to dust himself off before heading in whatever direction Karlach had been screeching from.

He almost feels bad for how little help he is to Karlach. His mind simply can't stop wandering to how you stuck to him. How you'd seemed more than open to showing him all the things you liked about him, and all the places you'd wished to linger. He wondered if he hadn't gotten up would you have started letting your lips wander the way your hands did? Even covered in your conquests for the day he still found you to be incredibly inviting. Had you not been in the middle of camp he would have been happy to lay back and let you touch and mouth all over him, if it's what you wanted. And the way you'd said his name then too, it was just knocking around what felt like an otherwise empty skull. Poor impulse control? Did you think about touching him all the time then? What other impulses would your sleep hazed brain be unable to inhibit if you were alone with him? He was almost too egear to find out.

"You know they're alright?" Karlach seems to take his absent mindedness as worry, "just exhausted. It's gonna be okay."

"I.." Wyll shakes his head, trying to get the various nude images of you to fuck off, "yeah..gods..yeah trust me I know."

She seems to perk up a bit, "well is there something I don't know?"

"No secrets between friends, Karlach." Wyll waves her away as the memory of your sleepy, coy smile creeps back into his mind.

True to your word you don't move, not because you don't want to. You simply felt no desire or motivation to get up and move. You do eat a bit, and chat with Astarion briefly, but then you're alone again contemplating the fire. When Wyll returns your glad to see him for more reason than one.

"Gods, you're still in your armor." He holds his hands out to you and you take them, hoisting yourself up. "Come on, if you needed help cleaning up all you had to do was ask."

"I didn't want to trouble you." You follow him staying close behind as he walks around the edge of camp to the water. You cant resist the temptation to reach out and brush your fingers over the exposed nape of his neck, he falters just barely, but says nothing about it.

"It's no trouble." He sits you on a rock and starts helping you remove your armor. You do notice the way his eyes seem to latch onto each and every inch of your newly exposed skin. "It's an honor."

"An honor?" You laugh a little to try and hide your embarrassment, "come off it."

"It is." He insists, even taking off your boots for you. Once your armor was discarded he takes a damp cloth to your skin. "I'm honored you trust me to have you like this. I hope I'm one of a few."

"More like the only." The cloth feels perfect on your sore skin, red from where your armor chafed against you and dug into you all day. You figured, since he's touching you, you may as well get to touch him. You graze your fingers down his forearms, and over the veins on the back of his hand. Your other hand brushes over the side of his neck and down to his chest pulling just barely on the collar of his shirt.

"You'll never be rid of me if you keep blowing up my ego." Wyll warns you, but he's smiling, his free hand is damp too and pinning your hair off your face.

"I don't want to be rid of you, Wyll." You cast your gaze up to meet his, "I'd like you close, just like this, for the forseeable future. Closer even."

He laughs, "well there will be no protest from me." You feel a wave of warm content wash over you at the sound of his laughter and voice which it makes keeping your eyes open all the harder. You drag your flat palm over his chest, then back up over his shoulder.

"Am I putting you to sleep?" He asks, wringing the cloth over the water.

"It just feels nice." You shake your head, "'s all." He brings the rag to your face, beginning to wipe off the dirt stuck to you there. "And your voice is very soothing."

"Is it?" He seems elated to have you like this, if his grin and the flutter to his voice are any indication.

"And you're very handsome."

"I'm thrilled you think so, I've noticed you've been having a hard time keeping your hands to yourself." You can hear the smile in his voice as he drags the cloth down the cut of your jaw, "but am I handsome enough that you'd consider spending the night with me?"

"I was worried you'd never ask." You manage it through a yawn that puffs your chests and pulls out your collarbones in a way that makes Wyll turn his eyes up to the stars to save his own decency.

"You're always invited. You know it's only a short walk across camp from your spot to mine." He's kneeling between your legs to get the best access to your neck and shoulders which he'd left for last. Your hands were wandering again, just like they had at the fire. One on his stomach and the other running up his arm and shoulder. After a moment he discards the cloth, but let's his hands stay against your skin. When you lean forward he isn't sure what you're going to do, but the way your lips graze over his exposed stomach and down to the hem of his pants was probably closer to the bottom of his list. He can feel your breath against his skin, in deep through your nose and out through barely parted lips.

You lean back again to see him, looking down at you with a mixture of shock and arousal.

"I'm not unwelcome, am I?" Both of your hands are on his arms now, like you were mapping out every part of him you liked, he was almost egar to find where you'd indulge yourself next.

"No, not not..not at all." He shakes his head and you feel his gaze all over your face and neck, almost like he was waiting for permission.

"KIss me." You turn up at the feeling of his hands on your face, he's quick to indulge you, and when he does he feels your hands drag immediately down to his chest and stomach.

"You've never touched me like this before." Wyll chuckles into your lips, "it's all very telling."

"My impulse control." You remind him and he hums, a knowing tone in his voice.

"Well feel free to..never control another impulse of yours again."

"Do you intend to make me wait forever, Wyll? To have you?" You wrap you arms around his shoulders and draw him into you, your lips go easily to his throat and down to his collarbones.

"I will not make you wait a second longer." He rolls over with you, taking you in his lap. He easily discards his shirt and feels you working at his pants which he doesn't protest in the slightest. "Tell me what you want." The feeling of your palms against his chest keep him grounded enough to keep talking to you, otherwise he thinks he'd be somewhere on cloud nine.

"Touch me, Wyll just touch me." He watched your chest rise and fall with shallow sleepy breaths, so content to look that he'd plain forgotten your request for him to touch as well. You guide his hands over your body, one on your chest and the other on your thigh. You kiss him, over his neck and shoulders, his bicep his chest, occasionally biting anywhere that looked particularly supple.

"Oh gods you're being unfair now-" He feels you starting to rut against him, "gods you're so lovely."

You're practically purring for him and he realizes he's hardly done anything but call you lovely, and if it was as easy as that he was happy to continue to indulge you.

"Maybe tiring you out like this isn't a bad thing." He feels your hips starting to to stutter and he figures he'll do you the favor of turning you over and helping you along.

"Should I take this off?" He tugs the last bit of fabric covering you and all you can do is nod and drop your head back. You're grateful he doesn't feel the need to tease you or be cruel, he's touching you immediately, fingers stroking over you with a firm touch. You're arching into him gratefully, all the while still practically groping him.

You can feel his breath heavy against the side of your neck as he dips a finger inside, then another. He holds one of your legs against his chest, the other you spread almost comically apart for him. You were holding your breath, you aren't sure why, maybe you'd forgotten to let it out.

He presses his temple against your leg draped over his chest and shoulder while his eyes scan over your body, "don't hold your breath, just let it all out, let yourself go, I've got you, right here." His fingers curl at the knuckles and true to his word you take in a deep, shuddering breath, your hand scrambling for his wrist.

"Please, Wyll," You squeeze his wrist until he pulls away, "I want you."

"I know you do." He runs his palm flat against your stomach, "can't I just enjoy you a bit first?"

"Please." You turn your head away but buck your hips a bit.

"Okay, okay, you know I can never say no to you." He leans down to your lips and you wrap your legs around him desperately as he pushes in.

"Yeah that's it, wrap your legs around me, just like that pull me in. I want to feel you, close." He's rocking his hips into you, he can feel the rattling breaths your taking in as your chest expands against his. He doesn't mind the not so subtle groping of his arms and chest at all, or the way you bury your face into his neck. The biting was unexpected but he really doesn't mind that either.

"You can bite me, hold onto me, it's okay, whatever you want." Your moans make the side of his neck vibrate underneath your lips as you squeeze your legs around him, pulling him deeper. You feel his chest rumbling against yours as he moans, "oh gods, just like that, pull me in, that's perfect."

If he had any idea what the sound of his voice and the rumbling of his chest were doing for you he was being more than generous with you.

"I love to look at your face like this, you can't even keep your eyes open," he looks down at you, just a few inches between your faces, he uses one arm to hold himself up, the other pulls your leg tighter around him.

You head lolls to the side and he makes a quiet noise, like he's kissing his teeth, "don't move, don't move. I'm right here, it's all yours, I'm all yours, I just want to see you." When you turn your head back to him he grins, "that's it, that's it my love."

Now that you think of it, the grin on his face tells you he more than understands what the sound of his breathless voice does for you. He'd probably always been a devil, even without the horns, they certainly helped.

It didn't take long for you to work yourself up to near hysterics, especially when you found the sort burst of energy to turn over. You were sat on his lap, with unfettered access to his chest and arms, and a perfectly clear sightline to his stomach. You didn't need much to finish after that, and when you both do it's easy to flop down onto him, pressing your face into his neck.

One of his hands holds the base of your skull, the other rests on your back. "I'll have to talk to Karlach, about that rule." He pushes your hair to the side, "I'd like for you to always be this honest with me."

"I'm always honest." You sound almost offened, but too tired to push it there.

"It was your body, you love me." He sounds proud, preening, actually thrilled,"you couldn't help yourself, you were practically begging me to touch you and I hadn't even done anything. I quite like this side of you, you know? Who were they? What's their name? How could I see more of them?"

"Stop it," You shove him, your face burns but he couldn't see it, hidden in the crook of his neck, "I want to go to bed."

"I will happily take you there." Wyll's hand drags suggestively down your back and you gasp at him.

"To sleep."

"Yes, I completely understand." He sounds smart when he says it, teasing, and simply delighted.

"And you should carry me, for you indiscretions."

"Oh, nothing would make me happier my love."

[the-broken-truth]

Twisted Wonderland Nonsense [8]: Magical Core Meeting

[Note: This Could Be Made Into A Mini-Series & Possible Comic.]

[Genderless Yuu - Will Decide Gender Later]

[Headmage Dire Crowley called the Dorm Wardens to an Emergency Meeting.]

Crowley (Smiling): Thank you for attending this sudden meeting, Dorm Wardens.

Leona (Yawns): Just what do you want, Crowley?

Riddle: Kingscholar, show respect. (Looks at Crowley) What is the meaning of this meeting, Headmage?

Crowley: This meeting regards the current condition of the Ramshackle Prefect, Yuu [L/N].

[The mention of Yuu's Name causes the Dorm Wardens, even Leona, to set up in their chairs; showing that they are ready for any information.]

Riddle: There is nothing wrong with the Prefect, is there, Headmage Crowley?

Crowley: Nothing negative, no. However, this is a rather interesting phenomenon. It would seem that the Prefect of Ramshackle is becoming more like their peers.

Azul: What do you mean?

Kalim: Yeah, what's happening to Jewel?!

Crowley: A few weeks ago, The Prefect informed me that they were feeling strange; increased energy, speed, and strength along with other things. What they were truly concerned about was the occasional glow in their eyes when they were looking at a mirror. I was concerned for them, so I asked the Nurse to look over them.

