#i love… the buzz cut the scars the WHITE EYES

[internetdaddy98]

Day One 

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: You arrive to your first day of your fourth year as an Emergency Medicine resident. As you and your fellow fourth-years prepare to guide the new interns, Dr. Robby, the enigmatic and commanding attending physician, delivers his signature no-nonsense orientation speech.

Word Count: 1.4 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times, unresolved tension.

The first shift of your fourth year didn’t begin with fanfare. It began with an overripe banana in your navy jacket and three missed alarms. You had made it in with five minutes to spare. The green-and-white badge clipped to your chest felt heavier today. Senior Resident. You adjusted it twice before walking through the double doors of the ER, like the weight of it might suddenly feel natural if you just wore it right.

It didn’t. Not yet.

The Emergency Department was already alive with its usual symphony around you, the dull buzz of fluorescents, overhead calls, distant beeping, and the hum of organized chaos. The moment you walked towards the nurses' station, you were met with a familiar voice.

“Well, look who decided to show up. Fourth year already, huh? Damn. I’m getting old.” Dana stood behind the desk with a cup of lukewarm coffee and a sideways grin. A blonde strand of hair was tucked behind her ear, and her badge swung as she leaned over the counter.

You smiled, grateful for her warmth.

Dana Evans had been here longer than anyone. She loved her team fiercely and fought for them like a lioness, a mix of cool-headed authority and maternal instinct. And she had always looked out for you. Quietly. Unfailingly.

“You’ll do good Sheri,” she added, more softly, her eyes meeting yours. “You always do.”

You nodded, swallowing the knot in your throat. “Thanks, Dana.”

As you looked around the department, the ER started to infiltrate your senses. The ER smelled like coffee, antiseptic, and nervous sweat, which could only mean one thing.

Intern orientation.

You stood just to the side of the hub, clutching your travel mug like a lifeline while Santos balanced a doughnut box in her hand. The buzz of conversation was still light, nurses going back and forth with gossip between sips of lukewarm coffee, and your fellow fourth-years faking the confidence that came with a new badge.

Santos strutted over to you, box in one hand, sass in the other. “Happy Fourth Year to us,” she announced. “Time to abuse power and emotionally scar the interns. I’ve been dreaming of this.”

Whittaker followed a beat later, immediately dropping his stethoscope and fumbling with his badge. “Hi. I’m fine,” he said to no one in particular, crouching to pick them up.

You couldn’t help the small smile. 

Then came Mel, quiet as ever, earbuds still half in, with a pen tucked behind her ear and a notepad already in hand. She offered a little wave and a shy smile before taking stand next to you.

Together, the four of you made up the new senior class. Three years of trenches, trauma codes, midnight breakdowns, and vending machine dinners had formed a bond that was messy but strong. You knew their rhythms now, the cadence of their stress, how Trinity snapped gum when anxious, how Dennis narrated to himself under pressure, how Mel stilled completely when she was deep in thought.

And you — you were the quiet one. The calm. The unshakable center.

“Why do they always look like baby ducks?” Santos muttered beside you, watching the incoming class file in through the double doors.

“Because they’re about to be emotionally drowned,” you said, monotone.

“God, I missed your sunshine.”

A sharp, familiar voice cut across the room. “Alright, listen up.”

Everyone stilled.

Dr. Robinavitch, attending physician and gravitational center of the ER, stood at the head of the small cluster of residents and nurses. His hoodie was rumpled, his sleeves rolled up, and a stethoscope hung around his neck like it had been there since the Cold War.

“Huddle up,” he said. “Five minutes. Don’t make me herd you.”

The interns scurried closer, wide-eyed. You and the rest of your senior class, took your places near the back. Dana leaned against the counter with her arms crossed, watching like a hawk with a smile.

Dr. Robby scanned the group, voice steady and clipped. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Dr. Robinavitch. I’m the chief attending. You can call me Dr. Robby, or sir, or in the case of one intern last year ‘dad.’” His expression remained dry, though a ripple of laughter moved through the group.

“That intern was never seen again,” Dana added helpfully.

Dr. Robby ignored her. “You’ve officially survived med school. Congratulations. Now the real fun starts. This is the Emergency Department,  high acuity, high volume, and we do not tolerate egos. You mess up? Own it. You don’t know something? Ask. We protect each other here, and you’ll be expected to do the same.”

He paused, eyes sweeping the room until they landed on you.

“And your senior residents will be your lifelines. Listen to them. Learn from them. Especially Dr. Sheridan.”

A few heads turned toward you. You kept your expression neutral, even as something flickered behind your ribs at the sound of your name in his mouth.

“She’s quiet,” he continued, “but she’s one of the best we’ve had through this program.”

Santos leaned in close and whispered, “He likes you.”

You elbowed her without looking.

Dr. Robby gestured toward your group. “Drs. Santos, King, Whittaker, and Sheridan are fourth years, which make them your senior residents. They’ll be running most of your shifts. Any questions, take it to them first. If they can’t help, escalate to me, Dr. Collins or Dr. Langdon.”

At his mention, Dr. Langdon gave a short wave from the side of the room, easygoing and ever observant. He was the counterbalance to Robby’s steel. You always liked him for that.

“Any questions before we start rounds?” Robby asked.

An intern raised a tentative hand. “Uh… where’s the bathroom?”

“Follow the smell of crushed dreams,” Santos said.

Dana pointed toward the east hallway. “Second left, kiddo.”

With a short nod, Dr. Robby dismissed the group. “Alright. Fourth years, divide and conquer. Interns, stick close. You’ll be drowning in charting by noon. Welcome to the Pitt, let’s go save some lives.”

As the team dispersed, you stepped back beside Dana, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. Fourth year. This was it.

“You good, Sheri?” she asked you softly, using the nickname only she and Robby used.

You nodded. “Feels…weird. Like I’m supposed to know what I’m doing now.”

Dana’s eyes twinkled. “Fake it till you make it kid. That’s what we all did. Except Robby. He was born already carrying a cric kit and a superiority complex.”

“I heard that,” Robby muttered as he passed, eyes cutting sideways toward you. “Dr. Sheridan, you’re with me for Trauma 1. Let’s see how rusty you are after your vacation.”

“You gave me two days off.” you scoffed.

“And it shows.”

You followed him into the hallway, interns trailing behind like ducklings, and tried to ignore the way your pulse stuttered at the proximity. Three years of working under him had taught you nearly everything you knew about emergency medicine, and everything you didn’t want to know about longing in silence.

Something had changed last year. Quietly. Without permission.

He didn’t hover anymore, didn’t micromanage. You didn’t defer as much. You challenged him. And, more than once, he’d smiled at that. Not a condescending smirk, but something warmer, like he’d been waiting for you to push back.

There had been a moment, late one night during a consult, where your hands had brushed over the same EKG printout. You’d both paused. Neither moved.

The air had shifted.

And since then, a quiet game of restraint.

You shook the memory loose.

Robby glanced over his shoulder. “Sheri. You listening?”

You blinked. “Always.”

He quirked a brow. “Good. Don’t make me regret this.”

He didn’t.

Not yet.

And as you moved into Trauma 1 with the interns on your heels, Dana watching from the counter, and the ER waking into its usual barely-contained chaos, you felt it.

The beginning of something.

The fourth year had officially begun. Later, when a septic patient coded and the room exploded into motion, you found yourselves working side by side again. The rhythm was familiar, practiced. He intubated while you ran compressions. You handed him a syringe without being asked. He moved left as you moved right, and for a moment, it felt like breathing.

No one watching would guess that beneath the sterile efficiency was something frayed and quietly electric. No one but maybe Dana, who raised an eyebrow at you as she passed.

By noon, your scrubs were stained, your coffee was cold, and the new interns had already started whispering about “Dr. Sheridan” with a mixture of awe and confusion. She’s the small one who’s scary calm, you overheard one say near the supply closet.

You took it as a compliment.

The hours blurred. One trauma, two admissions, a consult from psych. Somewhere in between, you caught Dr. Collins entering from the physician lounge, tall, poised, still perfect even in blood-spattered scrubs. Her eyes flicked toward Robby as she passed him near the nurses’ station.

He didn’t react.

You did.

[jaeyunpup]

—loving feeling .

enha x reader, based on lily chou chou, no definite love interest, college/school au.

this will be a series- intro + pt1(niki) under cut.

(number of other parts tba) !not all enha members will be included in a part!

warnings: sh, drug use, smoking, depression, alcohol, abuse, sexual exploitation, heavy themes + angst, little to no comfort, enha are dh in this sorry, little smut, gangs(?), more tba.

teaser/intro under cut.

Part 1; riki.

isolation can be good for some people, but it can piss others off more than you think. silence is good sometimes, but people lose their temper if you’re too silent. being loud is fun until you’re shamed for it. so in other words, fuck everyone, right? because equality doesn’t really matter does it?

yn wakes up to silence, no screaming, no shitty rock that her dad blasts, and no birds outside. silence, again. she picks herself up and walks towards her broken mirror, analysing her beaten up face. fuck, he did some damage yesterday.

a cigarette burns while she walks to school, no breakfast, no friends to walk with, just music- alcohol and a cigarette. her school reeks of jealousy, girls dying to be better for their shitty boyfriends and the boys beating kids up just because their parents do. but who is she to judge?

class with yukyung isn’t that bad, she’s yns only friend, the only friend she really needs. even though she isn’t at school much. the only other person she acquainted with is riki, a tall Japanese boy who doesn’t talk much. stupid little boy who became engaged with a gang but doesn’t let the dominance of the hierarchy get to him. shit, she doesn’t even know how he got even with those judgemental fucks I mean he cuts himself and does coke on the low, he should be outed right?

Riki walks in silently, hoodie over head stumbling to his desk, he’s high. yn doesn’t make eye contact and just stares at her arms, could you even call them cat scratches anymore? a swollen eye from dearest daddy and a shit ton of scars because she doesn’t know how to feel anymore. consistent isolation, silent in a classroom, quietly begging for attention. because everyone wants attention, everyone’s a bunch of shit talking begs.

class is over and yn meets up with yukyung in the bathroom, of course she just got to school now. ‘come toilet pleaseeee, I need a fucking spliff so bad bro’ she tugs at her bra strap to take the joint out. so they go into a stall and smoke, like normal 16 year olds do right? ‘fuck hear me out when I say this yeah,’ yukyung starts, ‘but Jay has been looking so sexy lately, like i-me would pay to fuck him.’ She states taking another long puff. yn just hums in agreement, he’s hot yeah, but an absolute dick.

they both finish up, heads dizzy, as they walk late to their second period, history. ‘erm sorry we’re late we were in the office mr uhhhh sub?’ yukyung stumbles across her words, when taking a seat next to her ideal boyfriend, jay. yn sits at her desk next to some random boy who she’s never spoken to, he never really speaks. yukyung is Heard- by the whole class talking and talking over and over to jay who looks like he wants to slap her across the face. everyday is the same, so why does today feel so different?

yn feels a light tap on her shoulder while packing her stuff for break, ‘you were smoking weren’t you?’ riki asks giving no face expressions at all, yn hums in agreement, ‘but you’re high aswell so you can’t be talking’ she states before standing, only to realise yukyung is gone. probably with her other friends to catch up. yn moves to get to the bathroom again, until riki speaks up once more, ‘wanna do a line with me miss domestic abuse?’ he tries to be funny. ‘that’s you making a joke?’ she deadpans, as he nods with again-no facial expressions.

sat on the rooftop with little white lines singing at her, yn feels a buzz. but not strong enough to make her feel any different, maybe people do get desensitised from loads of drug use. ‘you know, apparently, coke makes sex feel ten times better?’ riki asks, staring at the view of a shitty, graffitied school yard. ‘so does ecstasy’ she replies. he hums in agreement as they sit and smoke. what most isolated kids do, right?

—

taglist: open

[catierambles]

Once in a Blue Moon Ch. 16

Geralt stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, a towel still around his hips from a shower. His hair hung around his face and shoulders in damp ropes, already starting to take it’s slight wave and he rustled his fingers through it, looking in the mirror again and clicking his tongue against his teeth.

“Hmm.” He grunted and looked over as Samantha came into the bathroom, going to him to press a kiss to his scarred shoulder. “How do you feel about my hair?”

“I love it.” She admitted, “With the eyes, it’s very you.”

“It’s getting long.”

“Thinking about getting it cut?” She asked, “It is also ungodly thick so you must bake in the summer.” He just grunted and pulled open a drawer to the vanity, taking out Sy’s trimmers that the man kept cleaned and oiled. “Don’t go crazy, now.” He didn’t say anything, just stared at the trimmers in contemplation. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” He said without hesitation and she went around him, rooting through the drawer and pulling out a fine tooth comb with a pick on one end, flipping it deftly in her fingers.

“Sit down on the toilet.” She said and he did, hitching the towel up a little so it didn’t tug. She pulled the tie from her own hair and closed the bathroom door before going to work, starting to section his hair just above the temples. He followed her gentle instructions when she needed him to move for a better angle. She was meticulous as she sectioned, using the comb and the pick in turn to make sure the line was neat and even before gathering it up and tying it in a tight bun at the top of his head, doublechecking her work. Turning back around, she rooted through the drawer some more, finding a pair of scissors. “Why am I not surprised you all do your own hair?” He didn’t sat anything and she turned back to him, setting aside the comb. “Ready?” He just nodded and she leaned in, taking a lock of what she hadn’t sectioned between her fingers.

Snip.

Sy was making himself a quick lunch when saw Geralt walk into the kitchen out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey man.” He said and did a double take. The white wolfs’ hair was pulled into a bun at the back of his head, but all of the hair from a certain point down had been buzzed away. Not tight enough to show skin, but shorter than how Sy kept his for convenience sake.