Malleus: What did the Nurse find?

Crowley: Trace of Magic within them; it was weak, but still present.

Idia (Tablet): That's not possible. Sugar Skull is Magicless; how could there be traces of magic within them?

Crowley: I said the same thing, Mr. Shroud, and asked the Nurse if he was certain about his findings. The Nurse informed me that, upon conducting an examination of Yuu's Being, a Magical Core was forming within their body; it's currently small, but it appears to be growing as time goes on.

Riddle: Wait. Rose is 'forming' a Magical Core within themself? How is that possible?

Crowley: I am not entirely certain, but I have a theory: The Prefect unknowing has been absorbing magic into their being by facing the Overblots, coming in contact with other magical students, or the magic fragments loosely floating in the air. I asked the Nurse to record and document and the Prefect appears to possess more than one magic type.

Vil: What kinds?

Crowley: From what was documented: Fire, Lightning, and Wind.

Riddle: Interesting combination... What is next, Headmage?

Crowley: Currently, the Prefect is practicing with the Nurse to harness their new power; what's interesting is that they don't need a Mage Stone Pen to draw it out.

Leona: How?!

Crowley: Something about channeling the energy into the tips of their fingers as an outlet; how like Mage Stone Pens are Outlets for Our Magic. However, Crewel has convinced me to acquire a pen for them; so I am currently working on that.

Malleus: And the Child of Man's Dwelling?

Crowley: What do you mean?

Malleus: When the Child of Man arrived here one year ago, they were unable to be sorted because they were magicless, but now that they have acquired magic of their own; they should be resorted into a proper down. Diasomnia would be perfect for my Child of Man.

Leona: As if, Lizard! 3 Elemental Magics is power and the Powerful belong in Savanaclaw! The Herbivore belongs with us!

Riddle: Rose is more aligned with Heartslabyul, considering they follow rules while being allied with Ace and Deuce.

Kalim: Jewel is very smart! They should come to Scarabia! Jamil would be happy to have them there!

Vil: My Sweet Potato is far too lovely and refined to be in any dorm that is not Pomefiore.

Azul: I disagree. Octavinelle owes a lot to Pearl's Deal-Making Skills; they should join us.

Idia (Tablet): Sugar Skull would be best fitted in Ignihyde. They are as mysterious as ever.

Malleus: The Child of Man is more noble. They shall come to Diasomnia.

Crowley: Alright, enough. The Prefect's Dorm is Ramshackle unless they wish to be sorted by the Dark Mirror. If they tell me they desire to be placed in a dorm, I shall make the preparations; however, it's their choice. Now, the meeting is over. I need to get the Mage Stone Pen.

[All the Dorm Wardens leave the meeting with the same thing on their minds: The Prefect is coming to my dorm.]

[marsi-is-depressed]

Finding a Family series. Chapter 10: She has a daughter?

The reader finds a baby in the woods

The night was cloaked in a quiet stillness, the kind that amplified the faintest of sounds. The reader ventured out under the cover of darkness, the dire wolf and Caraxes both left behind, much to their visible displeasure. This was her time—time to roam the common parts of Westeros without the weight of expectation or constant eyes watching her. She walked briskly, keeping to the shadows, her steps soft against the uneven ground. The distant hum of insects and the occasional rustling of leaves were her only companions.

As she neared a clearing nestled between the trees, the faint cry of something caught her attention. It wasn’t the cry of an animal, yet it wasn’t quite human either—or so it seemed in her mind. Her heart clenched as the sound vaguely reminded her of Ember’s final cries. Compelled by curiosity and a gnawing sense of dread, she followed the sound, her steps quickening as the crying grew louder. She froze as the clearing opened up before her, moonlight casting a pale glow over a scene that made her blood run cold. A body lay slumped against the base of a large tree, lifeless and battered, cradling a small, squirming bundle. The cries grew louder as she approached cautiously, her hand instinctively reaching for the bundle.

A newborn.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down at the tiny, helpless baby wrapped in tattered cloth. Its cheeks were red from crying, and its little fists flailed against the air. The reader’s heart ached as she crouched down, gently prying the child from the lifeless arms of its mother. The baby quieted almost immediately, its cries turning to soft whimpers as she held it close, cradling it against her chest.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

The reader quickly swaddled the baby as best she could with the fabric she had, rocking it gently to soothe its remaining distress. Her mind raced with questions. Who had left the child here? Why? And why did she feel such a deep, almost instinctive need to protect it? Realizing she couldn’t linger in the clearing, she adjusted the baby in her arms and began the trek back to Dragonstone, her heart pounding as she thought about what she’d say to her parents—especially her father.

Arriving at the castle, she kept her steps quiet as she moved through the halls. The baby had fallen asleep, its tiny head resting against her shoulder. She felt a strange mix of calm and urgency as she made her way to her father’s chambers. Reaching the heavy wooden door, she hesitated for a moment before knocking softly.

“Come in,” came Daemon’s voice, groggy but alert.

She pushed the door open, stepping inside with the sleeping baby still cradled in her arms. Daemon, seated by the fire with a goblet of wine in hand, immediately straightened when he saw her. His eyes flicked to the bundle in her arms, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. “What’s this?” he asked, setting the goblet aside and rising to his feet.

The reader walked over to him, her movements deliberate as she carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal the baby’s face. “I found them,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “Out in the forest. Their mother… she was gone. Dead.”

Daemon stared at the child for a long moment, his face unreadable. He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against the baby’s soft cheek before looking back at his daughter. “And you brought it here?” he asked, though his tone wasn’t accusatory. It was curious, perhaps even a bit awed.

“I couldn’t leave them there,” she said firmly. “They were alone. They needed someone.”

Daemon’s lips pressed into a thin line as he studied her, his gaze softening. He could see the fire in her eyes, the fierce protectiveness that mirrored his own when it came to her. “You did the right thing,” he said finally, his voice low. “But this… this will raise questions.”

“I don’t care,” she replied, her grip tightening around the baby. “They’re mine now. I’ll take care of them.”

Daemon chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re stubborn, just like your mother,” he said, though his tone was laced with affection. “And you have my heart, my brave little dragon.”

At that moment, the baby stirred, letting out a tiny whimper. Daemon reached out again, this time holding his arms open. “Here,” he said, his voice gentle. “Let me hold them.”

The reader hesitated for a brief second before carefully passing the baby to her father. Daemon cradled the child with surprising ease, his expression softening as he looked down at the tiny face.

“Strong little thing,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“What will we tell Mother?” the reader asked, her voice tinged with worry.

Daemon looked up at her, his smile widening. “Leave that to me,” he said. “You’ve already done enough for one night. Get some rest. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The reader nodded, her exhaustion finally catching up to her as she watched her father hold the baby. For the first time in what felt like days, she felt a sense of calm. She had done something good, something right. And with her father by her side, she knew they could face whatever challenges lay ahead.

As she turned to leave, she glanced back one last time. Daemon was still holding the baby, his gaze full of warmth and pride. It was a sight she’d never forget, one that made her feel stronger, braver, and more capable than ever before.

The following morning, Rhaenyra entered the chamber where Daemon and their daughter had spent much of the night with the newborn. Her expression was one of mixed confusion and concern as she laid eyes on the tiny bundle in Daemon’s arms.

"Whose baby is that?" she asked, her voice sharp and demanding. Her gaze shifted between Daemon and their daughter, trying to make sense of the scene.

Daemon, calm as ever, gestured toward the reader. "It’s hers now," he said simply. "She found the baby in the forest, abandoned and alone. She saved her life. Now, she’s made it clear that she won’t leave the child’s side.”

Rhaenyra blinked, momentarily speechless. She turned to her daughter, whose protective stance over the child left no room for argument. "You... plan to keep this child?" she asked, her tone incredulous.

"Yes," the reader replied firmly, her eyes narrowing slightly as if daring anyone to object. "She has no one else. I’ll take care of her."

Rhaenyra looked at her husband, searching his face for some sign of opposition, but Daemon merely shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "She’s a Targaryen through and through," he said, pride evident in his voice. "Stubborn and determined. There’s no talking her out of this."

Rhaenyra sighed, clearly torn. While she admired her daughter’s fierce loyalty and protective nature, she couldn’t help but worry about the burden such a responsibility would bring. But she also knew there was no arguing with her family once their minds were made up.

The next day, the reader took the baby from her father, her heart swelling with warmth as she looked down at the little girl’s tiny face. She decided it was time for the child to meet the creatures who had become her closest companions. Wrapping the baby securely in a soft blanket, she set out with a sense of purpose.

Her first stop was Caraxes, who lay basking in the morning sun. The red dragon lifted his massive head at her approach, his sharp eyes softening when he saw the bundle in her arms. The reader stepped closer, carefully unwrapping the baby just enough for Caraxes to see her.

“This is Rowena,” the reader said softly, the name having come to her in a moment of clarity the night before. “She’s part of our family now.”

Caraxes sniffed the baby curiously, his hot breath ruffling the child’s blanket. The baby let out a tiny coo, and to the reader’s delight, Caraxes lowered his head, letting out a gentle rumble as if welcoming Rowena into their strange little circle.

Next, the reader introduced Rowena to the direwolf, who had been lounging near the great hall. The wolf’s ears perked up as the reader approached, its sharp eyes immediately fixating on the small bundle. The reader knelt down, allowing the wolf to get a closer look. The direwolf sniffed the baby cautiously before letting out a low, approving whine. With a wag of its tail, the wolf seemed to accept

Rowena without question.

Finally, the reader made her way to the cliffs, where the giant squid often lingered near the water’s edge. She approached carefully, holding Rowena securely in her arms. The sea was calm, and as if sensing her presence, the squid’s bright orange eyes appeared just below the surface. Slowly, a single tentacle rose from the water, reaching toward them. The reader held her breath as the tentacle brushed gently against Rowena’s blanket. The squid seemed to examine the child with a surprising amount of care, its movements slow and deliberate. When the baby let out a tiny giggle, the reader couldn’t help but smile. The squid let out a soft, resonant hum, its tentacle retreating back into the water after a final, gentle touch.

Later that day, the reader sat in her chambers, cradling Rowena as she prepared to feed her. Daemon entered, watching silently for a moment before clearing his throat. "You should give her to a wet nurse," he suggested, his tone neutral but firm. "It’s how things are done. She’ll need proper nourishment."

The reader shook her head stubbornly, holding Rowena closer. "I’ll feed her myself," she replied. "She’s my responsibility, and I want to take care of her. I’ll find a way."

Daemon frowned, crossing his arms. "And how do you intend to do that? She can’t survive on stubbornness alone."

The reader sighed, setting Rowena down in a small makeshift cradle she’d prepared. She fetched a small bowl of cow’s milk and a spoon, determined to make it work. Sitting back down, she carefully spoon-fed the baby, her movements slow and deliberate to ensure Rowena didn’t choke.

To her relief, the baby took to the milk, her tiny hands clutching at the blanket as she drank. The reader smiled, a sense of pride welling up inside her. "See?" she said, glancing up at her father. "I can do this."

Daemon watched her for a long moment, his stern expression softening. He walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You’re more like me than I realized," he said quietly. "And that’s both a blessing and a curse."

The reader looked up at him, her eyes filled with determination. "She’s mine, Father," she said. "And I love her."

Daemon nodded, his hand lingering on her shoulder. "Then you’ll have my support," he said. "But know this—raising a child is no easy task. You’ll need more than just love. You’ll need strength, patience, and a willingness to make sacrifices."

The reader nodded, her gaze never leaving Rowena’s tiny, peaceful face. "I’ll do whatever it takes," she said firmly. "She’s worth it."

Daemon smiled faintly, a sense of pride swelling in his chest. He could see the fierce love and determination in his daughter’s eyes, and he knew that Rowena was in good hands. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together, as a family.

The night was still, the castle bathed in the pale light of the moon. The reader woke to the sound of soft, plaintive cries filling her chambers. Instantly alert, she moved to the cradle where Rowena lay, her tiny face scrunched in distress.

“It’s alright, sweet one,” the reader murmured, lifting the baby into her arms. She swayed gently, humming a lullaby, but the baby continued to fuss. Deciding a change of scenery might help, she wrapped Rowena in a warm blanket and stepped out into the quiet halls of the castle.

The walk was peaceful, the soft echoes of her footsteps the only sound aside from Rowena’s occasional whimpers. The reader found herself wandering toward the dragon pit, drawn to the comforting presence of Caraxes. When she arrived, the massive red dragon lifted his head, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He rumbled a low, welcoming sound, his tail curling closer as if to shield her from the cool night air.

“Hello, Caraxes,” the reader said softly, stepping closer. She settled onto the ground near his side, resting her back against his warm scales. Rowena, soothed by the dragon’s presence, let out a soft sigh and drifted back to sleep in her arms.

The reader gazed down at the baby, her expression a mix of love and uncertainty. She gently adjusted the blanket around Rowena, ensuring she was snug and warm. Then, with a heavy sigh, she looked up at Caraxes.

“Am I doing this right?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Am I a good mother?”

The dragon tilted his head slightly, as if he understood her question. He let out a low, resonant hum, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath her. The reader smiled faintly, taking the sound as reassurance.

“It’s hard sometimes,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “I love her so much, but I keep wondering... will I be enough for her? Can I protect her the way she deserves? She’s already been through so much, and she doesn’t even know it.”

Caraxes shifted slightly, his massive body curling closer around her in a gesture of comfort. The reader leaned into him, drawing strength from his presence. She looked down at Rowena, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and determination.

In the distance, hidden in the shadows, Daemon and Rhaenyra watched the scene unfold. They had woken to find their daughter’s chambers empty and had followed her tracks out of concern. Now, as they stood together, observing her with Caraxes and Rowena, they felt their hearts swell with pride.

“She’s remarkable,” Rhaenyra whispered, her eyes glistening with emotion. “I always worried about her—about how she’d handle the expectations placed on her. But look at her. She’s doing this her way, and she’s thriving.”

Daemon nodded, a rare, soft smile crossing his lips. “She’s strong,” he said. “And stubborn as hell. She didn’t need a husband to step in and do this for her. She’s proving that every day.”

Rhaenyra rested her head against Daemon’s shoulder, her smile matching his. “It seems she didn’t need a husband after all,” she said softly.

Daemon chuckled, pride evident in his voice. “No, she didn’t. She’s Targaryen through and through. Fierce, independent, and capable of anything.”

As they stood together, watching their daughter and her makeshift family of dragon, direwolf, squid, and now Rowena, they felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Their daughter was carving her own path, one filled with love, courage, and determination. And they couldn’t have been prouder.

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

The sun was beginning its slow descent when the reader found herself returning to the clearing where she had first discovered Rowena. The air was cool, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves and the scent of wildflowers. She approached the spot cautiously, her heart heavy with unspoken gratitude and sadness. The body of the woman who had cradled Rowena in her final moments was no longer visible beneath the soft blanket of nature. Grass and wildflowers had grown around her resting place, creating a serene, almost sacred atmosphere. The reader paused, marvelling at how life had embraced death in such a tender way. Kneeling down, she reached out a hand to touch the flowers, intending to pay her respects. Just as her fingers brushed a delicate petal, a rustling sound from nearby startled her. She froze, her head snapping up to see a stag stepping gracefully into the clearing.

The animal was magnificent—its coat sleek and shimmering in the dappled sunlight, antlers reaching skyward like the branches of a great tree. It seemed to regard her curiously, its dark eyes calm and intelligent.

Uncertain at first, the reader rose slowly and, remembering stories of old Valyria, offered a respectful bow. To her surprise, the stag lowered its regal head in return, as if acknowledging her gesture. A soft laugh escaped her lips, the moment so unexpected yet oddly comforting.

“You’ve been watching over her, haven’t you?” she murmured, stepping closer. The stag didn’t move, standing still as she reached out to touch its warm, smooth coat. Its body radiated a comforting heat, and she felt an overwhelming sense of peace as her fingers traced along its fur.

“Thank you,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around its neck in an impulsive hug. “Thank you for keeping her safe until I could find her. She gave me Rowena, and I won’t ever forget her sacrifice.”

The stag remained still, almost as if it understood her words. When she stepped back to leave, she felt the weight of its gaze on her. As she walked toward the edge of the clearing, the soft sound of hooves followed behind her. She turned to see the sandy-coloured stag trailing her, its serene demeanour unshaken.

“Are you coming with me?” she asked, smiling faintly. The stag flicked its ears, as if in affirmation. “Alright then. Another friend, I suppose.”

By the time she reached the castle, twilight had begun to paint the sky in shades of gold and purple. The stag still followed her, stopping only when she entered the gates. Its calm presence gave her a strange sense of reassurance, as though it were a guardian sent by the gods.

Inside, Rhaenyra stood at her window, as she gazed out at the grounds below. When her eyes caught sight of her daughter returning, followed by the elegant stag, she laughed in disbelief.

“Daemon!” she called, still chuckling as she motioned for him to join her. “Come see this!”

Daemon entered the room, Rowena cradled protectively against his chest. “What is it now?” he asked, only to stop short when his gaze followed Rhaenyra’s pointing finger. His brow rose in amusement as he spotted the stag standing just beyond the gates, its regal form perfectly silhouetted against the evening light.

Shaking his head with a soft laugh, he looked down at the baby in his arms. “Rowena,” he said with a smirk, “it looks like you have another friend.”

Rhaenyra leaned against him, a smile playing on her lips. “Our daughter seems to have a gift for collecting the extraordinary.”

Daemon nodded, his expression softening. “That she does.”

As the stag settled itself outside, content to remain near the castle, the family watched with quiet wonder. The reader, unaware of their observation, turned back to the stag one last time, offering a small nod of gratitude before stepping inside to check on her baby.

The presence of the stag, like all her newfound companions, was yet another testament to her unique connection with the world around her—a bond forged by compassion, courage, and the strength to embrace the unknown. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The grand dining hall was filled with the hum of voices, the clinking of goblets, and the scraping of silverware against plates. The entire Targaryen family was gathered once again for what should have been a peaceful dinner. The reader, seated beside her father Daemon, was mostly silent, trying to focus on her meal and avoid the glares and whispers she often felt from certain family members. The dire wolf lay quietly at her feet, its large head resting against her knee for comfort, while the stag had stationed itself just outside the hall’s open balcony, its presence still a topic of awe and confusion for the others.

But peace was never guaranteed at a Targaryen dinner.

Aemond’s sharp voice cut through the chatter like a blade. “It’s truly remarkable how you’ve surrounded yourself with beasts, cousin,” he said with a sneer, looking directly at her. “A dragon, a wolf, a stag—and now I hear whispers of some mythical sea creature you call a friend. It’s almost as though you’re collecting animals because you can’t connect with people.”

The reader tensed but didn’t look up, choosing instead to cut her food into smaller and smaller pieces. Daemon, seated beside her, narrowed his eyes at Aemond but held his tongue for now, his hand resting protectively on the arm of his chair.

Aemond wasn’t done. “Tell me, cousin,” he continued, leaning forward with a mocking smile, “is this your grand plan? To live out your days surrounded by animals, so you can avoid the inevitable truth?

That you’ll die alone, just like the beasts you seem so fond of?”

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to slice with a blade. All eyes turned to the reader, some filled with curiosity, others with pity.

She opened her mouth to respond, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and hurt, but before she could say a word, a faint cry echoed through the castle halls. Rowena.

The reader’s heart leapt in panic as she immediately pushed back her chair, the direwolf standing to follow her as she bolted from the room. She didn’t bother excusing herself properly, her sole focus on the baby.

The sound of her hurried footsteps faded, leaving the dining hall in stunned silence.

Aemond smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “What was that noise?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

Daemon’s chair screeched as he stood abruptly, his expression one of barely restrained fury. “Careful, boy,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

Rhaenyra, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke up, her tone sharp. “That cry,” she said, her gaze fixed firmly on Aemond, “was her daughter.”

The collective gasp that rippled through the room was nearly deafening.

“Her what?” Alicent exclaimed, her voice incredulous.

“She found a child,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice steady despite the surprise around her. “A baby girl. She’s named her Rowena, and she is her daughter now. Aemond,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “you would do well to remember that when you speak about her life.”

Back in her chambers, the reader burst through the door, breathless and worried. Rowena’s cries filled the air, frantic and piercing, and the reader quickly crossed the room to the crib. The dire wolf followed closely, sniffing the baby protectively before lying down nearby.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the reader cooed, scooping Rowena into her arms and cradling her gently. “What’s the matter? Did something scare you?”

As she rocked the baby, whispering soothing words, Rowena’s cries began to subside. The reader kissed the top of her head, marveling at how small and fragile she seemed in her arms.

And then it happened.

“Mama,” Rowena said, her tiny voice soft but unmistakable.

The reader froze, her eyes wide with shock. For a moment, she thought she’d imagined it, but then Rowena’s lips moved again, repeating the word as she reached out a tiny hand to touch her mother’s face.

“Mama.”

The reader’s heart swelled, tears springing to her eyes as she smiled down at the baby. “Well done, you clever girl,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “You said your first word!”