“Sam did it for me.” He said simply at Sy’s arched brow.

“I dig it.” He said, “She did a good job.”

“It’ll be cooler in the summer.” She said, stepping around Geralt and going on her toes briefly to press her lips to his cheek, her own hair wet from a shower. “And he can still pull it back if he wants to. You can’t even tell when he has it down, with how thick his hair is.”

“My head is cold.” He said simply and she snorted.

“It was trapping in a lot of heat.” She said, “Besides, it feels nice.” She reached up, running her fingers through a shorn section and if he hadn’t been a wolf, the noise he gave as he closed his eyes might have been a purr. “I can also give him a Viking Braid if he wants.”

“He’s already intimidating as shit, babe, don’t need to add to it.” Sy said and Geralt snorted.

Mike and Walter also complimented Geralt on his new hair, while August said he looked “ridiculous”.

“Okay, Magnum PI.” Samantha said, rolling her eyes, and Mike coughed on his water in laughter while August just crossed his arms over his chest, leveling a look at her that she met, tilting her chin up defiantly.

“Ah!” Sy exclaimed, slapping a hand to his head, “Seriously, Walker! Knock it the fuck off! It’s like a screwdriver to the damn temple!”

“That didn’t take long.” Walter said with a snort and she winked at him, but only after August looked away first.

“We need to go grocery shopping.” She said, “You guys have a disturbing lack of green in your fridge, and honestly I don’t know how you all haven’t succumbed to horrible vitamin deficiencies.”

“Make a list and I’ll head into town with Mikey.” Sy said with a shrug and shaking his head slightly, not even attempting to argue the point.

“No, I’m going with you to make sure you actually get what you need and not just what you want.” She said.

“We’re not children, Samantha.” August said, “You can’t tell us what to eat.”

“Really? Because you’re acting like one and I’m just looking out for the health and well-being of the men I love, so shut up and eat what I tell you when I know it’s good for you.”

“Motherfucker!” Sy exclaimed, rubbing at an eye before lashing out and punching August in the arm. “I’m serious! Knock it off! Fuck, it’s givin’ me a migraine.”

“Go lay down,” Samantha said, going to him, and he nodded, “I’ll be up with a cool washcloth to put over your eyes.”

“Thank you, baby.” He said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Walker, she might feel like an Omega most of the damn time, but you keep forgettin’ she’s Blue and we both know female Alphas are above us in the peckin’ order. Fuckin’ stop with the power plays. Overbearin’ prick.” With that, he turned and stomped up the stairs, leaving August to scowl after him. Samantha headed into the kitchen to wet a washcloth in cool water before heading up the stairs as well, giving the guys a kiss in turn but pointedly leaving August out of that rotation.

Sy’s room was dark when she pushed into it and she could see his shadowy outline on the bed, his arm over his eyes. Sitting down next to his hip, she tapped his arm gently and he dropped it to his side, giving a sigh as she laid the washcloth over his eyes, the cool seeping into his eyes and soothing the enflamed nerves.

“You love us, huh?” Sy asked and she nodded with a sound, her hand going to his and holding it, his fingers squeezing hers. “I love you, too. Nice to finally say it.”

“Have you known for a while?”

“First time you shifted.” He said, “Seein’ how happy it made you bein’ a wolf. All I could think was “Fuck, I love this woman”.”

“Sorry it took me a little while longer.”

“Don’t be.” Sy said, “Wouldn’t want you to say if you didn’t mean it.”

“Mike said basically the same thing when he told me he loved me.”

“I raised that boy right, then.”

“You were Parentified?” She asked, “I mean, if you were the eldest...”

“Mom died when Mike was still crawlin’, and pops...” He stopped, giving a sigh through his nose, “He was a mean sonuvabitch. I took care of Mikey when I could until I went into the Army, and then when I was home from deployments. After I left the service, I asked pops for the cabin and the territory. He shoulda just given it to me, hadn’t been here in years, but he didn’t, so I had to challenge’im for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had to fight’im. Physically.” He said, “To submission or death.”

“Did he...” She couldn’t seem to get the words out and he pulled the cloth from his eyes, looking at her through the gloom.

“No, babygirl, he didn’t.” Sy said, “He was never gonna, but I knew that when he refused to hand it over and I had to challenge’im. Kept givin’im the choice, kept givin’him the option, but he just kept comin’ at me. I wasn’t gonna either, knowin’ he’d probably take it out on Mikey after I left. It was him or me, Sam.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Can’t change what happened and how it turned out. What’s done is done.”

“Don’t tell me he’s buried on the property somewhere.”

“No.” Sy said with a mirthless snort, “Called the Council to let’em know about the transfer. They took care of it. Don’t know what they did with’im and I don’t care.”

“Does Mike know?”

“Yeah, he knows. I didn’t tell’im, but he put two and two together, I think.” He said and there was a pause, “Still love me?”

“Of course, I do.” She said and he gave a sigh as if he had been holding his breath. “You were defending yourself and protecting Mike. Like you said, you kept giving him the out, but he never took it.”

“He should’ve taken it.” Sy said and her heart broke for him. “I did some shit while I was in the service, but he was my father.”

“I know.” She said.

“I killed my father, Samantha.”

“I know.” She said again, her voice breaking a little as tears welled in her eyes and spilled over.

“Don’t you be cryin’ for’im.” He said, reaching up to brush them away with his thumb. “He don’t deserve it.”

“I’m not. Not for him.” She said, putting her hand over his and holding it to her cheek. “For you.”

“I don’t deserve it either.” He said and she only responded by leaning down and pressing her lips to his in a trembling kiss that he immediately returned, his hand sliding back into her hair and keeping her close.

[keruimi]

His Lost Love

Muichiro Tokito x reader

Warning! Angst and Slight Comfort

When he hid the most painful thing he experienced after he became a Hashira until he forgot about it. But that deep scar was opened again when he met the person he chose to forget.

_____________________________

Here again, back at the mansion roofs. While the feelings of longing are still present to my life. It's been four years since I regained my memories.

Yet I still feel like something is missing.

I look at the moon as it manages to show me the view of the whole headquarters with the Hashiras' mansion buzzing with happiness.

It's been four years since we killed Muzan, yet there are still some demons alive and walking freely on the land.

Busy with the mission, I didn't notice I already turned eighteen.

I heard someone land on the roof that made me give a side glance and saw Tanjiro.

"What is it?" I asked him as I looked back at the scenery I never got bored of. I felt him sit beside me as he also looked at the view I was gazing at.

"You're here again"

I know. And I don't know the reason why I keep coming back here.

"Tanjiro" I called out for him as I sigh. "I feel empty but I can't remember the reason why"

I told him as I felt the cold breeze of the night. Just recalling that feeling makes my eyes glossy.

"I don't know why I always feel like there's a missing part of me" I admit as I lowered my head down and hid my face.

"Maybe because your twin brother is not here with you anymore..." He guessed but I shook my head as I wiped my tears away.

"No" I whispered. "I coped with his death through anger. It can't be him"

But maybe I am just overthinking?

Both of us got silent before a frantic crow ruined the silence around us.

"South East! South East! A demon is near the headquarters!" Tanjiro's crow repeated it like a broken record that made my companion stand from his position.

Our conversation were cut off short

"Well Muichiro, I'll be going"

I hummed in response before he went to the South East. I decided to enter my bedroom when I felt that the breeze was colder than usual.

And yet the moment I stepped inside my room, I saw the blue haori on the rack as I took a hold of it.

I knew I forgot about someone. Because when I took a hold of the Haori, it gave me a slight comfort as it brightly showed the ice patterns on it.

I felt another presence that made me look outside my window and saw again the blue mist in the form of a woman.

I took a step closer to it and as she usually does, she just caresses my cheek as my mind went somewhere again.

What if the blue mist is a remembrance of the person I forgot?

Out of all things, this mist always appears at night and never forgets to caress or show me comfort even though it was never physically.

But I feel it...

If I can just remember that person... Would I manage to quench the empty feeling deep inside me?

"South East! Back up in the South East!" I was snapped out of my thoughts when I heard my crow speak as the blue mist disappeared with the wind.

I put my thoughts together as I wore the blue Haori for comfort on a cold night.

I immediately follow my crow to the forest and not even 10 minutes, I can already feel the aura of the demon.

They are indeed close to the headquarters.

I heard glass shattering and swords clacking as I observed the situation before me.

I saw Mitsuri and Tanjiro already fighting together yet Mitsuri still got blasted off that made me run to catch her.

"I thought we already slayed the upper moons?" She asked me in a worried tone as she picked herself back up while I looked back at the battle happening in front of me.

It seems like the Demon is used to ice as it defends herself from Tanjiro's Dragon techniques.

The demon was a woman with white hair that ends on her lower back.

I ready my stance as I took a hold of my sword.

"Mist Breathing Fourth Form: Shifting Flow Splash"

When I first attacked, the woman managed to jump back, barely avoiding it.

The moment I got closer to her, that's when I properly got to observe her form.

A familiar form...

The woman stopped from her movements as she didn't leave her gaze at me.

"Chiro..." The low whisper caught me off guard as my eyes widened like saucers in disbelief.

How can this demon know me?

Mist Breathing Third form

I started to think again as I ignored the words of the demon in front of me.

Scattering Mist Splash

She managed to avoid it with a slight groan of pain as I saw that I managed to graze one of her cheeks.

"Muichiro Tokito!" She shouted my full name that made me stop from my movements.

There was a slight anger and sadness in her eyes as she stands in the middle of the open area in the forest.

"Can't you remember me?"

A disgusting feeling nagged me behind as I kept my blank gaze on her figure.

She is just a demon, nothing more

But when I saw how her eyes glossed, my surroundings were covered in dark as a frame of the past was shown in front of me.

"Are you the new slayer?" I stop my training to look back at the girl who seems to be at the same age as me.

She has white hair with those cyan eyes. She somehow looks ethereal with that gentle smile that lingers on her face.

I ignored her as I took a hold of my sword again to continue training but when I swing it, another sword stops it.

"Let me be" those were the first words I told her as the girl just gave a warm smile before throwing my sword out of my hand using hers.

"You need to rest. Overworking never leads to a good outcome" she stated and before I got to cut her neck off, she took hold of my hand and dragged me through the porch of the mansion I was staying at and sat me down there.

"I'm a Hashira, what makes you think you can treat me this way?" I told her and didn't bother to hide the annoyance in my voice as I felt her wipe my hands with a cold towel.

"You let me though"

Her answer made an irk mark appear on my forehead. "I didn't give you the consent to drag me"

"You still let me drag you even though we both know you can just snatch yourself away from my grip" she stated that made me give up on arguing with her.

I was aware of the rules of these corporations yet I can't debate on it especially if it was a girl I'm talking to.

I just flick her head because I know I lost on that one and I heard a giggle from her after that.

I would forget about this anyways.

I manage to rest on the porch from the hellish training I'm making myself go through under the blazing heat of the sun.

After she treated my wounds, it felt like my hands were relaxed that made me think if she was a slayer that is being taught by the insect Hashira.

"Who are you staying with?" I ask her as she lets out a small grin before scooting close to me. "Why? Are you planning to visit me?"

"No" I deadpan that made her shoulder drop but she still maintains the smile on her face. "I am just wondering who is raising a bold girl like you. We are clearly different in status yet you didn't follow my instructions"

She just looks at the field in front of us as there is no ounce of fear in her eyes.

It seems like the master of this girl spoils her too much.

"I am Giyu-san's tsuguko" she informed me something about her as I thought who was that guy again.

But a Tsuguko is also a powerful person in the Demon Slayer corps.

"Are you lying or are you lying?" I ask her in a blank tone before standing up to train again.

"None of the above"

Her answer managed to lift a small smile on my lips. I don't seem to take care of having someone as carefree as her.

That day became our beginning towards an emotion called love.

She was always with me, and I began to love her presence around me. So this is what it feels like to have someone of the same age interested in swordsmanship.

She is the only one who can stop me from overworking myself like before. I managed to take care of my health when she was with me.

She has a comforting presence that I always found myself having a slumber every time I was with her.

I felt her run my soft hand on my long hair as I sighed in contentment until I heard her call me by my nickname she gave me.

"Chiro"

I hummed in response as I opened my eyes to look at her who had her usual soft gaze on me.

"I love you more than a friend..." She confessed one day we were resting under a tree.

Love?

Her confession made my heart beat quicken as I sat up to look at her. I look away in hesitation knowing about how I easily forget things.

If I accept her feelings, I might forget it but she wouldn't.

"Aren't we too young for that?"

I told her as I slightly turned my head in her direction as she leaned back on the tree.

"I know..." She whispered but she still lifted a small smile and looked at me. "I just want to let you know. I don't need an answer knowing you never thought of those"

She is brave. She knows the outcome but she still did it.

I wrapped my arms around her for a hug as she returned it back to me while my thoughts started to wander off again.

I don't want to lose this relaxing moments with my only friend.

That night, I started to spend my time on the roof of the mansion as I cooled my head to think about it.

Shockingly, I never forget about her confession.

Even up till the times we hangout, her confession keeps repeating on my head over and over again.

"I love you" I mumbled on her shoulder as I hugged her from the back while we basked under the sun.

I felt her stiffen on my touch before she relaxed herself again that made me close my eyes.

I don't want to lose her.

She made me realize my worth even at such a young age.

"Chiro, you're deserving of love too" she exclaimed in her loving tone as she caress my cheeks and I can't help but lean more on her.