She kissed Rowena’s cheek, holding her close as joy replaced the hurt and frustration that Aemond’s words had stirred in her earlier.

Meanwhile, back at the dining hall, the room was buzzing with murmurs as the family digested the revelation about Rowena.

“How does your daughter have a baby?” Alicent demanded, her voice laced with confusion and judgment. “Who is the father?”

“There is no father,” Daemon replied bluntly, his tone daring anyone to question further. “She found the baby abandoned and brought her home. She has taken on the responsibility of raising her, and as far as I’m concerned, Rowena is as much a Targaryen as any of us.”

Aemond scoffed, his jealousy and bitterness still simmering beneath the surface. “So, she’s playing mother to a child that isn’t hers? How noble. Perhaps she should focus on herself before pretending to be fit for such a role.”

Daemon’s hand slammed against the table, the sound reverberating through the hall. “Say another word about my daughter, Aemond, and I’ll show you what it means to cross a dragon.”

Rhaenyra placed a calming hand on her husband’s arm, though her own patience was clearly wearing thin. “Enough,” she said firmly, silencing the room. “We will not discuss this further. Rowena is family, and that is the end of it.”

As the dinner continued in strained silence, the reader sat in her room, Rowena now sound asleep in her arms. The direwolf watched over them both, its golden eyes glowing softly in the dim light.

The reader couldn’t help but think about Aemond’s words, how they had cut so deeply despite her best efforts to ignore them. But as she looked down at Rowena, her heart swelled with love and determination.

“I’m not alone,” she whispered to herself, pressing a kiss to Rowena’s forehead. “And I never will be.”

The dining hall was still a flurry of murmurs and whispered conversations when the reader reentered, cradling Rowena in her arms. The baby, now calm and content, nestled against her chest, her tiny hand gripping the fabric of her mother's dress. The direwolf followed closely behind, its quiet but commanding presence silencing anyone who dared to whisper too loudly.

As she approached the table, all eyes turned to her. The once-familiar stares of judgment and curiosity were now mixed with something else—shock, disbelief, and for a few, a hint of admiration. She held her head high, ignoring the tension as she took her place between her parents, Daemon and Rhaenyra.

Rowena, seemingly unaware of the heavy atmosphere, lifted her head slightly, her big, curious eyes locking onto Daemon. A wide, toothless smile broke across her face, and she let out a delighted giggle, reaching her small hand toward her grandfather.

Daemon, who had been wearing his usual stern expression, softened instantly. A rare smile spread across his lips as he reached out a finger for Rowena to grab, her tiny fingers wrapping tightly around his. “Well, aren’t you a charmer,” he said, his voice low but warm.

Before anyone could comment, Rowena suddenly turned her head and waved a small hand in Aemond’s direction. The gesture was innocent and childlike, but it immediately drew the attention of the entire table. Aemond’s expression shifted from his usual cool indifference to something closer to unease, as if he wasn’t sure how to react. Alicent, seated beside him, looked equally startled.

“Even the baby is more courteous than her mother,” Aemond muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Daemon.

“Enough,” Rhaenyra snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Alicent, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, cleared her throat and asked, “And what of the mother, dear? You said you found her. What happened to her?”

The reader hesitated, her fingers brushing over Rowena’s soft curls as she gathered her thoughts. “The mother was… gone when I found her,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the somber memory. “She was lying in a clearing, and the grass and flowers had grown over her. It was as if the earth had claimed her, wrapping her in beauty. It was… peaceful.”

The table fell silent at her words, the vivid imagery leaving a mark on everyone present. Even Alicent, who was often quick to judge, looked contemplative. Rowena shifted in the reader’s arms, her small hand clutching at the fabric of her mother’s dress as she let out a small, sleepy mumble. The reader glanced down, brushing a gentle hand over the baby’s cheek. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she asked softly.

Rowena’s head tilted upward, her drowsy eyes meeting her mother’s. Then, clear as day, she mumbled, “Mama.”

The reader froze agin still suprised when hearing her speak, her small voice a mixture of tiredness and affection. “Mama.”

The room collectively held its breath.

Rhaenyra’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with astonishment. Daemon, equally stunned, looked between his daughter and the baby, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically tender.

“She spoke,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice trembling. “Her first word…”

She pressed a kiss to Rowena’s forehead, holding her close. “Well done, my clever girl,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re so smart.”

The baby nestled against her mother’s chest again, her tiny fingers gripping the edge of the reader’s dress as her eyes fluttered closed, clearly worn out from the excitement.

At the table, the reactions varied. Rhaenyra’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, her heart full of pride for both her daughter and her granddaughter. Daemon, though outwardly composed, couldn’t hide the pride and protectiveness radiating from him. Alicent, on the other hand, looked conflicted, her lips pressed into a thin line as if she was wrestling with her feelings. Aemond remained stoic, though his jaw tightened at the sight of the tender family moment.

“I suppose that settles it,” Daemon said after a moment, his voice breaking the silence. “Rowena is family, through and through. There’s no questioning it now.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her hand resting on her daughter’s shoulder. “She’s one of us,” she said firmly. “A Targaryen in every way that matters.”

The reader smiled softly, her gaze fixed on Rowena’s peaceful face. Despite the tension and challenges she had faced, this moment made it all worthwhile. Her daughter’s first word was proof that she was doing something right, that the love she poured into Rowena was making a difference.

The direwolf, sensing the calm that had settled over its mistress, rested its head on the floor beside her chair. The stag, though still lingering outside, stood tall and vigilant, its presence a silent reassurance.

As the meal slowly resumed, the reader stayed seated, her focus entirely on Rowena. The weight of Aemond’s earlier words still lingered, but they felt distant now, overshadowed by the love and support surrounding her.

Daemon leaned over, his voice low enough that only his daughter could hear. “You’re doing well, little one,” he said, his tone filled with pride. “Don’t let anyone make you doubt that.”

The reader looked up at him, her eyes glistening with gratitude. “Thank you, father,” she whispered.

As the evening unfolded, the reader gently handed Rowena to her father, Daemon, who took the baby with surprising ease. His movements were tender, a far cry from his usual fiery demeanour.

Rowena’s small hands immediately reached up to his face, exploring the strands of his silver-white hair, tugging them with curious fingers. Daemon chuckled softly, a sound that was rare and cherished.

“You’ve taken a liking to my hair, haven’t you, little one?” Daemon murmured, cradling Rowena closer. The baby giggled, her head resting against his neck as she continued her playful exploration.

The reader sat back, her gaze fixated on the scene before her. Watching her father interact with her daughter filled her heart with a warmth she couldn’t quite put into words. Daemon, so fierce and untamed in most circumstances, held Rowena with the gentleness of a man entirely smitten.

Rowena eventually shifted, her tiny body moving to sit on Daemon’s lap. Her big, curious eyes darted around the room, taking in the faces of the Targaryen family members seated at the table. When her gaze landed on Aemond, the room seemed to hold its breath.

The baby and her second cousin locked eyes, both wearing expressions far too serious for such a small child. It was as if they were engaging in a silent battle of wills, a staring contest that neither seemed inclined to lose. The reader bit back a smile, her eyes darting between the two.

Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, Rowena stuck out her tiny tongue at Aemond, the playful gesture utterly unexpected. The room erupted into soft laughter, and even Daemon let out an amused chuckle.

To everyone’s astonishment, Aemond’s stoic facade cracked for a fleeting moment. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in what could only be described as a reluctant smile. The reader’s eyes widened, and her astonishment must have been palpable because Aemond immediately schooled his expression back to its usual detached demeanour. His single eye darted to the reader, and when he noticed her, along with the stag and direwolf silently watching him from the corner of the room, his jaw tightened.

The reader arched a brow at him, her amusement evident. “Did you just smile at my daughter, Aemond?” she asked, her tone teasing but warm.

Aemond huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I did no such thing,” he said curtly, though his ears reddened slightly, betraying his embarrassment.

Daemon, still holding Rowena, smirked at Aemond’s discomfort. “Admit it, brother. You’re smitten with the little dragon.”

“I am not,” Aemond retorted sharply, though his gaze flicked back to Rowena, who was now babbling and clapping her hands on Daemon’s chest.

The baby’s antics seemed to diffuse the tension in the room, her innocent joy infectious. The direwolf, sensing the calm, padded closer and lay down at the reader’s feet, its watchful eyes fixed on Rowena. The stag, still standing by the window, observed with quiet dignity, its presence a reminder of the unusual but undeniable bond the reader shared with her growing family of creatures.

As Rowena continued to babble and explore her surroundings from her perch on Daemon’s lap, the reader couldn’t help but marvel at how naturally her father had taken to being a grandfather. His gruff exterior melted away in Rowena’s presence, replaced by a side of him the reader rarely got to see.

“You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, haven’t you, my clever girl?” the reader said softly, leaning forward to brush a stray curl from Rowena’s forehead. The baby responded with a delighted coo, her small hand reaching out to grab her mother’s fingers.

Daemon glanced at his daughter, a rare softness in his gaze. “She takes after you,” he said, his tone carrying both pride and affection. “Strong-willed and utterly unyielding.”

The reader smiled, her heart swelling with love for both her father and her daughter. Despite the challenges and the constant pushback from certain family members, moments like this reminded her that she had created something beautiful, something worth protecting.

As Rowena shifted her attention back to Aemond, the reader leaned back in her chair, watching the silent exchange between her daughter and her uncle. She couldn’t help but wonder what the future held for her little girl, but one thing was certain: Rowena was already leaving an indelible mark on everyone around her.

Even on Aemond, whether he wanted to admit it or not

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The moon cast its soft glow over the gardens as the reader carried a fussing Rowena in her arms. The baby's cries were growing louder, and the reader gently rocked her, humming a lullaby under her breath. The large stag followed silently, its regal form illuminated by the pale light, and the reader glanced at it with curiosity.

“Do you think she’s drawn to you?” she asked quietly, almost as if speaking to herself. “Or is it me? Either way, I think you might mean something to her, old friend.”

Rowena’s cries softened as they reached a quieter spot by the cliffs. The stag lowered itself to the ground nearby, its watchful eyes fixed on the mother and child. The reader let out a small sigh, grateful for the calm. However, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced over her shoulder, her sharp gaze cutting through the shadows, and her suspicion was confirmed when

Aemond stepped into view.

“Are you following me again, Aemond?” she asked, her voice tinged with annoyance. She adjusted Rowena in her arms, shielding the baby from the cool night air. “I don’t have time for your comments tonight.”

Aemond tilted his head, his single eye gleaming in the moonlight. “You misunderstand me,” he said smoothly, his hands clasped behind his back. “I only wish to speak with you.”

“I doubt you have anything to say that I want to hear,” the reader replied curtly, turning away from him and walking further toward the cliffside.