Men or women, girls or boys, she saw them the same way. She was the definition of justice itself.

"Health is a strength too. Take care of it, hone it until you break its limit"

Learning from the Hashira that took her in, there was no doubt she would mimic their mannerism too.

I love those kinds of women.

Someone who doesn't tolerate my cruel treatment to others.

"Chiro, you shouldn't talk to them that way"

She keeps correcting my wrongdoings. She was literally my guardian angel.

The only woman I remember.

The only woman I put all my attention to. Dedicated every victory just to come back to her alive.

Until one night when she went on a mission.

There were supposed to be only normal demons in the mission she headed to, but she met one of the upper moon demon itself.

We were too late when we arrived. She was already in the arms of Doma, the upper rank two who are known to eat women.

I felt how my pupil shook that time as I saw her body covered in her own blood. She laid there lifeless before he took her with him.

Even Obanai who was with me didn't able to catch up to him.

I felt my world spin that time before I lose my consciousness for the first time.

The last thing I saw was the Serpent Hashira running back to catch my body.

And the moment I woke up, it was already reality. She was not here with me.

I didn't arrive home with her. She was taken away without me knowing if she was still alive or dead.

There's a part of me is hoping that the demon give her mercy and at least let her live.

I felt Obanai-san approach me before lending me her Haori. And I took it without second thought.

The only reminder of her...

I don't know what took over me but I found myself begging everyday to the Master to save her. I keep begging until I can't physically do it anymore.

We can't stand a chance on retrieving her back, not even her body.

"Master..."

"We are doing our best, Muichiro. But for now, take care of yourself" he stated as the older Hashiras held me to prevent myself on begging again.

"But Y/n..." My voice broke as tears never stop falling from my eyes. "We need to save her now, Master. I can't lose her too"

I cried out as the two Hashira just drag me out of the Master's quarters.

"Bring her back to me!" I screamed in anger as I snatched myself away from their grips and let my body fell to the ground.

"I can't lose her" I sobbed out as they let me cry my heart out on the path of stones.

My world turn cold, I lost the right direction. No one was holding my harsh personality back anymore.

No one was comforting me anymore.

I lost my backbone, I lost my lover.

In exchange, I stop caring for others.

I was blinded by anger that I didn't know I was slowly forgetting about her.

Mizuki Y/n

The second person that I didn't manage to save from the demons that ruined my entire life.

"Y/n..." I called her name as I started to recall everything.

How can I forget? The woman I was willing to bend the rules for. Even turn my back against the world.

The woman I would lay my life for...

Turn into the being that I despise the most.

My lover...

I didn't have time to choose my next move when I heard a familiar scream.

"I will slice you to shreds, you damn demon!"

I felt my heart drop as I saw the boar man already behind her. She is not focused.

The only thing she cares about right now... Is to see if I still remember her.

But who cares if she was turned into a demon? Does that make her less loveable?

Muichiro, get your grip together.

She is a demon, who knows what happened to those six years when both of you were apart.

But...

Seeing how she quickly recognizes me, she hasn't completely lost touch with her humanity.

Of her old self...

Without thinking, I ran to her who had her arms open for me for an embrace.

I took a hold of her hands before spinning her around to avoid Inosuke's attack.

And I felt the sharp pain on my back before both of us collapsed on the ground. I heard her gasp below me as she put her hands on my chest.

"I'm sorry Chiro" she apologizes with her glossy eyes but I just shook my head with a small smile on my lips.

"i just want to go back home" she sobbed out as I felt tears formed in my eyes.

"Demon or not, you are still my lover that I would save from the world." I told her as I heard Giyu prevent Inosuke on attacking again as I nuzzle my head on her shoulder.

She was still the same person no matter what.

"Don't worry Y/n. You have me... I'll bring you back home"

~°•°~

"What's with all of you breaking the rules" Tengen-san decided to visit after hearing the news while I decided to stay quiet as I kneel in front of the porch while waiting to meet Kiriya, the new master.

I never bother to care about the other Hashiras around me, because I only need the Master's opinion on my crazy idea about letting Y/n keep living.

Yes, who would agree when the cure is impossible to obtain now that Muzan and the twelve Kizuki's are gone.

It was utterly impossible to cure her now. She would always be a demon, she can't become a human anymore.

"The Master has arrived"

We all bowed in respect to the Master younger than me.

"It's nice to see all of you gather for this" he started as I raised my head from my bow that was lower than usual.

"I've heard your plea, Muichiro. But this request needs more time" he started as I kept my mouth shut.

"Y/n was a former tsuguko of Giyu. She was taken away out of her will during her mission. In this trial, we, the senior Hashiras, hope that you would at least consider that before any grave punishment bestowed to her case" I heard Obanai's words that made my heart warmed at least before I bowed at the young man in front of me.

"I have no complaints while the trial is ongoing. But may I at least request one thing?"

I ask the leader who gave me a nod that made me continue.

"Please let me stay with her throughout the whole trial"

The garden went silent as Mitsuri let out a small huh before Obanai covered her mouth.

"If that's what you want. I'll grant you that"

And I did stay with her the whole time.

I always gazed at her sleeping figure outside her cell.

If she would suffer, I would accompany her on that. I don't want to leave her again.

I love her, its my duty to become her ally, her support on her darkest time, and her lover to make her feel she is still loved and accepted by us.

I would never make her feel abandoned again...

[ahamkara-apologist]

Hello!!

I am requesting...... Eramis headcanons. Everything you have. Every single little thing.

ERAMIS TIME LETS GOOOO. She’s my fav D2 character so needless to say I’ve got a lot of hcs about her. Some of these are crossposted from previous hcs I wrote up 2 years ago, so if they seem familiar, that’s why!

-General stuff first: even tho scent is important to the Eliksni, openly sniffing someone and/or making a comment on their scent is a rank thing, because their pheromones can indicate their health and personal affairs, and kells were traditionally the oldest breeding individual of a family group. Only someone that is either higher-ranking or older than another can openly smell and comment on another Eliksni's scent, because it's generally considered that they are supposed to care for those below them. Eramis does this liberally. While it can be done in a mocking manner- and she does indeed do it in a mocking manner if she doesn’t like someone- it’s more just a means of checking in on someone while also reminding them of her age and status.  

-I know this isn't canon but fuck it. She was naturally a sort of dark steely grey Eliksni to begin with, but age and stress have turned her carapace to an indigo blue over the years of the Long Drift. It's a rare epigenetic trigger and is pretty uncommon outside of House Devils and Winter (who were naturally just lighter/bluer), because she’s blue coded in my brain and the eliksni deserve to have funky colour morphs instead of just being like. Mauve. She also has eyes that are a more icey colour than pure cyan

 -She has freckles!! More like mottling, really, but still pretty analogous to our freckles, because I love freckles and think it would be pretty on her. She also has a shitton of small white scars on her throat/chest from hatchlings clinging to her over the years, which was traditionally considered to be a mark of great wisdom and beauty in pre-Traveler Riisian society. Her carapace is like a more desaturated, purply version of this:

-Speaking of tradition, she's very classically beautiful among Eliksni, with a distinctly Dancer boxy, square headshape. While this was not what was favored in the Golden Age (rounder faceshapes, like seen in House Kings, were favored due to the Traveler's spherical beauty) it's still thought to be quite pretty, especially among Devils. She has mixed feelings about this, because she thinks that valuing beauty over an individual’s strengths is quite shallow, but has used it to her advantage in the past when trying to be charismatic

-The horns she had on Riis pre-Whirlwind were sharp and straight, with two long thicker ones pointing straight back and two smaller ones behind her cheekbones, along with the carapace ridges on her cheekbones having a bit of a point to them. Though all Riisborn Eliksni moulted away their horns to conserve nutrients in the Long Drift, she still has some shallow nubs of carapace that indicated where they were, unlike spaceborn Eliksni that never grew them in without the environmental cues necessary to start their development

-The wound that took out her right eyes was pretty drastic, as she took a dawnblade strike to the face from one of Osiris’s echoes at Twilight Gap. The only reason she survived is because she was not the primary target, so it only nicked her, but the wound melted through her flesh and carapace like a hot knife through butter, and gouged open her sinus cavity as well. To make matters worse, it also got infected after the necrotic tissue was cut away, so the scarring there is…pretty bad. She’s not bothered by the disfigurement, but she does keep it covered as much as possible to prevent people from realizing that she has a weak spot + keep as much shit out of her exposed nasal passage as possible. And also because the back parts of her eye sockets were protected well enough for electrodes to be implanted which connects to sensors in her helmet that buzz when something comes up on her right side, making up for her lack of vision 

-Even so, she frequently cocks her head back and forth like a bird to make up for her inability to see on her right side. This is actually canon, but I like to imagine that it's more pronounced when she's calm and not around enemies. Her hearing on that side is much sharper to accommodate her lack of sight as well, so you're not going to sneak up or behind her that easily (as some unruly hatchlings learned the hard way)

-She's big compared to us, but not to other Eliksni of her social status. To them, she's actually pretty fuckin' tiny. Like, 5 foot levels of tiny. Her genetics were not kind to her. She’s also on the more slim side, all wirey muscle with very little fat: if Phylaks was a Titan and Kridis was a Warlock, then she'd be the Hunter of the trio. It caused her health problems in the past re: carrying clutches, but she’s stopped caring about it a long time ago

-She was orphaned at a young age, and part of why she and Athrys had many hatchlings was because they just kept adopting and caring for orphaned or high-intensity care hatchlings. Orphans on Riis were raised communally, with small countryside villages often comprised of 3-4 large families that worked together to share resources, so she had lots of experience helping out her elders with caring for more needy infants. When she and Athrys started their own family, they were the ones in their community who people would go to for advice with premature hatchlings or more sickly infants 

-She actually used to know Variks on Riis; he was a teenager/young adult around the time that she was a child, and he used to let her dig through his notes on things she was interested in whenever he visited the Dancers on official scribe business. That she grew into who she was today is something that he bitterly regrets, while his betrayal/perceived weakness is something that she deeply hates him for. He was almost like an older brother or cousin figure to her, so the schism between them is…really personal 

-We'd probably place her on the butch scale of things in our society, but among the eliksni side of things she's actually high femme. The thing is that, well...eliksni genders are not really much like ours at all, so that's somewhat arbitrary to her, doubly so because she doesn’t identify entirely as female (canonical she/they Eramis my beloved). I just thought it would be a fun thing to fiddle around with via an intersection of human and eliksni cultures

-Her gender is 'she but in the way you refer to a ship, not a woman'. The Eliksni version of femininity is something that she just kinda accidentally phases into, not something that she actually cares about much. Gender is more of a 'yeah sure whatever' than a 'this is me and you better fucking respect it' thing

-She's one of the very few Eliksni that Taniks trusts and respects. This is because she's one of the very few Eliksni who know that trying to put a leash on Taniks is like trying to tie a silk thread over the jaws of a rabid hyena, so she just lets him do what he wants...as long as it is relatively within reason. She also doesn't try to pull rank over him, or snap at him for disrespect, though she won't let him push her around, as Taniks is wont to do. Other Eliksni think that she's absolutely fucking insane for this

-Athrys was her heartmate, and she’s still not over her. While the company of other Eliksni can come close, and many Eliksni aren’t particularly known for being monogamous, Athrys was different in that the trauma of the Whirlwind and losing their hatchlings along with her just. Turned Eramis completely away from the concept of officially taking another mate. She had a little almost-polycule going on with Phylaks and Kridis, but anytime it started to get more serious, she’d freeze up. It’s not that anyone is trying to replace Athrys; heartmates are kind of like soulmates in Eliksni culture, with the exception that they’re not limited to romance like human culture is, so everyone knew how close they were. It’s more that if she settles into the routine of having a partner again instead of something closer to fwb roommates, she’ll start having flashbacks to the last time she had a mate, and it triggers a depressive episode. To make things worse, Phylaks and Kridis befriended her when they were teenagers on Riis, so her attachment to them is also linked to Athrys (who used to affectionately call them all a band of hooligans)

-Phylaks wanted to have hatchlings with her at one point. The conversation about that…did not go well. Eramis still has those mother instincts going strong, and to be a good Kell among the eliksni used to mean being like a parent to everyone under you (at least, before the Whirlwind), but Eramis cannot think about what it might mean to have more hatchlings of her own without losing it

-Also tying into her gender fuckery, her pining for Athrys, and her thing with Taniks is the fact that they used to be heatmates; I hc Taniks as being the Eliksni variant of bigender, which he only ever felt comfortable revealing to Eramis, while Eramis wanted someone who was the exact opposite of Athrys to share her heats with specifically so that she wouldn’t turn into an emotional mess during it…and Taniks is about as far from Athrys as you can get. It’s kind of a crack headcanon with my friends that this is how Eido came about, lmfao. Though in my iteration, Eramis has zero idea that Eido is her kid, because Taniks was in denial about being gravid until he actually laid the eggs (reminder, in my hcs Eliksni males carry the fertilized eggs in a specialized broodpouch, much like seahorses do), and then he panicked and stuffed them into the vents of a ship he was working on so he wouldn’t have to deal with them later  

-She fucking loves citrus- specifically, tangerines and oranges. Its the one thing she actually enjoys among Earth foods, and no, it's not because she's a space pirate. Eliksni don't get scurvy. She just really really likes the taste of them. She is also particularly fond of seafood and organ meats, and though she used to complain endlessly that prey from Sol tasted nothing like that of prey from Riis, you’d be hard-pressed to hear her complain about anything regarding food post-Prison of Elders

-Out of their clutches, almost all were carried by Athrys, because Eramis has issues with carrying clutches to completion. Eliksni can change sex pretty easily, and initially same-sex couples will oftentimes alternate during breeding seasons if they dont find a surrogate, but a mixture of Eramis being small and narrow-waisted meant that her broodpouch never would develop to full capacity when she'd go through a sex-change molt. It's something that she still bears a lot of trauma about, though she hasn't thought about since the Long Drift.

-Lost her lower legs in a ship crash, but that doesn’t impact her mobility much. She’s just as capable of running on all four arms as she would on all sixes if her prosthetics are absent or compromised. It’s not dignified in the slightest, but then again, dignity is something that she gave up on when she got locked into survival mode during the Whirlwind

-Her breathing has a slight snuffly, wheezy sound as a result of the damage to her snout and sinuses, but it's very subtle and doesn't impact her quality of life. It just pisses her off if you comment on it. She also got minor cases of Eliksni pneumonia on Europa after a bad cough that went around in the Prison of Elders got to her as well, so she’s hyperaware and afraid of getting chronic respiratory infections and WILL snap at you if you mention it. There's a reason why her suit covers her spiracles as well as her mouth

-Can cook a handful of generic dishes extremely well and the rest either passable or poorly. This is entirely due to the fact that she used to take cooking and teaching duty for her hatchlings on Riis while Arthys worked, so she memorized a set number of recipes everyone agreed upon and nothing more. She’s hyperaware of the fact that she’s not a cook, but don’t let her into the kitchen regardless she'll hover around and scold you like a middle eastern grandma if she thinks you're not cooking to her standards

-Not very talented on the creative side of things, but absolutely wicked with machines. She can hotwire practically anything in the Sol system in under a minute. The tips of her hands are covered in scars from electrical burns; she and Arthys used to joke that she traded her impulse control for her ability to break apart and rewire any piece of tech she gets her claws on

-She was a strict mother to her and Arthys’s hatchlings, but she was also the quickest to turn her eyes away if they were being mischievous/pulling pranks; that, or she’d join in and make their shenanigans even worse. She imposed and kept rules to keep them safe, but respected their desire to push back against the more arbitrary ones, because she used to be the same way. She’d be tougher with hatchlings she didn’t know, but not in a harsh way, just in a ‘I won’t risk your harm’ sort of way. And if her own kids didn’t play nice with the others, she’d be sure to give them a scolding: her entire shtick is very mamma lion coded, ngl, and that’s a good chunk of why she couldn’t stop herself from caring for Eido during Plunder. She’s essentially been locked into the ‘angry lioness just saw someone kill her cubs right in front of her and now she’s on the warpath’ mode for centuries, and even though she’s tried to snap out of it so as to not seem weak, she hasn’t had much luck

-The name 'Eramis' roughly translates to 'raging storm' in old Eliksni. Anyone who has met her would agree that it's quite an apt description of her

-She's also fond of being squashed while sleeping or cuddling. You'd never expect it, but Eramis, Kell of Darkness is a little spoon. Or, rather, the bottom pancake of the stack. This has waned in favor of her sleeping in front of her loved ones as a guard post-Whirlwind, but despite all her pride about being short, she really does love being compressed, be it by a brood of hatchlings draping over her or her harem curling around her. A weighted blanket would probably absolutely blow her mind

-She doesn’t actually hate humans, though she doesn’t exactly like us either. Eramis is very politically savvy, and she’s very, very good at appealing to the ranks of Eliksni who despise humanity. She hates Guardians and the Vanguard, but she hates the abstraction of their forces and what we represent than humanity as a species

-The Darkness acted like a parasite to her on Europa, and she was its intermediary host (we were its final target). Almost all of her behavior during Beyond Light was the result of centuries of constantly being stuck in fight-or-flight mode paired with the trauma of the Prison of Elders and the euphoria of finally having some measure of power over her own life again being amplified to a dangerous, irrational level by the Witness in order to draw us in to accept its ‘gift’ of Stasis. Being betrayed helped her to snap out of it and come to the realization that she was being used, which is what nuked her anger and had her spiraling into the depression that she’s canonically in right now. She’s burned out the last of her anger, made quicker by the Witness’s torture, and now she’s hollowed out and so, so tired of all the injustices that the universe has to offer her

[ras-favourite-balor]

<PERSEPHONE> IT IS DONE. THE ORDEAL IS PASSED. THE BOMBS AS FALLEN, THE GUNS HAVE FIRED THEIR LAST. OUT OF THE RUINS THEY CRAWL AND LIMP AND STAGGER. THEY WILL SURVIVE. MOST OF THEM AT LEAST. THE LAMB HAS CERTAINLY DODGED DEATH TODAY. IT HAS FELT THE BUTCHERS LOVING TOUCH. HIS SCARRED, ACHING HANDS RAN THROUGH ITS BLOODIED FUR. HE DID NOT REACH FOR HIS CLEAVER, HE BROUGHT NO DIVINE DEATH. NOT TODAY. TODAY THE LAMB LIVES.

BUT TOMORROW?

TOMORROW IT WALKS.

[attached file :: The_Lamb_and_the_Butcher_1.omif]

The file is odd. It is not clean or clear. There are no security cameras within 341-Z-A's room, at least one would assume as much. But there is a video, with audio even. Yet at first glance it would appear corrupted, there is grain to the video, and it seems to jump and skip repeatedly. The audio is also distorted, echoing a thousand times, like a choir crying out. While appearing immediately low quality, it is in fact hundreds, if not thousands, of individual, extremely high quality videos woven together as a digital quilt. Someone with the right tech and skills could pan to see the entire room encompassed, in excruciating detail. Someone with the right skills could also clean this footage, perhaps choose a singular view, cut the choirs throat.. But the file is not clean, the video is terrible, the audio should be a crime. It is beautiful and awful and honestly hurts to watch. This, thing, is cl-<LEGION SPACE INTRUSION DETECTED :: AND WHAT DO YOUR EYES SEE LITTLE SHEPARD? WHAT GLORY DO YOU GLIMPSE THROUGH THE HOLES IN YOUR CREAKING COFFIN?>-early recorded through Persephone's eyes.

The room is not large, but not cramped either. 341's bed, and the accompanying medical equipment, take up half the room. Machines whir and buzz, adding to the white noise backdrop of an active ship. Medical personnel scurry about, checking the readouts, adjusting the machines. An NHP casket, one could assu-<A CAGE, A PRISON, A CRUEL SHACKLE WROUGHT FROM HATE AND PARANOIA. YOU COULDN'T EVEN PROTECT YOUR LAMB>-me APMS, lies in the corner. Wires run from its cas-<COFFIN>-ket, around the edges of the room, to the myriad of machines. One screen shows levels of different drugs present in 341's body, it changes constantly, slightly, according to APMS's control.

On his bed, 341's eyes are open, wild, and terrified. He struggles against chemical chains, effe-<THIS IS ALL YOU HAVE? ALL YOU DO FOR YOUR LOST LAMB? A TRAP? A SNARE? A MUZZLE?>-ctively and divisively paralyzed. There are tears in his eyes, fearful, awful, acrid tears. He seems, at least for moment, oblivious to Brigand's approach. Brigand looks tired, hea-<MY BUTCHER. EXHAUSTED SO. PERHAPS WE ARE NOT SO DIFFERENT. FOR ALL MY POWER I CANNOT MAKE HIM REST. HE IS DEDICATED. HE IS RIDDEN WITH GUILT.>-vy, dark bags hang from his eyes. His posture is slumped somewhat. He leans heavy on Persephone to hide his limp. His prosthesis are uncared for, spotted with rust and grime. His eyes immediately soften as they land on 341. Brigand gives Persephone a reassuring look and a pat on the arm, before letting her go to take his place at the bed. The video clearly shifts as Persephone takes a place in a corner of the room. Next to APMS. The doc-<KNOW THIS AND KNOW IT WELL SHEPARD. IF YOUR LAMB SEEKS TO HARM MY BUTCHER. YOU WILL WATCH IT DIE. WATCH IT DIE TERRIFIED. WATCH IT DIE TERRIBLE. AND THEN YOU WILL LIVE WITH GUILT.>-tors glance at her, at the camera, nervously, a mix of fear and adoration on their faces.

Brigand, the moment he lets Persephone go, is in clear pain. A grimace on his face as he limps to the bed. He stands down the doctors, who offer him aid to cross the short gap from the door to the bed. He lowers himself slowly down onto the bedside, taking care not to crush or jostle 341. As he settles, he is panting, sweat beading on his forehead. He ju-<ITS IN THEIR HANDS NOW SHEPARD. WE MAY ONLY WATCH. PERHAPS PRAY? DO YOU BELIEVE RA COULD SAVE THEM? SAVE THE LAMB AND THE BUTCHER FROM THEMSELVES?>-st sits there for a long moment, silent, brow furrowed, clearly deep in thought. Then, slowly, surely, Brigand turns to face 341. He stares into it's eyes, leaking and fearful, with his own, full of pain and guilt.

Its as if the world holds it breath for a but a moment. Before Brigand, slow as moving mountains, reaches out his hand to wipe away the tears. Leaving dirty smudges on 341's ghostly skin. H-<DONT YOU WISH YOU COULD TOUCH THE LAMB? RUN FINGERS THROUGH ITS HAIR? COMFORT IT YOURSELF? PROTECT IT YOURSELF?>-e takes his time to dry its eyes, using the cuff of his jacket once he realizes the marks he's left. 341's tears slow, as does their breathing, gradually. Brigand lays a hand on its shoulder, squeezing gently before speaking.

"You're alright lad, you've made it out..." He trails off, thinking on the precise wording. "Better than most, honestly, lotta folks didn't make it out as whole as you, hell you've made it out better than I have in the past eh?" He tries to laugh as he flexes his left hand, servos whirring, joints squeaking ever so slightly. The laugh does not reach his eyes, it dies as he glances back at 341's terrified face, As he watches 341 struggle to speak. 341 clearly fighting the diminishing paralytics administered by APMS. When it does finally find its voice, it is rough, probably the first time its talked since the 30 hour war.

"We failed, we… I failed, I– I will be terminated–”

"Ah no you won't lad. You. Are. Safe. Ye didn't fail. I am here. APMS is here. We survived, y'hear?"

341 seems to be gaining more and more control by the minute, it's face still contorted by fear, eyes wild. It stammers as it speaks, quickly, like some dam inside has broken down.

"No, no, no, no, no. I f- I-I failed. M-M-Mission incomplete. Termination pend-" It's stammering is cut off, as Brigand draws it into a deep hug, burying it's face in his shoulder. The monitors around the room show immediate changes all pointing towards a significant calming effect upon 341. From what little of it is seen from beneath Brigand's bulk, it is clearly calmed by the gesture. Brigand holds it in the hug for a long while. Small sobs can be heard just above the whirring of the machines. After a while, the sobs slow, becoming quiet, when Brigand speaks his voice is soft, he does not release 341.

"I am your handler now 341. I will not terminate you. APMS will not terminate you. Not even Persephone will terminate you. You did not fail. If you must blame anyone, Signal failed, Corsair failed, your handlers failed. You understand lad?"

Brigand holds 341, even after he has finished. 341 is motionless, the sobbing has stopped. Brigand pulls away, holding 341 at arms length, looking it in the eyes. Brigands eyes are hard now, 341's are red and puffy, but the tears are gone.

"Say it with me 341: You. Are. Safe."

"I. . . A-Am. . . S-S-Safe. . ." 341's voice is shaky still, but coming back to it's nor-<WHY MUST THE BUTCHER CONSOLE THE LAMB? DOES THE LAMB NOT LISTEN TO ITS SHEPARD? WHAT HAS THE SHEPARD DONE FOR THIS TO HAPPEN?>-mal monotone.

"There we go lad, that's the spirit. Now mean it." His voices turns deadly serious as he finishes. His grip tightens on 341's shoulders. His eyes are cold. But it does not answer, instead 341 goes silent, eyes downcast. The silence is broken by a mechanical scream. An alarm blares as 341's heart rate spikes. Brigand do-<THIS LAMB IS SUCH A BROKEN THING. YOU CALL THIS YOUR PILOT? THIS LIMP SACK OF ROTTING MEAT? PERHAPS NEITHER OF YOU ARE WORTHY OF MY BUTCHER.>-es not let go, he does look away. He speaks again, a dangerous edge to his voice now.

"Z-341-A. You are safe here. On my ship, amongst my crew, under my protection. I will give you time to learn this fact, and you will learn it well, eventually, that's an order aye?"

341 is still for a moment, it's heart rate slowly descends to an acceptable level. Then it me-<WILL BUTCHER BREAK OR MAKE THE LAMB?>-ets Brigand's eye and speaks.

"Yes, Sir."

341's voice ha-<SO THE LAMB IS MADE SOMETHING NEW. SOMETHING GREATER? OR SOMETHING FAR WORSE?>-s returned near to normal, only a slight quiver remains. Brigand's face softens, his grip on 341's shoulders loosens. He pulls back his left hand, and offers 341 a metallic handshake, wearing a wide grin.

"Welcome to the crew, 341."

341 does not hesitate, it takes Brigand's hand, shakes it firm as it can, and meets his eye.

"Thank you, Sir."

"Good lad, good lad, I'll let you rest then, 'least for the moment. Let you and APMS talk. If you need anything at all, APMS can contact me. Tomorrow we start to turn your swords to plowshares!"

Brigand laughs, sl-<REMEMBER I AM WATCHING SHEPARD. REMEMBER NOW YOU WORK FOR THE BUTCHER.>-aps 341 on the shoulder (probably too hard) and slowly makes his way to his feet. He motions Persephone over, taking her arm as the two of them head for the door. In the doorway he pauses, and shouts over his shoulder:

"One last thing, 341. You did good kid."