Aemond’s footsteps followed close behind. “I mean no harm to you or the child,” he said, his voice steady. “But surely you can see that this... arrangement is unusual. You carry a baby not your own, one you found under circumstances that would raise questions. You cannot expect the rest of the family—or the court—to accept this so easily.”

The reader stopped in her tracks, spinning around to face him. Rowena stirred in her arms, letting out a soft whimper as if sensing her mother’s irritation. “I don’t care what you—or anyone else—think,” she said sharply. “This baby is mine now, and no one will take her from me.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “Even if it invites danger? Even if it puts a target on your back?”

The reader narrowed her eyes, her grip tightening protectively around Rowena. “I’d rather die protecting her than live a life dictated by fear and judgment,” she snapped. “If you have nothing helpful to say, leave us alone.”

With that, she turned and walked toward the cliffs, seeking the one place where she felt truly at peace: the sea. She knew the kraken would come if she called, and tonight, she needed its calming presence more than ever.

As she reached the edge of the cliffs, she looked down at the dark waves crashing below. The stag stood a short distance behind her, its antlers gleaming in the moonlight. Rowena was quiet now, her small hand clutching at the reader’s dress as if seeking comfort. The reader took a deep breath and murmured softly, “Come to me, old friend.”

The water rippled unnaturally, and moments later, the familiar orange tentacles emerged, followed by the Kraken’s massive head. The creature’s glowing eyes locked onto her, its presence both imposing and strangely comforting. Rowena let out a delighted coo, reaching a tiny hand toward the Kraken as if recognizing it. The kraken responded by lifting a tentacle gently toward them, its movements slow and deliberate.

Behind her, Aemond stood frozen, his mouth slightly agape as he watched the massive sea creature interact with the reader and the baby. “Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath.

Unbeknownst to Aemond, Daemon was not far behind. The moment he had noticed the reader’s empty seat at dinner, he had excused himself from the table. After a brief conversation with Rhaenyra, they both realized Aemond’s absence as well and exchanged a knowing glance. It didn’t take long for Daemon to follow the trail of his daughter, his instinct sharp and unerring.

When he arrived at the cliffs, his breath hitched at the sight before him. His daughter stood confidently at the edge, holding Rowena close while the kraken loomed in the water below. The stag stood nearby like a sentinel, and Aemond was to the side, his expression torn between shock and something like awe.

Daemon’s protective instincts kicked in immediately. “Step away from the edge, both of you,” he called out, his voice firm but laced with concern.

The reader turned, her face softening when she saw her father. “We’re fine, Father,” she assured him. “The Kraken wouldn’t hurt us.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he approached, his gaze flicking to Aemond with a hint of suspicion. “And what are you doing here?” he asked sharply.

Aemond straightened, his usual confidence returning. “I was merely ensuring your daughter wasn’t putting herself—or the child—in harm’s way.”

Daemon scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. “How noble of you,” he said sarcastically, before turning his full attention to the reader. “You should’ve told me where you were going. You scared your mother half to death.”

“I needed some air,” the reader replied, her tone defensive but not unkind. She glanced back at the kraken, which had retreated slightly but still lingered near the surface. “I needed to see it again. It... calms me.”

Daemon’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I understand,” he said quietly. “But next time, don’t go alone. You’re not the only one who loves that little girl. We’re a family now, and we protect each other.”

Rowena chose that moment to let out a happy squeal as if agreeing with her grandfather. Daemon chuckled, reaching out to take her from the reader’s arms. “Come here, little dragon,” he murmured, cradling the baby against his chest. “You’re far too young for these late-night adventures.”

The reader smiled, her heart swelling with gratitude for her father’s unwavering support. Even as she faced the challenges of her unconventional life, she knew she could always count on him to stand by her side.

As the family made their way back to the castle, the stag followed at a respectful distance, its silent presence a reminder of the strange but undeniable bond that had formed between them. And though

Aemond trailed behind, his thoughts remained conflicted, his gaze lingering on the kraken’s glowing eyes as they disappeared beneath the waves.

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The day was calm, with the soft golden light of the afternoon casting a serene glow across the landscape. The reader had set out once again, the loyal stag and direwolf following close behind. This time, she was determined to find more information about Rowena’s origins, to piece together the fragments of the life the baby had been torn from. The spot where she had found Rowena was overgrown with grass and wildflowers, a quiet and somber beauty.

The reader knelt by the spot, her fingers brushing the petals of a wildflower as she whispered, “I’m sorry you had to go this way. I’ll take care of her. I promise.”

The stag stood silently nearby, its antlers shining in the light, while the direwolf sniffed the air, ever alert. The reader moved to explore further, her boots sinking slightly into the soft ground as she made her way through the glade. She paused at the crest of a hill, scanning the area for any signs of human presence, but the landscape stretched on, untouched. Just as she turned to move downhill, her foot caught on a loose patch of grass.

She stumbled and let out a surprised yelp, tumbling forward. The hill was steep, and she rolled down awkwardly, landing in a heap at the bottom. Groaning, she pushed herself up, brushing dirt and blades of grass from her dress. The dire wolf had already made its way down, sniffing her as if to ensure she was unharmed, while the stag remained at the top, watching her descent with its usual serene gaze.

“Of course, I had to fall,” she muttered, shaking her head. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, then froze as something in the distance caught her eye—a small cottage, nestled in the trees.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Is this where you lived?” she whispered, more to herself than to her companions. With a sense of foreboding, she walked toward the cottage, the direwolf padding silently by her side.

When she reached the door, it creaked loudly as she pushed it open. The air inside was stale, carrying the unmistakable scent of death. The sight that greeted her made her breath hitch. Two more bodies lay inside—a man slumped over the table and a small child curled up near the hearth, their presence a grim testament to tragedy.

The reader pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting back tears. She took a shaky step forward, her gaze scanning the room. The cottage was humble but had the clear marks of a family life once lived: a simple wooden table, worn chairs, a hand-carved crib in the corner.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers brushed over the table’s surface, lingering on a small wooden carving that had been left there. It was shaped like a stag, its edges smoothed from wear. She picked it up, a lump forming in her throat.

“Rowena will love this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ll make sure she knows it came from you.”

She searched the cottage for anything else that might hold meaning—a blanket, a keepsake—but most of the belongings had been too worn or ruined to salvage. Clutching the wooden stag, she stepped outside, the weight of the family’s loss pressing heavily on her chest. The stag was waiting for her by the door, its calm presence a strange comfort.

When she arrived back at the castle, the sun was beginning to set. Daemon was outside, holding Rowena in his arms as he paced the courtyard. The baby was cooing softly, one tiny hand reaching for his long, white hair. When he saw the reader approaching, his eyes widened in alarm.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded, his tone sharp with worry. “You look like you’ve been wrestling boars.”

The reader glanced down at herself, realizing how dishevelled she must have appeared—her dress was wrinkled and dirt-streaked, her hair a tangled mess. She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said lightly. “I just fell down a hill.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “You’re not usually this careless. What were you doing out there?”

“I was looking for answers,” she admitted, holding up the small wooden white stag, different to the one behind her. “I found the cottage where Rowena’s family lived. It was... hard to see, but I found this. I think it might have been hers.”

Daemon’s expression softened as he looked at the carved toy. Rowena, as if sensing the moment, reached out her tiny hands toward the object. Daemon carefully placed it in her grasp, and the baby immediately brought it to her mouth, gnawing on it with a toothless grin.

The reader couldn’t help but smile. “She likes it,” she said quietly.

Daemon studied his daughter’s face, his gaze flicking to the stag and the dire wolf that stood nearby, ever faithful. “You’ve taken on a great deal of responsibility,” he said, his voice tinged with pride.

“More than most would.”

The reader looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. “She deserves it,” she said simply. “She deserves a family that loves her.”

“You’ve given her that,” Daemon said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “And you’ve reminded me what it means to protect what we love.”

Rowena giggled, clutching the wooden stag tightly in her small hands, and the reader felt a sense of peace settle over her. Despite the hardships and the unanswered questions, she knew they were building something beautiful—a life worth fighting for.

[irisposts]

Fire and Blood (Embers of us* Special Chapter)

summary l you claim a dragon and confront your uncle. *takes place after ‘embers of us’

paring: very brief aemond x neice!reader

note: dividers by (@zaldritzosrose ) :)

not edited.

Things are dire.

And the greatest threat to your mother’s throne is your uncle.

Aemond.

His tenacity, his unyielding strength, and his relentless loyalty to his side of the bloodline has made him your most dangerous adversary.

His dragon, Vhagar, is a weapon few could hope to match. And your mother— the queen, needs more dragonriders. But there is one problem that sets you apart from your family: you’ve never ridden a dragon.

Like your uncle Aemond, you have long been teased for this. For years, the absence of a bond with a dragon was a source of mockery—something that stung in silence. Something you found comfort in with your uncle. But now, with a war at hand it is no longer a laughing matter. Your queen needs you.

But despite several harrowing attempts to claim one, you still remain dragon-less…at a point, it begins to feel futile.

You sit in the strategy chamber of Dragonstone,its ancient carved table etched with the map of Westeros. The dim candlelight underneath casts flickering shadows over the carved sigils of houses. You trace the lines of it with your eyes—north, south, the rivers, and mountains.

“At least the child is well-versed in swordsmanship,” Lord Corlys Velaryon comments, his voice steady.

Rhaenyra turns her head to him, her gaze silencing him before he can say more.

His lips press together in regret. “Perhaps I misspoke?”

You chew your lip, frustration rising within you. “My sword means nothing in this war if I cannot bring fire to my uncles and their army.” You rest your hands along the table. “What does it mean to be Targaryen if I fight on the ground and not in the skies?”

“You’re being cruel to yourself.” Baela says from across the table. Her voice is sincere, her eyes filled with compassion.

Baela’s kindness is something you’ve always admired, but it offers little comfort now.

But you can’t shake the feeling that claiming a dragon is no longer a distant dream—it’s now a necessity, and time is running out.

You’ve walked the grounds outside of Dragonstone for hours.

It had taken some effort to sneak past the guards, but you managed. You needed space, the pressure was beginning to crush you thin. Your mother’s expectations, the impending war, the sense that something terrible was looming just over the horizon.

Your feet lead you toward the cliffs beyond the castle. The air is cool, the night sky blanketed with stars. You glance toward the distant mountains, their silhouettes just visible against the dark sky. You let out a puff air and sigh. And then, something catches your eye.

A shadow— a speck in the distance, growing larger with every passing second.

You squint. Your heart quickens as you rub at your eyes.

A dragon.

As the creature draws nearer, panic rises within you. It’s heading straight for you, its wings beating the air with terrifying force. You turn and run, your feet pounding the earth as fast as they can carry you.

The sound of heavy wings flaps louder behind you, accompanied by the dragon’s screech.

A blast of fire scorches the ground beside you, and you bank to the left just in time to avoid its flames. The scent of smoke fills your lungs as you sprint, your chest burning with the effort. But you can’t outrun it.

The dragon barrels its head into your back, sending you sprawling forward onto the ground. You feel the earth slam against your face, grass and dirt scratching at your cheeks and clinging to your lashes. You roll onto your back just in time to see the massive creature descending upon you.

Its talons encircle you, its black-scaled legs pinning you to the ground. The beast hovers over you, its body vast and dark, like an endless shadow. Its nostrils flare as it sniffs at your face, its hot breath washing over you. It bares its teeth, a low growl rumbling from its throat. You brace yourself as it screeches, the deafening sound reverberating through your body.

When the sound finally fades, you dare to look up at the creature. Its talons dig deeper into the ground around you, its eyes glowing with a fierce intelligence. You can see the orange hue of fire gathering in its throat.

This is the end, you think. And you haven’t even had the chance to fight for your queen. It’s tragic and ultimately pathetic. You dreamed of an honorable death—in battle on dragon back. Much like your great aunt.

Something inside you shifts. Instead of surrendering to fear, rage boils within you. You rise up as much as you can, staring directly into the dragon’s eyes, and scream—not out of fear, but fury.

The scream is raw and guttural. Filled with ureteral frustration and defiance. And for a moment, it feels as though the dragon is screaming with you. Both of you locked in a primal exchange.

And then, the dragon stills. And your chest heaves, catching your breath.

There’s a long pause. You and the dragon stare at one another, breathing heavily, an awkward tension hanging in the air. Your heart pounds as you size each other up, the beast’s eyes narrowing as if considering what to do with you.

Slowly, you stand, your legs shaky beneath you. You swipe the dirt from your clothes, your eyes never leaving the dragon’s. There is still fire in its gaze, but it doesn’t strike.

“Ao henujagon issa,” You say, your voice rough with exhaustion. You nearly killed me.

The dragon growls, a deep, guttural sound that rumbles through the earth. It snorts, nudging your stomach with its massive head.

You push back instinctively, your hand pressing against its snout. The dragon snaps in retaliation, its teeth flashing in the moonlight, but you hold your ground, your eyes never leaving it. “Lykirī,” you command, your voice taut. Calm.

The dragon’s eyes narrow, but it listens. Slowly, the tension drains from its massive form, and it lowers its head enough for you to touch it.

Tentatively, you raise your hand and place it on its snout, feeling the heat radiating through the rough black scales. The connection is fragile but present. There’s an understanding between you now, one built on fire and blood.

You now realize what dragon you face—The Cannibal, the wildest, most feared dragon of them all. Unclaimed. Untamed.

A part of you wishes you would run far away. No one had seen this dragon in years, many had predicted he passed long ago. And maybe that would be for the better, he was unpredictable and ferocious. And yet, the other half of you is curious about the possibility that maybe…

“Dohaeris,” You test the word on your tongue. Serve.

The Cannibal huffs in response, as if contemplating the word. There’s a flicker of defiance in its eyes—this is no ordinary dragon, no creature easily bent to the will of man. But something in your voice, in your presence, seems to reach it.

You meet its gaze, refusing to back down. You lick at your lips. “Dohaeris,” you repeat, your voice stronger.

Cannibal lowers its head slightly, allowing you to run your fingers along the rough, black scales of its snout. He lets out a long breath, his body shifting as if in acknowledgment. Acceptance.

You let your lips curl into a smile.

Over the following days, the queen has built an army of new dragonriders—bastards, they call them. Three of them. Three men. They were fearless, driven by the fire in their veins and the promise of glory.

And you—you became the fourth. The only woman among the bastards.

The word that once boiled your blood. You and your brothers were always ridiculed for not having the Targaryen silver hair. But, unlike your twin brother who worries about his legitimacy as heir— you now wear it as a badge of defiance.

After all, you had claimed a dragon—the wildest and most dangerous of them all.

Cannibal stood with you among the others as equals, a new fearsome weapon in the queen’s arsenal. But even with your newfound strength, the threat of Aemond loomed like a shadow over every decision.

Your mother had commanded Ulf White, the rider of Silverwing, to fly over King’s Landing as a show of strength. Meanwhile, you all waited near the cliffs. Your mother stands before you, her gaze sharp and expectant as she awaited Aemond’s arrival.

You watch as Silverwing flies above, wings cutting through the bright sky.

And as expected, you see him—Aemond.

He’s not far behind, flying high above, mounted on the back of Vhagar. Her massive wings blot out the heavens, and the roar of the dragon reverberates the very clouds as she descends. You take a guarded step towards Cannibal as Aemond gaze fixes on you and the rightful heir to the iron throne.

The unspoken history between you clings to the air. Now, standing on opposite sides of this war, it feels even more dangerous than before.

But before he can make his move, your mother steps forward. Syrax, her golden dragon, looms behind her. A silent challenge vibrates in the air.

For a moment, time seems to stand still. Aemond’s eye flickers from Rhaenyra to the dragonriders assembled below. His gaze lingers on you again, longer than it should. He sees you. He sees Cannibal. And for a heartbeat, you brace yourself, thinking he might strike.

But then, without warning, Aemond pulls Vhagar away with a sharp jerk of the reins. You watch as he veers off into the distance. You hesitate, watching his flight as Vhagar’s colossal wings beat against the sky. He’s not attacking. He’s retreating.

You watch even as he turns into a small spec of black in the blue sky.

Relief threatens to wash over you. But just as you’re about to turn back toward your mother, you see it—Aemond changing course, his flight path shifting toward the distant horizon. A wave of dread settles in your chest.

He’s heading for Sharp Point.

The small village that’s loyal to your mother. A village full of innocents.

Without thinking, you climb onto Cannibal’s back, your heart racing as you urge the dragon forward. “Sōvēs!” you shout. Fly!

Cannibal surges into the sky, his wings slicing through the air with deadly grace. Your mother’s voice calls out to you from below. “Don’t!” Her words are strained with urgency. “Stop!” she cries, but you don’t listen. You can’t. Not now.

Higher and faster, Cannibal climbs through the sky, the wind biting at your face as you race toward the horizon. Fear claws at your throat, and your heart thunders with every beat as you try to close the distance between you and Aemond. You push Cannibal harder, faster, but by the time you reach Sharp Point— it’s already too late.

The village is consumed by flames.

Screams echo down below as the smallfolk flee, their homes reduced to ashes. Their lives torn apart like paper in the wind. You watch in horror as the flames devour everything in their path. The stench of burning wood and flesh fills the air, heavy and sickening. Your stomach churns as you see the bodies of those who couldn’t escape—charred and lifeless. Tears prickle your eyes.

And then, in the distance, you see him.

Aemond.

Perched atop Vhagar, watching the destruction with a chilling detachment. Vhagar’s wings beat slowly, lazily, as though the chaos beneath them is beneath her notice.

Fury ignites inside you. You push Cannibal forward, gripping the reins tightly as you close the gap between you and Aemond. He watches you approach.

“Aemond!” you shout, your voice barely cutting through the roaring wind as you fly across from him.

Vhagar lets out a screech, but Aemond steadies her with a hand. “Daor,” he commands. No.

“This is what you’ve come to do?” You yell, your voice strained as you try to be heard over the winds. “Burn innocent smallfolk? Did my queen happen to hit a nerve?”

He sneers at this.

“They are nothing,” Aemond shouts back, his voice as cold and detached as ever. “Collateral. Casualties of war.”

“You think this will make you king?” you seethe, your fury burning like wildfire in your chest. “A king that’s too emotional for the throne when he’s been bested?”

Aemond’s expression grows serious, his one eye hardening as he looks at you. “Bantis ōños issa,” he says, his voice low and filled with dangerous promise. This is only the beginning.

Like a final warning, he pulls Vhagar away. Her massive wings beating against the wind as they disappear into the sky.

…And all you can do is, watch.

[chaibewriting]

PART SIX — 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄

prince! enji todoroki x black-coded! (poc friendly) fem! reader x platonic! todoroki kids

content warnings: brief depiction of violence, domestic violence mentioned, suicide mentioned, child neglect mentioned.

notes: this is long overdue, my bad y'all I was dead— hope ya enjoy today's chapter 🕵️

word count: 5.2k

summary: enji gets a taste of his own medicine and an old enemy is coming to the light.

taglist: @easilyobsessedbutflighty @rogueofbullshit @2chickenwangs @mimi-sanisanidiot @megumitodoroki @sexyashbish @nctseventeensworld @flamey-comet @theroosterswife24 @randomjuju @hecate-kitty @bluebreadenthusiast @flvr4ane @theitchbbbb @bunniotomia

prev. chapter six. masterpost. next.

IT’S hand continued to squeeze the throat of the King, unwilling to let go of the man who’d struck you. Surely, you would be leaving a bruise on him.

Whilst the entity continued to grip Enji’s throat in a vice grip, glaring at his face. His lightly tanned skin was slowly turning blue, your terrified son soon broke from his fear-struck state upon seeing you. This new figure seems to make his fear disappear and he isn’t afraid anymore. Afraid of what? Perhaps his father, or more so, what your father could do to you in his blinded rage. As he looks between you, or the creature holding you, and his father, he realizes that there would be dire consequences if you were to accidentally kill the man.

Silently, the little boy lurches forward, sprinting towards the shadowy creature and jumps onto one of its inky black, tree stump legs, wrapping his little arms around it and hugging it. From what he was able to see, you were covered in the blackest flames he'd ever seen, and he had willingly thrown himself into danger at the prospect of being potentially burned as long as it meant you would stop. To his surprise, there was no burning sensation. In fact, he had squeezed his eyes shut, tears pricking at the corners, preparing for the searing pain of being set ablaze. However, instead of such an unfortunate fate, he was met with an overwhelming warmth that soothed him immensely; he felt protected, safe, comfortable, and… happy. All of the feelings you had introduced to him ever since you’d made your way into his life was what he felt in that moment, except it was tenfold. He never wanted to be brought out of this fire, his entire body relaxing as he continued to hold onto the creature’s leg. However, the sound of gurgles and grunts reminded him of his current goal, his father’s life was still being threatened. And as much as he deserved to be hurt like he hurt others, he shouldn’t be killed.

In his moment of clarity, he opened his eyes and looked up at the creature’s face and didn’t know what to do. However, he acted before he could think much more. “Mama!! Mama, come back please!! Y-you have to let go!!” He called out, hoping to reach you from wherever you were currently. “Mama, please!!”