With that, the loving captains are gone, 341 is left alone with APMS and its thoughts. Perhaps curiously, the "camera" did not follow Persephone and Brigand out the door...

<TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOUR PILOT, APMS. YOU WILL ONLY HAVE THE ONE.>

[File Playback Finished]

[randomwriteronline]

Krakua's hair is blinding white, and straight, and dry and sort of coarse from lack of care. Kongu grimaces a little as he tries to smooth it with his fingers while brushing it with a wet comb: the water seeps into it, but instead of turning glossy it remains dull.

Krakua had appeared in his house without making a noise, as Krakua loves to do, looking somehow worse than when they found him half dead in the ruins of Daxia - he wasn't covered in someone else's blood and barely able to move from a long list of combined medical emergencies this time, but from how his shoulders were hunched and how spent his already naturally frightfully pale skin was, he was every bit the spit image of a taxidermied Toa corpse.

He had spoken very quietly, barely opening his mouth to just cough: "Hairshave."

Kongu had remained very still for a moment. Then, at a loss for words, he'd shaken his head.

"Please." Krakua had begged.

"I don't - you know it's for your own-"

"Not skinshave. Ordermembers skinshave. Clean-Toa grassshave. Please."

"Hairlength souldistancehelps, remember?" Kongu had insisted. "We cleartalked. Orderleaving heartsoothing smallstep, but needstep."

Krakua had trembled. His sane eye of faint sulfur had twitched briefly, his jaw had clenched.

"Please."

Kongu had failed.

Now here he is, fussing around this cooperative (as in perfectly still) cadaver of a Toa as he tries to figure out how to get a decent tamershave out of this mess of barely long enough hair.

He is aware that he could have chosen any other style: Krakua is not part of the Gukko Force (which technically doesn't even exist anymore, at least not in the way he knew) and does not have to abide to the hair-code Turaga Matau had come up with to tell the individual rank of each of its members. Still, the Force is more or less everything he's known and been for the past millenia, and he has seen the Toa of Sonics soothe a Kahu Hawk as easily and as well as he knows Tamaru can; so a tamershave, with a soft buzz along the sides and back while keeping longer strands on top of the head, fits him well.

He keeps finding nicks and cuts all over the pearly skin. As he carefully passes over the bumps of minute scars destined to fade quickly, taking care not to end up reopening them by accident, he discovers himself glad to have been asked to do this - if only so that the other won't try and shave by himself again. He mustn't be very practical in this field.

Kongu on the other hand has done this several times before, so his arm is steady as he handles the razor. Krakua must be used to this too, or at the very least he is too tired to be afraid.

He steals a glance at the De-Toa: he looks like he's going to doze off at any moment.

"Oftenshave?" he asks quietly - it'd be better to keep him awake, before he risks slamming his head down on his brand new prosthetic knees and getting accidentally cut in the process.

Krakua hums, voice rising from his shoulder instead of his mouth: "Mandatory."

"Why so?"

"Great Spirit."

"Connectionfail."

"Mata Nui is headshaven, so Ordermembers as Destinyhands headshave too."

"How sureknow? That Mata Nui headshaves."

"Worldold Helryx knew. Saw him, mostlike."

Considering the only times Mata Nui could have been seen were when he was being built and maybe a week or two before he fell back into slumber (notably while mio and mio away from the Matoran Universe in its entirety), that would have made her worldold indeed.

"Ordermembers Spiritlike skinshave," Krakua continues groggily, distractedly. "Wasn't propermember, so I grassshaved. Jerbraz would grasshave me. Usually. Warmhand, humnoisy, cleancalling Jerbraz."

He leans back suddenly; Kongu's hand jerks for the surprise, and he nicks the ivory skin.

The drops of blood are of a terribly, impossibly vibrant red.

He puts down the razor to grab a handkerchief and hastily press it hard to the side of Krakua's head, trying to stop the flow before it turns into a scarlet mountain spring of sorts - he's seen plenty of lesser cuts coat a Matoran's head if not cared for in time. Darn arteries and their bad habit of pushing as much blood to the skull as hard as they possibly can at all times.

They remain in that pose, with the De-Toa's head gently compressed between the former Gukko Force captain's palms, for a little longer, just until Kongu is sure a crust has already started to form.

"Eversorry," he mutters.

His companion still doesn't open his mouth: "Noneworry," he replies (his voice sounds tired) "Faultmine. Suddenmoved."

The Toa of Air brushes some of the cut hair off of the other's shoulders with his hands, willing small gusts of breeze to better push them off: "Soondone," he promises as he picks the razor back up.

Krakua doesn't reply. When Kongu checks, he sees the healthy sulfur eye is closed, and its broken twin has its iris likely rolled up into its eyelid.

He's completely still.

Wonder if he's fallen asleep...

Something like music wafts softly through the air.

It's a song Kongu could swear he knows, but isn't sure he's actually heard before. Maybe it was famous in Metru Nui? He still can't remember that period of his life, which doesn't quite sit right with him. It was most of it, after all - it used to be everything for him, a whole existence of routines and duties and acquaintances and normalities; now it's just a long black sleep before the sun upon the shores of Mata Nui.

He wouldn't trade the person he is for a version of it he can't remember. It doesn't change his uneasiness thinking about it all.

He listens to Krakua play it through his powers as he works.

That's one way to know he's awake, at least.

There are no further accidents. The razor glides across the pale head like a Kewa riding the breeze, cutting down white hair until it's reduced to a carpet of small spikes and pins that cannot hurt anybody who were to graze it with their hand; Kongu lingers on it for a moment more, until he realizes his face is heating up fiercely and hastily pulls back.

"Here," he says in a somewhat strangled voice, "Feelcheck if goodsuits."

He does his best not to glance down to Krakua's face, trying to avoid his gaze at all costs. He shifts his focus onto the patch of hair he's left long (long, he thinks a little mockingly - that's hardly a couple inches more than how the De-Toa used to have) to take his mind off of the sulfur iris.

"Hairlong to me," Krakua tells him.

Right, the mirror. He can see him through the mirror. Of course he can read his thoughts. What a stupid oversight.

"Nonefool," the other reassures him tiredly.

His voice rises from his hands. He's wrapped them around his head with a light touch, their heels pressed near his temple while his fingers reach back towards his nape; they move carefully across the buzzcut as though searching for a secret passageway underneath it, feeling it under constantly jittering, carefully relieved, quietly enthusiastic digits.

They're thin fingers. Not necessarily long, just thin, just like the rest of him. Krakua is all thin. Like a bird bone, hollow inside - like a shadow on a wall, lacking depth, lacking mass, the afterimage of a presence.

"Trueright," he agrees without a hint of sourness. Kongu stiffens, awfully embarrassed at the unkind comparisons he conjured; Krakua remains serene. "You poemthink like that sometimes - wordcaring, sightweaving. You'd wellwrite sweetsongs for darkwet foghearts."

Kongu wouldn't be too sure about that, but he can't think about it right now. His brain has very likely undergone a short-circuit and he may have forgotten how to breathe.

Not a very good look for a Toa of Air.

He brushes his hands forcefully against his pants, eyes darting everywhere to find a new topic of conversation that won't turn him into a bumbling idiot thinking things he shouldn't think. Again he ends up focused on the mess that he hasn't shaved off, that plot of unkept hair left without any care that he spared from his razor's blade because he couldn't simply let him relapse, he had to at least keep some of his progress going even if he asked him to get rid of all of it.

He dares try to comb it with his shaking fingers, grimacing once more at the unpleasant texture he encounters: "You bettercareshould."

"It's just a body."

Krakua's voice now comes from his neck.

It fuses with the song he hasn't stopped playing, curling around him, raising itself to Kongu's face to brush it, and he could swear it feels less like a sound and more like a scent, like some kind of perfume. He briefly imagines lowering his head, leaning with eyes closed against the opal throat, to hear it better, louder -

He startles himself out of that daydream with the very real fear that his peer may have seen it.

But Krakua is getting back on his feet, eyes to the floor as he somewhat stumbles - is his prosthetic calf not agreeing with him? - preventing him from finding himself in the Le-Toa's brief fantasy, looking at another version of the two of them through the strange warped mirror of a friend's mind. His hand reaches out blindly, searching for support: Kongu grabs it, helps him stabilize himself by offering his wide shoulders for the other to grasp.

The Toa of Sonics holds onto him, both palms closed around his boxy frame steadily. He hums, sounding ever more tired, gaze still fixed on the floor; he shifts the both of them, with the Gukko captain following along pliantly, and then presses down, and he...

And Kongu finds himself... Sitting. Forced down onto the still warm chair by much smaller, much thinner, much weaker hands.

And Krakua (with a little difficulty and no words, still playing that song from his throat as if nothing was happening, as if nothing had changed) pulls his leg up, over the Le-Toa's.

And sits in his lap.

This would be a marvelous moment to panic and die.

But Krakua hunches his back, pulling his entire self into his ribcage. His limbs crawl towards the center of his body, perfectly fitting themselves with some trial and error against Kongu's chest and stomach, until his usually long, stick-like figure is more reminiscent of the vague oval shape of baroque pearls. The depression between his small nose and his eye sockets nudges itself against the crook of a much darker neck, right where the aortic vein is pumping far too fast due to a heart that's beating like crazy; the sound doesn't bother him, it seems, because he doesn't move at all.

Kongu remains paralyzed.

The song is still playing.

Wavering a little.

Growing faint.

Despite his better judgement, he stuntedly places his hands on the skeletal back.

Mata Nui, he is so thin.

He's slightly taller than the Toa of Air, but barely a third of his width. One time he grabbed Kongu's hand out of nowhere, no words to make his plan explicit to the public nor request permission, and kept it wide open as he held it up so close to his face that the other could clearly see how easily he could have touched both of the De-Toa's ears at the same time by just stretching his index and pinky slightly: he then noted how large his palms were with a big elated smile, and laughed delightedly that he could have fit the whole opal body in them.

Maybe it's because he's curled up right now, but Kongu realizes he can indeed cover the entire length of his spine by barely moving his hands.

That might say concerning things about his friend's current state. Unfortunately, like on that fateful day, his brain is too busy detonating inside his skull like a Cordak rocket to consider any worrying implications.

The thin fingers are still steadily latched onto his shoulders.

Their grip is firm, yet so light.

If he wasn't holding him, the Le-Toa wouldn't even know he was there, whole body sitting on his legs as weightlessly as a leaf.

He feels briefly groggy lips rustle the fabric of his shirt between them - no sleazy intention behind the motion, only a small oversight in the face of a great drowsiness - as a whispered mumble leaves them: "Everthanks."

Then he stills. The music dies down.

Krakua is asleep.

Kongu feels the minuscule movement of the pale ribcage under his palm, simply sitting, face burning, not sure what else to do; he gently leans his cheek against the buzzcut, and breathes quietly on the luwarm skin, and waits.

[boosoonhao]

buzzes and butterflies

vernon x reader 5k words non idol au swearing, mentions of drug use, drinking, explicit sexual content

vernon spots you the moment you walk into the living room of soonyoung’s frat. it’s a hot summer, temperatures climbing every day, so it’s not really a surprise that you’ve opted for short shorts and a simple, white tee. that doesn’t stop the sort of strange wallop in his chest when you twist your head around to make eye contact with him.

“hey, vernon,” seungkwan calls from his left, nudges his elbow against vernon’s side. a blue-green bong appears in vernon’s peripheral vision. “are you even listening?”

“don’t bother,” seungcheol chuckles from his own chair on the other side of the table, a roll of his eyes and a half full beer bottled nestled between his thighs. “his girlfriend just arrived.”

vernon glances down the expanse of your legs, pleasantly surprised to see a red-ish purple mark right where the hem of your denim shorts ends. he wonders if you even know it’s there, this blatant reminder of where you spent the night two days earlier. he wonders if everyone knows who put that mark there. 

“she’s not my girlfriend,” he mutters, takes the bong from seungkwan’s impatient arms.

vernon has known you since the two of you were kids; long before you started wearing bottoms that show off your thighs. he remembers play-dates and first days of school; learning how to ride a bike, graduation parties, proms. somehow you’ve been part of every milestone of his life so far; he even lost his virginity to you. he knows you like the back of his hand; all your ticklish spots and strange erogenous zones; every scar and mark that makes your body unique. sure, he loves you, but not like that. not like a girlfriend.

“not your girlfriend,” seungkwan mutters, as if the statement is absurd. his voice cracks, and the shorter man coughs, takes a sip of his red solo cup filled with vodka and cranberry juice. “then stop telling me about your sex life,” he pauses to return the wave you send their way, air blowing out of his nose as you start making your way over. “please.”

vernon hums, feels his head go tingly as he exhales smoke and hands the bong over to seungcheol’s waiting hands. “she’s ace, she lets me do her in the ass,” he says, part-brag, part-to-annoy-seungkwan. when the blond next to him levels him with a scandalized facial expression, vernon grins, feels a sort of childish glee tug at his chest. he shrugs, “anyways, it’s just sex.”

“whatever you say,” seungkwan returns, drags a hand through his hair, leans back on the couch. he shifts his gaze as you come up to stand by the end of the table, almost directly behind seungcheol. opens his mouth to greet you, only to be cut off by seungcheol, who takes a deep hit of the bong and turns his head in your direction.

“anal,” he says by way of greeting, lifts his hand up expectantly in the universal sign of ‘smack your palm against mine to express agreement’. “classy!”

 it takes you half of a second to comply, the sound of your palm hitting seungcheol’s crisp and audible even with the constant hum of some semi-decent edm track oozing out from the speakers littered around the room. 