The sound of his pleading causes the creature to pause momentarily before looking down, finally noticing the small child who was currently clinging to its leg, fresh tears running down his chubby cheeks. Pain. Hurt. Need. Heartbreak. A child so young shouldn’t be feeling these things.

Everything that comes after happens in just mere seconds, though it feels like it occured in slow motion. Enji was dropped to the ground, gasping for air, catching up on some much needed oxygen, and the creature reached down to scoop Dabi up into one of its hands, pushing him into its chest where you currently were. As soon as he was safe within the confines of the creatures body you were quick to bring the small child to you. The shadowy figure made space and held the two of you inside of it as you cradled him in your arms as best as you could with your belly still in-tow. Shakingly, you cupped Dabi’s face in your hands and began to wipe away his tears with your thumbs. “I’m so sorry, Dabi. You shouldn’t have had to do that. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” The sound of your voice and the concern in your eyes causes Dabi to sob, fresh tears beginning to fall as he wailed. “Mama!! I-I thought you were g-gonna kill… kill dad an’— an’ get e-e-executed..!!”

“What? Oh no, no, baby. It’s okay, you don’t have to worry. Mama’s here, okay? We’re okay, everything’s gonna be alright.” You were quick to reassure him, holding onto him for dear life. Nothing else seemed to matter to you in the moment, not even your husband’s gaze that was staring at what you had become. You were more focused on making sure that Dabi was okay and safe.

Inside of the creature was where the two of them currently resided, the creature remaining as it was as it discreetly observed its surroundings. Surprisingly, the ‘room’ you were in was completely black but you were still able to see things clearly around you, including what was going on outside of the creature’s body, almost like you were in a protective glass box despite the outside of the creature’s body being jet black and opaque.

Enji had managed to catch his breath again, a hand on his throat as he measured the level of damage you’d done. The crumpled man stared at the creature that swallowed you and Dabi up with an unreadable expression, his mind swarming with thoughts that even he couldn’t fully comprehend. The most prominent thought that seemed to prevail above all was the fact that he was proud.

Proud of the fact that his wife, his Queen was strong enough to defend herself when her safety was threatened, this new form, whatever it was, reminded him of his own technique where he would engulf the entirety of his body in flame, the fire going as far to even engulf his skeletal system with flames- the sight of it was simply his skeleton on fire.

Slowly, he stood on his feet and the creature seemed to watch him closely, taking note of every move he made, no-doubt ready to strike defensively if it called for that line of action even while still remaining in its squatting position it was still towering over the King.

The two of them, the creature and Enji, appeared to be in a silent staring contest of sorts, almost daring each other to do something even remotely hamrful to the other. As one would expect, the Hellflame user had many questions he wished to ask, but he wouldn’t get the time to ask said questions as the creature began to speak despite its lack of mouth.

“If you bring harm to my user again, I will have no other choice than to consider you as a threat and will eliminate you if such action is called for. I will strike you back with the same force, and perhaps more.”

It’s voice was androgynous, his eyes squinting with each tonal transition of words as they pointed a smokey finger at your husband who appeared to be taken aback by the sentient creature. You had been stunned as well, still holding Dabi in your arms as the creature proceeded to sink down towards the ground, its lower body pouring into a river of smoke that steadily fell until you were back on your feet, currently propping Dabi on one of your hips as you held him. Terrifyingly enough, as the smoke cleared, fanning itself around your now standing form, you scowled at the man in front of you, piggybacking off of your protector’s words. “I don’t wish to see your face now, later, or even after that. You disgust me. You need to leave right now." You stated, leaving no room for argument as you glared at Enji, your resolve and irritation was as clear as day.

He stood still. Staring at you, scrutizining your facial expression and whatever may be going on behind those fierce eyes that had gotten you married to him in the first place. And then, without a word, he turned on his heels and walked away from you, soon passing through the doors that led out to where you were. As soon as he was gone, you relaxed, letting out a breath as you carefully put Dabi onto his feet and then sunk to your knees, digging your nails into the dirt as you attempted to wrap your head around what had just happened and why it had happened. You’d never done such a thing before, and no one had ever told you you could even do something as remotely as possible this. Your awakened power had a sentient being attached to it? Did it lie dormant inside of you at all times? You had to speak to your parents as soon as you possible could to try and get those answers.

…

From Enji’s perspective, this power appeared to have been awoken by your maternal instincts and the need to protect yourself and the life within you. As he walked down the castle halls, he rubbed at his neck, taking note of the tender, irritated skin, this had been the last thing he'd expected to happen. On one hand, he was glad she’d managed to strike back at him, but on the other hand, he grew excited wondering what their child would have once she was born, would she have a combination of their powers or would she inherit only one in its entirety? Under his pride and excitement was also bewilderment.

Passing by a few servants on his short journey to his office, he paid no attention to the others who seemed to be tripping over themselves to try and move out of his way, though a great majority had taken note of the bruising on his neck as they looked towards his back. Where had he gotten that from?

Once he was in the privacy of his office, he shut the door behind him and approached his desk, taking a seat as he began to further ponder their situation. He had reacted like his mother. He struck Y/N just like how his mother would often strike his father when he didn’t do something correctly to her. He never struck back, no matter how many times Enji would question the late King, wondering why he never stuck up for himself and just took the abuse with a smile. Distinctly, he remembered asking the older man one day when he had just turned around ten why he allowed his mother to hit him without consequence.

"She means well, I know it’s difficult for her to express her emotions verbally so physically expressing it allows me to understand her better.” The man had explained with a smiling bruised face, groaning when he’d stretched his split lip a little too far to offer a reassuring smile.

You had done something his father failed to do, you had struck Enji in retaliation and didn’t just sit back and take what he’d given you. It filled him with a sense of uncertainty, as well as… exuberance.

…

Back outside, you had slowly regained your strength, sitting back slowly on your legs as you noticed Dabi staring at you with a hairy look in his eyes, making you fully remember what you were doing and who you were currently with. “Ah sh- shoot. I’m sorry you had to see… whatever that was, Dabi– Ah, fuck, where’s Keigo? Keigo!” “‘m right here, Your Majesty!” You felt a slight gust of wind to your right and took note of Keigo who had flown down from a tree nearby once the King had disappeared, making his way over to where the two of you were currently. Sharply inhaling, you were quick to apologize again. “I’m sorry for scaring you both. I didn’t mean to turn into a monster-” “No! You weren’t a monster! You were… were-” Dabi had cut you off in an attempt to make you feel better but couldn’t seem to figure out what word he wanted to use, thankfully, he wasn’t alone. “-cool!!” Keigo yelled, striking a quirky pose after he’d finished Dabi’s sentence for him. “You went like- ‘pow pow’! And then ya turned into fire ‘n were so freakin’ tall!!! I thought ya were gonna set the trees on FIRE!” The tiny blond rambled, attempting to reenact the ‘fighting moves’ you had done, swinging wildly at the air as he continued to babble about how cool you were. You and Dabi watched as he continued his little reenactment, no-doubt dramatizing what had really happened, you couldn’t help but laugh quietly, the mood rising thanks to the little boy’s excitement. Moving to sit beside you on the grass, Dabi gently grabbed your hand and held it, even with your hand easily dwarfing his tiny one, hoping that the gesture would make you feel better as Keigo continued his story. You were glad you weren’t alone at the moment, but you were a bit apprehensive about the fact that the two of them had witnessed such a traumatizing scene. You were unsure of what to say, you could think of a million and one things but none of them seemed right.

A few minutes had passed before Keigo had finished his excited retelling of what had occurred, the little birdie boy seemed to have tuckered himself out from shadowboxing whatever invisible entity he’d created with his mind. Soon after, an idea came to mind as you looked to your side and down at Dabi with a small smile, deciding to use this difficult situation to your advantage.

“How do you feel about us going to visit grandma and grandpa? I’m sure they’d be plenty happy to see you.”

The sudden question caused the boy to instantly spark up with joy, eagerly nodding his head with a bit of a twinkle in his eyes. Even before your marriage to Enji, your parents have treated Dabi like their first grandchild, smothering him with all sorts of affection and material things— something he had yet to receive from his blood grandmother. Though you were saddened briefly by such news, you didn’t exactly like Enji’s mother, she wasn’t someone you’d sit down to have tea with willingly, but you tolerated her for the sake of everything else.

After hearing Dabi’s answer you were quick to nod and stand up, eager to clean up and leave, however, to your surprise, Minji had appeared out of thin air, almost as if she had a sixth sense, picking up the bottom of her dress to hurriedly approach you, you had nearly missed her entrance but thankfully Keigo was quick to call out to her and ran to hug her middle. As soon as she was in front of you, she began to speak, moving her hands around wildly which was something you had learned the woman had a tendency to do when she was feeling overwhelmed with emotion and also had a tendency to ramble.

“Y/N! What in the world?! The other servants told me you were out here and about the King coming to confront you… Are you alright? Shall I fetch some coolant gel or bandages or gauze or perhaps some ice or should I get the castle doc-“

You were quick to grab a hold of her hands, cutting her off as you encased them both between your hands and gave them a gentle squeeze in an attempt to put her mind at rest, and fortunately, it seemed to work when she stopped fumbling over her words and simply looked at you expectantly. Sharply inhaling, your jaw clenched for a split second before relaxing again, a small smile appearing instead. “I’m fine, Minji. I promise. I just plan on spending a few days in Tenebris with Dabi and my parents, perhaps my brother if he’s not busy with his suitors.”

Minji was quick to nod, taking a quick glance around at the surrounding area before taking note of the remnants of your impromptu picnic that had been all but demolished by the two growing boys nearby, as well as yourself. “Kei Kei and I will clean up here. You two can run along, please tell your mother I said ‘hello’.”

“But-“

“Nope. Nada. I am not going to let you clean, baby bird and I can handle it. Can’t we, baby?” She asked, looking down at her son with fondness, he chirped in agreement and she reached down to ruffle his fluffy locks of blond, nodding with determination immediately afterwards. “See? We can handle it. You two run away now or I’ll chase ya off with a broom.” She threatened, although her words had a playful edge to them, you knew she was serious, earning a light chuckle from you as you squeezed her hands one last time and then let go of them, allowing her to immediately roll up her sleeves. Despite having such a rebellious set of traits, you had gone quite close to Minji in the last several months, mostly because her words of your souls being connected had interested you, however, you had come to the conclusion that getting to know her had to be one of the best decisions you’d ever made, now considering her a dear friend. And although you were friendly with all the staff, treating them as actual human beings, she had managed to crawl her way into a special part of your heart and you were forever grateful for her in a variety of ways- from helping with morning sickness, to rubbing your back when you were randomly crying because of hormonal imbalances, and also prepared your nasty little cravings whenever you wanted them, even if you’d tell her you didn’t want her to bother doing such trivial matters.

“Goodness, I’m starting to think you’re even more stubborn than a bull… fine. I don’t want a broom on the back of my kneecaps…” You murmured, feeling a tiny hand slip into yours after you had let go of Minji‘s. Looking briefly to the side you smiled at Dabi. “Ready to go, hun?” He nodded and then exchanged goodbyes with Keigo and Minji, then the two of you were on your way, heading back into the castle and ready to pack for a few days out.

…

Through the grace of some kind of universal power, you had managed to avoid the servants all-together, stealthily packing yourself a bag of necessities with Dabi’s help, and then went onto pack a bag for Dabi, making sure to bring an extra because you just knew your parents had some kind of gifts waiting for him when the two of you would arrive.

And with some luck, as well as a few breaks here and there for you to catch your breath, you’d manage to get yourself a carriage with a driver, thanks to Keiko, aka Minji’s husband and Keigo’s father, who also happened to be the head of the castle’s farm. Before you know it, your bags are packed into the carriage, and you and Dabi are comfortably sitting inside of it, watching as the forest passes you by, the sound of the carriage wheels rolling and the rhythmic click of horse shoes. It’s enough to soothe you to sleep somehow, even the rock of the carriage had abided in lulling you to sleep. Following your lead, Dabi slumps over into a deep sleep as well, carefully leaning against your side with his head against your arm. It was probably for the better that the two of you would remain asleep, seeing how the trip to Tenebris would take quite a bit of time, you’d be lucky if you reached the castle before the sun fully set. Not that you minded, it would distract you from yourself and the road that had led you to this point. Would you tell your parents about what Enji had done? Or would you keep it to yourself, you had yet to decide, your tired brain emptying itself as you further fell into a dreamless sleep.

The amount of time you’d gotten to shut your eyes seemed to be cut short at the sudden gentle call of your title, along with a light rasp on the carriage door that you sat closest to. Stirring in your sleep, your eyes slowly fluttered open, blurriness soon morphing into shapes that you could now comprehend. With a slow blink, you managed to register the sight of the Driver’s face who looks a bit nervous, though he does relax a bit upon seeing your gaze shift to him, immediately, he looks down and away from your eyes, the tips of his ears red as he repeats himself.

“We’ve arrived at your desired destination, Your Majesty.”

Taking heed to his words, you carely sat up straight in your seat and covered your mouth to hide a bit of an abrasive yawn, your eyes watering just the slightest in retaliaton, you then nodded thankfully to the Driver as he disappeared, only to be replaced by the Coach who came to open the door for you, ready to help you down once you were ready to step out. Noticing the sleeping preschooler who was just on the brink of drooling on your dress sleeve, you reached up and lightly ruffled Dabi’s hair, chuckling at how adorable he looked passed out on your shoulder with his mouth ajar. “Time to wake up, kiddo. Your grandparents are gonna be so happy to see you, unless you want me to call someone to come and carry you to be-” “Mm mm… ‘m awake!” He drowsily shouted and sat up as quickly as he possibly could, only to go veering off the side and nearly toppling off of the seat. You were quick to use your awakened power, creating a hand of shadows to cradle his sleeping form that sprouted from your back like a tree branch. This had become a bit of a common thing, Dabi was a bit clumsy, but then again, what four year old wasn’t? You would have been more surprised if he had the balance of a flamingo. With a soft laugh to yourself, the Coach opened the carriage door a bit wider and you slowly stood up, a hand under your belly as you furrowed your brows together, focusing on keeping your own balance as you descended the carriage steps with the help of the Coach, the shadowed hand cradling your son soon following after you. The Coach then shut the door behind you, bowing as you thanked him, making sure to tip him and the Coach handsomely with a few gold pieces, which they joyously accepted with bright smiles.

Soon following, your personal guard, assigned from the Ignitis Kingdom dropped from his white steed that was following behind the carriage and exhaled, handing the lead to a servant from your kingdom that had come running down the front steps of the castle to greet the unexpected guests. Ah, that’s right, you had no time to tell your parents that you would be dropping by, you could only hope they were actually here and not somewhere else, no-doubt doing diplomatic duties.

Takeo, your guard, came to stand silently by your side, the dark haired man had a tall, rugged stature, with unblinking, deep set carmine eyes, a prim and properly trimmed beard and mustache covering half of his face, nursing a scar that went from one side of his face to the other, directly across his nose. To match such a burly man was a pristine outfit made for a modern techoknight of his ranking, the red signifying one's loyalty to the Kingdom of flames.. He rarely spoke, only to answer any questions that he was asked, even then he barely said a few words at a time. You had appreciated his hardwork but it was almost like he was a shadow of sorts, often frightening you when he made himself known to you randomly.

Yet another maid, began to descend down the stairs, heading directly for you, a bright smile across her face.

“Princess! Oh, no, I mean, Queen Y/N, it has been a long time! Your parents will be elated when they see you’ve come by surprise! Please come along! Ah! Shall I fetch Freya to come and carry you?” Blinking, a smile slowly spread across your face as you instantly recognized the older woman who was also the headmaid, she’d been around since before you were born, but still had the energy of an excitable child, along with a mouth to match. Abashsh, directly translating to friendly, talkative, and affable, it was almost as if her name had bestowed upon her unwavering future.

Soon enough, she had stopped in front of you, a bright and cheery smile adorning her face as she makes it a necessity to grab a hold of your cheeks, giving them the softest squish as she coos about how much you’ve grown since she’s seen you, as well as how much you appeared to be glowing thanks to the blossoming bud in your stomach. Her rambling would go on for hours if Takeo hadn’t cleared his throat, causing the older woman to look briefly from your face and then to him, blinking in surprise as he opened his mouth to speak, timber voice matching completely with his mysterious aura.

“Apologies. I don’t mean to interrupt your heartfelt reunion, however, I don’t think the Lady should be standing on her feet for too much longer…” He murmured, glancing between you and Abashsh. The older woman then gasped, realizing what she had been doing. Rather dramatically, she slapped a hand over her mouth and cursed in Arabic, quickly apologzing as well for her rambling. “You’re right! Let’s get you up these stairs and somewhere to sit, my dear! I still can’t believe you were just a baby one day ago and now my tiny royal jasmine is having an even tinier royal jasmine. Oh my goodness, I think I’m finally getting old…” The woman whined, knowing damn well that she didn’t look a day over twenty-five thanks to her awakened power that directly involved mother nature; straight bleach blonde hair fell down her back and over her front, perfectly framing her square shaped face, brown almond eyes, smooth bronze skin and hooked nose. She was quick to grab your hand afterwards and began leading you up the front stairs, Takeo following closely beside you while you continued to carry Dabi up behind you through the use of your own power.

…

Enji sat in deep thought behind his desk, his elbows propped atop his desk as he remained deep in thought, hardened gaze seeming to map out the intricate carvings on the wood door that was currently closed, his chin resting atop his interlocked fingers. There were many things running through his mind, however, his self-reflection is soon interrupted by a knock on the door, causing him to blink and wet his drying eyes. Letting out a gruff affirmative noise, he signaled that whoever was behind the door could enter. And so they did, quite shakingly I might add as they held a tangerine-colored envelope in his hand, which only meant one thing. Just the sight of it had the King of Ignitis flaring his nostrils, already catching a whiff of the disgusting smell of tangerines, his least favorite fruit, belonging to his least favorite Kingdom that his father had created a treaty with and forced Enji to be allied to for reasons that he was ashamed to admit well after his father's passing. With a quick swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip, he spoke.

“Are you just going to stand there staring at me or are you going to bring me that letter?”

Squeaking, he rushed over and presented the letter with a quick bow, holding the letter out with both hands, thumbs atop the envelope, while the rest of his fingers curled into fists, presenting rather submissively. Enji took the letter, and immediately, the servant disappeared, hurriedly shutting the door behind him, though he made sure not to actually slam it.

With clear frustration, a grim expression, Enji turned the envelope to further examine it, taking note of the sender.

The Kingdom of Solis, King Toshinori Yagi.

Enji had to resist the urge to tear the letter up and throw it like confetti, purely out of bitterness. Thankfully, there was a better alternative, causing him to slice open the top of the envelope to retrieve the letter tucked away inside of it. While holding the letter in one hand, and the actual envelope in the other, he set fire to the envelope and watched with satisfaction as it turned into dust, fluttering down onto the top of his desk. He then exhaled, hesitating to glance towards the letter and actually read it. However, his eyes betrayed him as he began to scan over the words, his face going through a variety of emotions. He was coming.

His rival, a man who’s strength he was threatened by despite being four years younger than the man who probably had no idea that Enji constantly challenged him in his mind. Why did his rival need to come to his castle to personally congratulate him on his marriage as well as his upcoming heir? He was never friendly with the man, in fact, the alliance was proposed by Enji’s father whilst he was still alive, was King Toshinori planning on waging war?

Alas, it seemed he would never be able to get a moment of peace when his office door was suddenly opened, revealing his mother and her personal servant, who opened the door, quaking in her boots at the fact that she was forced to intrude upon the King’s privacy because of the old Queen’s inability to understand boundaries.

With a huff, Eiko sauntered over towards where her son was upon spotting him with the opened letter and snatched it from his hands, diligently reading through it without asking him if she could do such a thing. The words caused her to snort, unbelieving of what she was reading.

“Hah! What are the odds? The King of Solis humbly apologizes for not attending your wedding and wants to give you a gift. I wonder what it could be. A blade to the throat? Or perhaps he’ll set my castle ablaze.”

“Mother- don’t you know how to knock? This doesn’t concern you.” He growled at the older woman, standing to snatch the letter back from her to fold it up and tuck it away into one of the drawers in his desk.

“Hah. How do you plan to rub your victories in his face? I would hate to admit it, but perhaps your bride will work nicely if you flash her around him. She is conventionally pretty, after all. And you will have another heir soon, be sure to milk that for everything you've got. How old is he again and still does not have a queen or heir? Something must be wrong with him. Perhaps he is sterile… how unfortunate would that be, if he were to produce a heir, that child would be something to reckon with—”

Enji begrudgingly listened to his mother ramble, a blank expression across his face as he stared through her, an oncoming rush of thoughts swarming through his mind. There was no telling when Toshinori would appear. How would he be able to show off his Queen if she were giving him the cold shoulder?

At first, he did plan to give her her space, but this was an urgent matter. However, he was unsure of what to do to get back on your good side. He couldn't look to his mother for her advice, she never seemed to regret what she did, no matter how many times the late King would seem to slowly break under pressure. Before he could stop himself, a burning question rose and asked itself aloud for his mother's ears.

“Do you ever regret making Dad drive himself to the breaking point of taking his own life to escape you?”