“hello seungcheol,” you greet, patting the man on the head. “vernon, seungkwan,” you let your eyes drift over to the end of the couch, where soonyoung is drooling against his own shoulder. “soonyoung falling asleep at his own party before ten pm, nice to see you again, too.” a sort of knowing, collective sigh follows the statement. at least the poor dance major hasn’t gotten any dicks drawn on his face this time. yet. “are we talking about the time i–”

“nope!” seungkwan cuts you off, gets up from his position on the couch so fast it makes the furniture creak. “none of this,” he wriggles himself between the table and vernon’s legs. “i can’t take the two of you tonight.” he pushes past you with a squeeze to your shoulder. “have a nice night, freaks.” 

you look in the direction seungkwan bolts off to for a moment, before moving to steal the man’s now empty spot next vernon. your arm is hot against his own, and vernon has to clench his fist to resist the urge, the impulse to reach for your hand. vernon isn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, a touchy guy. he doesn’t feel a need for hugs and lingering touches. but your closeness is so known, so comfortable, that he feels a sort of pull regardless.

but then, that might be the weed. or the alcohol. or both.

he turns his head instead, takes in the details of your face. “hey,” he murmurs, watches as your mouth quirks upwards. 

“hi,” you return. and everything is as it should be.

it’s not that vernon doesn’t like you. for all intents and purposes, he thinks that this thing that the two of you have is perfect. vernon doesn’t care about dating, doesn’t long for a relationship. with you, he doesn’t have to worry about forgetting anniversaries (though, he does remember, to the day, the first time you sucked his cock), or knowing what kind of flowers you like (you’re allergic to pollen anyways), or introduce you to his parents (you’ve already known them for most of your life).

vernon likes when you stay over an entire weekend and only get out of bed to take shared showers or to get takeaway. he likes waking up to the feel of your mouth around his cock, to the taste of weed when he sucks your tongue into his own mouth. he likes spending entire sunday afternoons just lazily exploring each others bodies; intermissions of blazing and eating pizza naked and talking shit. he likes that you have no reservations about parading around his apartment wearing only panties and nothing else and that you’re never opposed to ducking out of a party for a quickie and that you’ll indulge him in his more off-brand fantasies. 

but in love? nah. vernon doesn’t do that.

he turns around in the bed, his thin duvet twisting around his body. you’re doing something on your phone, face scrunched and brows furrowed. he gets the distinct feeling that you’re playing some sort of rhythm game, the kind of high intensity game where you’d be annoyed if he interrupted you. so, vernon clears his throat, lies fully on his back, and he asks; 

“if i asked you to piss in my mouth, would you?” 

it’s not the first time he’s brought up some sort of strange, outlandish ‘what if’ like that, but your facial expression is still as open, as surprised as if he’d never asked for anything raunchier than a kiss on the cheek before. you lock your phone with an audible click, put the device down in favor of staring him down with arched eyebrows and an amused sort of slant to your mouth.

“didn’t know you were into water sports,” you tell him, a husky, teasing sort of quality to your voice. vernon’s own mouth curls into a grin and he turns onto his side, reaches over to brush a lock of hair away from your face. 

“it’s just a hypothetical,” he says, like he always does. like he did the time he wanted to try wearing your panties, the time he was curious about fucking your tits and the time he tried to shock you by jokingly proposing you try pony play. you roll your eyes, already too aware of this game of his.

“well, i guess i’d need some water bottles,” you reply with a casual shrug, the nonchalance of your tone making vernon laugh. he hooks his fingers behind your ear, keeps them there as if he needs to anchor himself. 

“what? you’d actually do it?”

“sure,” you deadpan. “we’ve done weirder stuff.” 

vernon hums, scoots closer. he tugs at your ear, nips at your bottom lip before he lets his hand wander; down the side of your face, curled around your neck, tracing the shapes of your breast before settling at your hip.

“you’re gross,” he tells you, voice filled with a sort of affection he reserves for these moments; for these lazy, casual conversations he could not have with anyone else. you reach out and wrap an arm around his neck, your nose squished against his.

“i’m gross? you just asked me to piss in your mouth!” 

vernon laughs, a booming sound that starts at the pit of his stomach and rips out of his mouth as if he would burst had it not been allowed exit. he presses a sloppy, wet kiss to your mouth, teeth clinking together and his leg moving to hook over yours, pull you closer to his body. your own mouth is curled, a clever kind of grin decorating your features. he rolls over until he’s on top of you, fingertips ghosting over your breasts, uncontrollable giggles pressed into the nape of your neck. 

you squeal, writhe underneath him and grab at his hands. he evades you, keeps your lower body trapped between his legs; fingers pressing teasing tickles against the skin of your sides. you squirm, half-laughs spilling from between your lips and echoing around the room. vernon leans down and you make a grab for his coppery curls, tug his face the last few inches to meet your own. you gasp into his mouth when he circles his finger over a particularly ticklish spot of yours, and when he’s finally lazily pressing his cock into you; slow, unhurried movements that feel more like a reflex than anything else, vernon can’t even remember what what so funny in the first place.

(he wakes up from a post-sex nap hours later, drowsy and sticky with sweat. you’re lying a bit away from him, sleeping on your stomach with your head turned away. he hears your quiet, easy breaths, watches your back fall and rise in tune with your inhales and exhales. your duvet has crept down to the dip of your back; the barest, most tasteful side boob visible from underneath you. a warm sort of feeling seeps into vernon’s body, and he wriggles closer, carefully lifts your arm to slide underneath it. he snuggles close, buries his face in your hair, smells the familiar scent of his own shampoo. 

he falls back asleep, feeling safe.)

vernon feels the soft fabric of your panties, slick with wetness already, against his cock. the position – back of the car seat pushed as far back as possible, your knees against his sides – is not particularly comfortable, by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s no denying that car sex always manages to turn him on something fierce. there’s something about your mouth; open and wide against his own, and about the way you clutch at his curls and coil your arms around his head that just makes his head spin. you grind against him, let his hands guide your hips. 

“vernon,” you mumble, voice too low, too close to his ear. a shiver runs down his spine, his hands bunching up your sundress to climb up your body. you’re not wearing a bra. you whine when he pinches your nipple playfully, ground your lower body against him. “we don’t have time for this.” 

he hides his face in the nook of your neck, bites down on your most sensitive spot, keeps you steady as you squirm in his lap. “you should sit on my cock, then, baby.”

he tries to sound seductive, but that flies right out the window when you reach your hand down to stroke his cock, smearing his pre-cum down along his length. his voice cracks embarrassingly. you hum, thumb teasing the head of his dick. “i should, huh?”

vernon groans. “you should.” you lift yourself up, one hand on vernon’s cock and the other pulling your panties to the side. vernon presses his nose against your skin, growls into your shoulder when you slide yourself down his length. you feel so good around him, the perfect mix of tight and hot. his arms wind around your middle, pulling you close.

“fucking car sex,” you mutter, fingers threading back into his locks as you wiggle slightly to adjust. vernon pretends not to hear the stutter-y exhale of air as his cock moves inside you with the movements. “so goddamn uncomfortable.” vernon bucks up, relishes in the feel of your fingers tightening at his hair, pulling until it almost hurts.

“it’s hot though,” he giggles at your neck, teeth grazing skin. you set the pace; slow, languid movements on top of him. vernon likes that, feels a cloud of fluttery butterflies on the inside of his stomach at the way you grind against him. he presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your neck, leaves a trail of chaste pecks along your jaw, nibbles on your ear. “someone could walk by any moment.”

“hurry up, then,” you mutter, guiding one of his hands down, pressing it against you. he takes the hint, circles your clit with two fingers. the sound that tumbles out of your mouth sounds like wind chimes, like bells and symphonies. he repeats the motion, juts up against you and grabs onto your ass with his free hand, his face hovering a hair’s breadth away from your own. “i have to get back soon.”

he stops. “get back?” he repeats. “aren’t you going to the party?”

you exhale through your nose, air hitting vernon’s face in a cool, welcome breeze. “no,” you tell him, hesitate. “i have a date.” 

“a date,” vernon feels like a parrot, leans back. “you’ve got a date.” you try gyrating against him, your insides throbbing with the sudden lack of friction. his fingers are still slippery against the inside of your thigh.

“yes,” you mutter. and here one of your best and your worst qualities come out on full display; your stubbornness. you hands are at his shoulders, your gaze unblinking as you stare him down. even as a drop of sweat slides down the side of your face, even as vernon’s cock is buried deep inside you, you manage to look completely in control. it turns vernon on as much as it scares him. “is that a problem?”

but here’s the thing. vernon has a reputation of being lazy, aloof. of being too stoned to care most of the time and too casual to be opinionated. he thrusts up against you with all the force he can muster, presses you down with one hand and massages your clit with deft, quick fingers. his teeth sink into the skin of your neck and you muffle a cry with the back of your hand.

vernon can be stubborn, too. 

“of course not,” he growls against your neck, laps at the reddening spot where his teeth has bruised your skin. his voice is barely audible over the sound of flesh smacking together as he pounds into you, a sort of inexplicable frustration tugging at vernon’s neck. “are you gonna go on the date like this? fucked out and with my cum still leaking out of you?”

you tilt your head back, neck exposed. “i was gonna shower.” vernon licks at your jaw, feels the way you clamp around him, erratic ruts against his cock and fingers growing desperate.

“don’t,” he says, tries not to notice how possessive his own voice sounds. he hopes you’re too distracted by his dick to take note. 

“that’s unhygienic, vernon,” you reply, his name turning into a moan as he bites down on your earlobe. “i can’t walk around with cum in my panties.” and granted, he’ll give you that. that doesn’t mean the mental image doesn’t make his cock throb inside you, pushes him closer to the edge.

“fuck,” he groans, pauses his movements all while still fingering your clit to keep himself from coming too soon. “fine, change panties, then,” he amends, as if he’s got any say in the situation at all. 

you stare at him, eyes hooded and dark. there’s a sort of furrow to your brow that vernon doesn’t want to think about. “fine,” you relent, and vernon’s shoulders sag with something akin to relief. “i swear vernon, your kinks are getting stranger by the minute.” and vernon doesn’t argue with that, because of course; that’s all it is. a fetish, a kink. another peculiarity of his. 

he snickers, but the sound feels hollow.

“damn vernon,” joshua marvels, three hours and fifteen minutes into the party. vernon has his head leaning back against the couch, a pleasant mixture of weed and alcohol mingling in his body. he has to squint to really manage to focus on the older man, tilting his head to face the new arrival. “who pissed in your drink tonight?”

his brows furrow. joshua’s a pretty boy, he muses; a clean sort of look, neat haircut. always wears clean shirts. vernon wonders if the boy you’re on a date with is like that; if he’s got his license and all the buttons on his ironed shirts. “what are you talking about?” he barks, the sound a tad more aggressive than intended. joshua’s own, perfectly shaped eyebrows rise until they’re almost completely hidden underneath his bangs. a teasing sort of smile takes his mouth. 

“you’re in a bad mood,” he says, and it’s not a statement; it’s an observation. vernon frowns. 

“he’s just mad his not-girlfriend ditched him,” seungcheol offers as an explanation. vernon feels as if he should argue, but his mouth is full of syrup. 

“ah,” joshua muses, an airy sound full of understanding that vernon find completely unwarranted. it’s almost annoying, how quick the other boy is to take this explanation at face value. “where is she tonight?” 

vernon huffs out a laugh; a sound that tastes as bitterly as it sounds. “she’s on a date.”

a collective, soft ‘aah’ falls over the small crowd of boys in the living room, and vernon’s head jolts up so fast it makes his brain hurt. he stares at the group, a deep frown pulling at his lips. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“come on, dude,” seungcheol rolls his eyes, takes a long sip of his drink, presumably for dramatic effect. “you’re jealous.” vernon sputters, scandalized by the accusation, but seungkwan cuts in before he can object.

“seriously,” the blond huffs from his own corner of the couch. “how long have you guys been doing this? you had to know she’d want to start dating at some point.” seungkwan, bless his heart, takes on his most lecturing tone of voice, the one he dons when he wants to remind vernon that he’s not the only one who’s known you for years. that vernon’s not the only one you talk to.

“if you really don’t have feelings for her at all you have to prepare yourself to let her go,” he continues, watches you with something between suspicion and curiosity in his eyes. “she’s not gonna want to be your fuckbuddy forever.” 

and realistically, vernon knows that. he knows that at some point you’re going to want more than sex – even if the sex is amazing – and that you’ll start looking elsewhere for the things vernon isn’t giving you. he just thought he could avoid it for a bit longer. something cold rests at the pit of his stomach.

“oh,” joshua pipes up, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. somehow, he looks sort of like a lemur. “i guess the date didn’t pan out.” vernon whips his head around, scans the crowd that’s accumulated by the pool table right outside the nook of a living room the group of boys have gathered in. 

and sure enough, there you are; fingers sweeping your hair out of your face and sundress reminding vernon of the things that transpired mere hours earlier. you haven’t spotted him yet, it looks like; too busy leaning close to allow hoseok, a man vernon only knows by name and face and dance major, half-yell something into your ear.

vernon gets up. you notice him a moment before he manages to wriggle past the crowd to reach you, and you lean over to say something to hoseok, who nods and claps you on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

“hey,” vernon half-yells into your ear, a hand automatically coming to rest at the small of your back. “what happened to your date?” he pretends that he doesn’t say the word ‘date’ with visible distaste. you shrug, hands crossed over your chest.

“eh, i wasn’t feeling it,” you tell him, face so close he feels your breath against his face with each word. “he kept asking me to call him daddy,” you roll your eyes, a sort of lopsided grin curling your mouth. “it’s 2018, who even does that anymore?”

vernon snorts, curls his fingers into the fabric of your dress. “i do. literally all the time.” the edges of your mouth twitch.

“it’s just funny when you do it.”

warmth spreads from somewhere in vernon’s chest and through the rest of his body. damn right it is, he thinks, a sense of superiority tugging at his stomach. “you always do it, though,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, tugs at your dress to pull you closer. you size him up, a small smile on your face. it looks fragile, somehow, as if your face can’t quite keep up with your mouth. 

“yeah, well,” you reply with a slow roll of your shoulder. vernon can’t help noticing your defensive, passive stance. “i guess there’s only room for one daddy in my life right now.” 

silence follows. well, not really, of course; a sub-par dubstep track is booming from the speakers and around you people are hollering, laughing. but somehow, there’s only a muted sort of quiet surrounding the two of you. vernon blinks, a sort of weight to your joke that feels misplaced, too heavy. you clear your throat. 

“i only came by to drop off some weed,” you explain, clearing up instantly, then, why you were talking to hoseok – possibly the only one with a bigger stoner reputation than vernon himself – instead of seeking out your usual group. “i’m gonna take off. early shift tomorrow.”

usually, you’d offer to drive vernon home. it’d just be an excuse, of course, a flimsy, indirect invitation for him to come over and spend the night between your legs. he waits, but it doesn’t come. you shift, vernon’s hand slipping away from your back, and you pat him on the chest, gaze not completely on him.

“i’ll see you later, daddy.” 

vernon watches you leave, seungkwan’s words echoing in his head. his heart is beating against his ribcage so hard he feels like his whole body is vibrating. 

time passes. a week. two weeks. vernon barely sees you at all, barely even has the chance to speak to you. you’re taking extra shifts, you tell him; you have homework to catch up on and tests to study for. it’s bullshit, of course, so transparent and blatant it leaves a bad taste in vernon’s mouth. he knows what you’re doing. 

you’re avoiding him. 

so he does what he always does; he talks to seungkwan. you’re an idiot, seungkwan says. i told you this would happen. if you don’t want to lose her you gotta put a ring on it. seungkwan might have taken a back seat in your trio once vernon and you started sleeping together, but that does not mean he’s not an important part of it. he probably knew, long before vernon realized, that vernon is in love with you.

so vernon does the only thing he can think to do. he goes to walmart.

he knows you’re home, because seungkwan – as the top notch best friend he is – has done some recon. vernon knows you’re studying, that you’re sitting somewhere in the apartment on the other side of the door. still, he’s reluctant. 

vernon has never been a relationship sort of guy. has never needed to be. he fell into the rhythm of whatever the two of you have been doing for the past few years before he even had the time to consider anything else. why would he need a relationship, when you’re there to lean your head against his shoulder during movie nights and slip your hand into the waistband of his pants when the movie gets boring. why would he need a girlfriend when you already know and love his parents, let him eat you out in empty parking lots and make out with him in bathrooms at parties? 

he’s an idiot, of course, because it took seungkwan literally beating him over the head for vernon to realize that the only thing that separates your ‘no-strings-attached’ relationship and an actual, official relationship was the names you call each other.

vernon inhales. he never thought he’d be nervous to see you. he might know how he feels, now, but he has no idea how you feel. only one way to find out, he supposes.

vernon knocks.

he hears a thud, a low curse followed by footsteps.

you rip the door open as if you’re expecting someone, pausing only when you come eye to eye with vernon. “oh,” you mutter. “vernon.” he takes a moment to take in your appearance; face free of makeup an attire decidedly comfy. he’s pretty sure the hoodie you’re wearing used to be his at some point. you arch a brow, eyes on the bouquet of plastic sunflowers in vernon’s hand. his palms feel clammy.

“you here to murder me, bro?” you ask, and the ‘bro’ feels sort of like a distance, a line being drawn. vernon cringes. 

“plastic,” he explains. “for your allergies. lasts longer, too.” it’s not much of an explanation, really, doesn’t at all clear up the awkward tension that rests between you. you hum, cross your arms and lean against the door frame. vernon tries not to feel self-conscious at the fact that you don’t invite him in.

“what’s the occasion?” 

vernon clears his throat. “we need to talk, i guess,” he tries. these conversations look so easy in romantic comedies. “about us.”

you exhale through your nose, mutter a low ‘oh boy’ under your breath. “what brought this on?”

“i miss you,” he mutters, feels like he’s on display. 

“you miss sex.”

vernon’s brow furrows. “fuck off,” he huffs, before he can stop himself. “i miss you. i miss that you drool on my chest when you’re sleeping,” he twists his hands around the stems of the plastic flowers in his hands, needs something concrete to ground himself. he feels like he’s going to disintegrate, like he’s being pulled apart at the seams. “i miss smoking with you and just eating chips in bed. i miss holding your hands.” 

“where is all of this even coming from?” you ask, something unsteady to your voice. your fingertips dig into the flesh of your arms. “you’re always going on and on about not wanting a relationship. flowers and anniversaries and all that.” you wave a hand towards the sunflowers. 

“i’m an idiot,” vernon says, earnestly. “i didn’t even realize until seungkwan told me that the reason i didn’t want a girlfriend was because that meant we’d have to end.” he sees the subtle, slight change in your expression, feels a hopeful thud against his ribcage. “i just don’t even know who i am without you.”

“you’ll have to spell it out for me, vernon,” you murmur, shoulders high and tense, teeth gnawing into your bottom lip. vernon inhales, is all too happy to comply. he takes a step forward, presses the plastic bouquet of sunflower into your hands. 

“i’m in love with you. looking back who the fuck even knows how long i’ve been in love with you,” he says, runs his thumbs along the back of your hands. “and it’ll break my mom’s heart if i have to tell her we’re not actually dating.” you snort at that, you lip twitching. vernon takes it as encouragement, leans his forehead against yours. “please be my girlfriend.”

your arms wind around his neck, and vernon can’t quite help his relieved sigh at the contact. the more pathetic part of him feels like crying. “you can’t take it back,” you tell him, and despite your best attempts you can’t quite hide the fragile quality of your voice. “if you do this now you have to commit to it.”

vernon circles his nose around yours, hands sliding along your back. “just be my fucking girlfriend,” he murmurs, and then he closes the gap. 

it feels like he hasn’t kissed you forever. it feels like he’s kissing you for the first time. there’s something different about it, about the way your tongue slides along his bottom lip and about the moan when he sucks it into his mouth. he pushes you against the door frame, presses his body as closely against yours as he can. his lungs are burning, desperate for air, but he perseveres, groans as you pull at his hair. 

“fuck, i missed you,” he whispers, voice raspy as he moves to nip at your neck. his hands are at your ass, squeezing and pushing and pressing fingers into your flesh. there’s a crack in his voice that he can’t find it in him to be embarrassed about. “i missed you so much.” 

“i missed you, too,” you tell him, as if it’s an admission, as if the words are thick in your throat and reluctant to be spoken. 

“are you busy?” vernon asks, his lips against your throat. he feels your hum against his mouth, the vibrations like a jolt of lightning through his body. “we have two weeks of sex to make up for.” you laugh, nails scratching at his scalp in a way that sends shivers down his spine.

“luckily for you,” you tell him, press a light kiss to his lips, pull him into your apartment. “i’ve had a shit ton of water today.” vernon smiles against your mouth, bites your bottom lip. 

“you’re such a freak,” he murmurs, guides you towards the couch. you open your mouth, to object or to take the joke further, he doesn’t know; he steals the words right out of your mouth, takes your face between his hands. “luckily for you i love freaks.”

as it turns out, girlfriends suck dick even better than fuck friends.

[carterstarlight25]

Hi everyone! So I been thinking hard on a rather unique 3way crossover that I been considering about writing. Please feel free to give me your input.

The 3 way crossover consist of DC x DP x Halo Infinite. With the ships being Jason and Danny (Obviously). Master Chief and Bruce as the second ship to be included. And Tim Simping for Katrina. (Cortana 2.0 from Infinite)

I see these possible dynamics being cute as Chief will learn how to be human, and how to love. Him and Team Phantom Finding Family. Also I don't mean the bull Chief pulled in the god awful Halo TV Show!

Bruce will learn that killing isn't an act of God. It isn't you kill once, and become a mindless murderer. That there is a difference, between a Soldier doing his duty to protect humanity and his loved ones. And a mindless killer, enjoying the horror of its victims as the bleed out with please for mercy. Effectively stealing their innocent lives... Oh also learn to not be as emotionally constipated after Katrina effectively out smarts him into a therapy session with Jazz Nightingale. (Last name changed after she saved Danny from the their parents lab…)

Danny will learn what it means to be apart of a family. And how screwed the GIW are.~

Jason, finds out he’s ghost pregnant and a heavy underdeveloped Halfa. All while the Pit becomes a full ghost that he ends up birthing. Which is gonna be a Dinosaur that will be Jason’s “Nightmare.” To his Fright Knight. (I am really wanting to go for Altispinax, or Spinax Vivosaur from Fossil Fighters series. But idk, might just use the Giga from Jurassic World Dominion. Just to change it up from what I seen people have the Pits become.

How Chief comes into the story however, would be introduced via Clockwork leaving a very obviously placed Halo Infinite Xbox Game case with a unmarked disc inside it. In an Alley Danny was taking refuge in. With a sticky note of course. And a few chapters in, when he was alone in Wayne Manor decided to play the game. And by Play. I mean go ghost and jump into the game. But of course. With his Fabulous Phantom Luck (trademark pending.) A new power began to make itself known as the code latched on him on his way out. Bringing Master Chief and Katrina to life in the real world, with all his memories and Katrina with the entire UNSC Database.)

While that’s how I plan to bring in Chief and Co. the main gist of this will be an all out battle, to destroy the GIW. Outlaws, Sirens, Chief and the entire Batfam Team up.

Despite the JL repealing the Anti Ecto Acts. A few Private donors continue to find them to get their hands on Ectoplasm. The League of Assassin’s, Lex Luthor. And of Course Vlad Masters will be the main villains connected to the GIW.

I can see Jason and Chief getting along like wildfire. And when Bruce finds out Jason is one leading the squad his kids, trying to get them to go on a date with Master Chief. It leads to some funny moments I would think. And of course can’t forget Chief reluctantly surprise appearance in Civies at one of Bruce’s Gala’s. (I kinda wanna make him wear Olive Green suit and dress pants. Black Bow Tie with a white under suit. Black belt. And an Olive Green Military Cap to hide his Neural Implant. Maybe having all his Medals from the service pinned to his chest. At least the ones that match ones in this universe. So not all of them obviously.

And Jason would absolutely catch his father freeze up when he sees the handsome Spartan.

For looks regarding Chief’s face since we don’t know what he looks like. I was thinking Caucasian Male, short brown hair that could be the right height to spike it up at least. Not a complete buzz cut. Rather bright blue eyes. That do not glow like Danny’s. But at least around that color. Of course he will have some scars on his left Temple, his lip and across his right eye. Freckles too. His muscle mass would of course be a bit more built then Jason. Which says something. But, you know. Super Soldier and all. (Update: I did in-fact Draw it ^^. If you want to see. Let me know if you wanna see Master Chief in a suit at the Gala ^^)

The Ages I was gonna go for was as follows.

Alfred: Immortal (Thanks Clockwork!)

John (Master Chief): 46yrs (I know it’s not his cannon Age. But it’s what I want for the story.)

Bruce: 45yrs

Barbara: 29yrs

Dick: 26yrs

Jazz: 21yrs

Jason: 21yrs

Cass: 20yrs

Sam: 20yrs

Danny: 19yrs

Duke: 19yrs

Steph: 19yrs

Tucker: 19yrs

Val: 19yrs

Tim: 18yrs

Ellie: 14yrs

Damien: 12yrs

Katrina: 6 months old

And that’s the little Fanfic I been thinking about. Of course it’s just an idea. but I think it would be fun to write.

[celestiachan]

quotev is DEAD. it's DYING. the people who work there made the dumbest decision ever. have a oneshot i put on there. this was written a long ass time ago

(TW for murder and description of a dead body)

In the middle of nowhere, next to a lake, two bright green beams flashed from the eyes of an orange-haired boy. At the receiving end of the beams stood a man with a black band on each wrist. Well, "stood" isn't exactly accurate. Before his brain could comprehend what was happening, the beams shoved his body backwards, dragging it through the dirt. Once that was done, the flashes exploded, and that was the end of his consciousness.

---

In the middle of nowhere, next to a lake, a tall woman was taking a leisurely stroll. Her long, messy, dark grey hair contrasted with her suit, which was missing its jacket. Eventually, her feet found their way to a relatively small crater. At the center of that crater laid a man with a black band on each wrist. Some of his limbs were bent in ways that seemed unnatural, and his skin was covered in bruises and green scars, but his chest appeared to be rising and falling, as though he were sleeping peacefully. As if on cue, his previously closed eyes opened. They squinted at the harsh light of the now-setting sun.

"Wh...what happened?"

Oh, God, it hurts to talk.

That was the last thing he thought before yet another beam was shot directly at him, this time sending him into an eternal sleep.

---

In a large facility, far away from a lake, a man with a white hoodie was frozen in midair. His hoodie would've blended perfectly with his surrounding if his hoodie was a true white. All around him, floor, ceiling, and walls, were almost glowing white. It was like the harsh glow of a fluorescent light, but entirely surrounding him, and without the yellow tinge. A fluorescent light would've been more comforting, in his opinion, as the buzzing of one would help him maintain his sanity, even if it was only a little more than what he currently had. The area he was in was dead quiet. He couldn't even hear the sound of his own breathing. The best he could do to attempt to stay sane was remember times when he could hear. Times when he was trying to sleep, but he could hear his roommate up late, tinkering away on the balcony.

His roommate...

If his body were not unnaturally still, his eyes would have begun watering. Perhaps it would be better to try to remember something else for now.

Wait.

Was that a hallucination, or had he just heard something?

His eyes would've widened were he not paused. Before him, a see-through rectangle was formed. Through it, he could see two tall women. One with sunglasses, a black turtleneck, and military cut who had some sort of dark grey...bar? thing? hovering above her wrist. The other was an even taller woman with long, messy, dark grey hair and a dark grey button-up.

"Unpause him," the taller one commanded.

Ow. Apparently the stark-white floor beneath him was an actual floor. The more you learn and shit.

"So, The Chosen One," the taller one started, startling him.

"I'm sure you remember a few years ago when that little friend of yours got blasted by that other little friend of yours." She stepped closer to Chosen's blinding white enclosure, his instincts causing him to slightly stumble backwards.

"You've been wondering how he's been, haven't you? It's been so long, it's hard to imagine that you don't miss him a little." Her facial expression was neutral, but it was very obviously hiding a grin underneath. "Well, luckily for you, I found him just the other day."

She turned to her shorter companion, mouthing something that Chosen couldn't decipher. The woman in the turtleneck turned and walked away.

The woman with messy hair turned her gaze back in Chosen's direction. Her smile was barely hidden now. "Just wait a few. You're going to love this."

The woman in the turtleneck came back, and she was carrying...no.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Horrible memories flashed in his head of a boy, young enough to be his son...doing whatever it is he did to his roommate. The horrible bright green flashes alone were enough to send a squirm down his spine.

This was even worse.

His eyes were open and completely lifeless. His limbs and spine were bent in ways that Chosen hadn't ever seen before. A large rip made its way down his red sweater, revealing a bright green gash with dried-up blood inside it. Chosen's stomach churned as he realised he could see a bone inside it. From Chosen's angle, and because the window was not floor-to-ceiling, he could not see anything below the waist. He silently thanked whatever higher power may exist for that.

Without realising, Chosen's body had completely sunk to the floor. His sobs rang out through his enclosure, and a little through the grey room the two women were standing in. He only began to realise that he was crying when it became so intense that it affected his breathing.

The taller woman snapped her fingers, and just like that, the woman in the turtleneck threw his body to the side, outside of Chosen's vision.

"So, was it nice to see him again?" The woman in the button-up chuckled. Chosen glared up at her. She glanced down at him, still smiling. "Hey, don't get mad at me. I didn't hurt him. It was the orange one who did that to him."

The...orange one?

Right.

Him.

"What is his name?" Chosen asked. Apparently when you don't use your throat for God knows how long, your voice becomes incredibly raspy and it hurts to talk. Ow.

"The Second Coming," a voice said. Chosen couldn't tell where it was coming from.

"The Second Coming..." Chosen couldn't tell whether he thought those words or spoke them.

"I'm going to kill him."

[lauraneedstochill]

Love always wakes the dragon / Chapter 2

summary: Aemond thinks she’s a worthy opponent — a relentless fighter, a dragon rider, her temper and stubbornness only matching his. But there’s a catch: she is Daemon’s daughter who wants nothing from her father and has her own reasons for coming to King’s Landing. And one of them is meant to save the other. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OFC words: 8K warnings: enemies to lovers, slowburn, sword fighting and a bruised male’s ego. author’s note: I’ve read a few fighting scenes and, as much as I enjoyed them, I always thought people go easy on Aemond. so I didn’t 😏 I also added some instrumental music that fits the fight scene perfectly, and I recommend you put it on! ⏪ part 1

2. The Wild Dragon

The dragonkeepers form a small crowd — as Daemon approaches, he sees the men standing still and gazing at the sky, inert like statues. He hears a low buzzing of gasps and when he looks up, he finds himself in the same position, stunned and open-mouthed. The dragon is circling above the alcove, its wings stretched like a snow-white sail, and the rare, blinding beauty of it makes it hard to look away. The patch of bronze starts from beneath its neck and runs down to the tail — the color mix brings back a certain memory of his, and Daemon momentarily sinks into his thoughts.

Only when the dragon goes to the fourth round, the prince comes to his senses.

“Why isn’t it landing?”

One of the dragonkeepers hesitantly points to the other corner of the gates. Daemon then notices a group of guards lined up with swords in their arms, looking far from delighted.

“Are you out of your mind?!” the prince yells. “Lower your weapons, you imbeciles!”

The guards retreat and the dragonkeepers back away, still keeping their eyes on the beast — in worry, in wonder. It circles them once more and finally flies down, and Daemon catches a glimpse of the rider — her clothes dark, cloak withering on the wind. He feels his chest tighten, the long-forgotten feeling rousing in: he can’t remember the last time he was so nervous.

The white dragon lands with a grace of a cat: moving paws in synch, it lowers the neck and folds the wings, its limber body huddling closer to the ground. There is a sharpness to its features, half of the snout crisscrossed with scars, scales coarse up close, pale and solid like ivory. The beast focuses on Daemon, then glares at the guards. The reptile’s green eyes are specked with gold, the damning force being the crux of its every move. A rumbling vibrates in the back of its throat but doesn’t grow into a roar — it is a warning given before the beast slows down movement, much to everyone’s relief.

The rider jumps down and puts the hood back so Daemon can take a closer look at her. Merely a second is enough to see — she’s an image of her mother, in every feature of her face and even in the way she moves, a rare fusion of gracious and fast-paced. Her hair is put into a braid, the color of it so rare he’s only seen it once before — in the sunlight it looks bright as fire, but right through it cuts a thick strand that frames one side of her face with white, the shade of it matching Daemon’s head of hair. And when he meets her gaze, he notices that she has his eyes: the shape is a bit different, more round, but they are the same color and they carry the same threat. It’s only two pieces of the puzzle that she’s assembled of, but now that Daemon sees her, he has no doubts that she is, in fact, his daughter, and that feeling is almost flattering.

She doesn’t look flattered in the slightest.

When she eyes him briefly, she shows no emotion — uncaring, casually unimpressed. It becomes awkwardly silent, and Daemon realizes he’s never been that good at making the first step. But maybe it is time for him to try.

“There was no mention of the dragon in the letters,” his voice comes off a tad softer than usual, and he keeps his distance but his enthusiasm fuels him to shorten it.

“Well, surprise,” she deadpans and pats the dragon, her hand gliding against the scales, a small bag clenched in the other one. “Seemed like you took more interest in discussing other matters. What is the proper way of greeting you? Should I curtsy?” she asks, and he isn’t sure if she’s jesting, her tone matching the unreadable expression on her face. “I must apologize for my manners in advance, I’m afraid.”

Her straightforwardness brings a smile to his face, and Daemon steps closer. “We can get the formalities out of the way. I would like to welcome you to King’s Landing, lady —”

“There is no need for that. You know I am no lady, nor am I seeking any titles. You can call me Lia.”

“But that is not your name,” he remarks unsurely, a line of confusion settling in between his brows. Daemon is suddenly questioning every piece of information he knows — or rather the lack thereof.

“That is a part of it,” her answer sounds well-rehearsed as she dispassionately tears syllables. “That’s how my mother called me, so I am quite used to it.”

Even with her name cut in half, she has more authority than the most decorated lords, Daemon thinks. It’s both inexplicable and intriguing, and he holds on to that thought — until it collides with another one, tardy and grim: when she talked about her mother, she used the past tense.

Memories get their claws into his heart as he’s reminded of Baela and Rhaena clinging to him, their muffled weeping and grief-stricken eyes. He knows that the pain of losing a mother leaves a mark that will never be erased — but kind words and a shoulder to cry on can at least help ease the suffering.

Daemon moves with the intention of opening his arms, his chest a harbor of acceptance when he asks:

“How’s your mother been doing?”

Lia blinks once, twice, then says — plain and simple:

“She died.”

Daemon is startled by the lack of sentiment. It was, indeed, naive to believe she’d rush into his arms. But her guard is up so high he feels like he is facing an actual wall, which makes him anxious — and that’s not what he is used to deal with when it comes to his own children. Before he can express concern, he hears a disgruntled snarl — they both turn to see the white dragon coiled into a defensive stance. A couple of dragonkeepers are approaching it, and Lia raises her voice at the beast:

“Olwen!”

His dilated pupils dart to her, and the snarling abates, but his wrath bolsters, and now he’s nothing less of a pure danger. Both his and her eyes are trained on the men, and as one of them comes closer, Lia catches a dull glint of metal in his hands.

“No chains are needed,” she instantly speaks up.

“It is a matter of precaution, we mean no harm —”

“I said,” Lia steps in front of the man, “My dragon will not be chained.”

Her tone immediately loses the light coating of friendliness — if there ever was any to begin with, and she allows no objections. The dragonkeeper looks at her helplessly then turns his gaze to Daemon, waiting for instructions.

“They want to make sure he stays in the cave,” the prince clarifies peacefully.

“He doesn’t do well with chains.”

Daemon notes that all her responses are ill-defined which makes him wonder if she does it consciously or not. Whatever her reasoning is, it only leaves more questions.

“Will he do well with other dragons?”

“Olwen will be on his best behavior,” her reply comes out too harsh, so she tones it down a bit. “Put him in any closed space, and he will sleep for days, he won’t care about anything else.”

Daemon casts an evaluating glance at the beast and gestures for the dragonkeepers to stand back.

“I’ll lead the way,” he doesn’t need to turn around to know she’s following him — her eyes land on his back like a punch.

They pass the gate and the rows of columns carved into the stone surface, illuminated by the torches on the walls. Daemon strains to pick up any sound the dragon makes that can be alarming but he only hears the beast’s footsteps and sniffing. Looking over his shoulder, he is surprised to see that Olwen calmly tags along, not reacting to the unknown environment nor the distant roars. When they reach his cave, the beast merely gives it a look-over before settling down in the darkest corner. Lia leaves the bag tucked under his wing and glances at Olwen with the faintest of a smile. It disappears once she turns to her father.

They walk back in silence but unlike her dragon, Lia takes more interest in her surroundings — she examines weaves of caves and tunnels, looking around after every turn. Daemon watches her out of the corner of his eye, vigilant and hopeful, as he keeps fighting the desire to please her, to be liked by her, this stranger that has his blood but acts like she wants none of it. He opens the carriage door for her, smothering his ego, but Lia looks inside with hesitation. He guesses that she’d rather go on horseback, yet she eventually concedes; he thinks it’s a small step in the right direction.

Lia sits closer to the window, her interest seemingly flaring up. That or she doesn’t want to be near Daemon, and he brushes off the latter. He wants to offer his condolences but is afraid her wall of defense will turn into a mountain he won’t be able to climb; so he chooses a safer option.

“How was your journey? Finding the Dragonpit didn’t pose a problem for you, it seems.”

“The maps you sent were very detailed, thank you,” Lia doesn’t turn to him, focused on the landscape that soon gives way to the streets busy with fairs and taverns. “Is King’s Landing always this crowded?”

“We are taking the main streets — these are usually filled with people,” Daemon explains. He doesn’t mention that he chose that road so she could get a better view of the city.

“Keeping an eye on things must be quite hard.”

“Hence why we have the City Watch,” he grins, the feel of the gold cloak wrapped around his shoulders still fresh in his memory. “The Watch reinforces the crown’s laws so our city is safe for all its people. I can show you around later on, should you wish for it.”

“If the city is safe, why would I need a guardian to take a walk?” when Lia looks at him, there’s a gleam of laughter in her eyes, and Daemon thinks that Rhaenyra would’ve liked her. He really hopes that she will.

“I am only offering my company,” he rebuts gaily.

“One would think Prince Consort has better things to do,” the corner of her mouth curls but the other one doesn’t follow, and the hint of a smile never grows into an actual one. Instead, her face is set on agitation when she adds: “I may help you pass the time,” her hand disappears under the cloak — and then Lia gives him a folded piece of parchment. “My mother wrote this for you.”

Daemon can feel that she doesn’t want to give it to him. It’s in the way her hand is gripping the letter, in the way she looks at it, her lips tight and jaw clenched. And yet she lets him take it.

“You know what it’s about?”

“I think I do. And I would prefer if you kept it a secret,” Lia’s voice is quiet — and for a second she almost sounds hurt. But she averts her gaze and straightens her posture, and he can’t figure her out, once again.

“You didn’t read it?”

“The letter is sealed,” Lia states the obvious. “If it wasn’t meant for me then I will not open it.”

“You could’ve burned it, you know. Keep whatever there is a secret.”

And Daemon thinks he will rip the letter to shreds if only she asks, if it makes things better for her. She lightly shakes her head.

“It was my mother’s wish to give it to you, and I respect it,” Lia says firmly. “I can only hope that you will respect mine.”

“Sooner or later, everyone will find out,” he warns her, with a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“I am in no rush.”

She turns to the window, signaling the end of their conversation, her eyes on the road again. Only now, in the broad daylight as Daemon keeps his gaze on her, he creeps into suspicion that she is mentally mapping every place they pass. And he doesn’t know the destination she has in mind. The audience with the Queen goes better than Daemon hoped for. Rhaenyra’s frustration due to the unannounced visit is replaced by curiosity the second Lia comes in. She sees the girl who isn’t hiding behind Daemon’s back and boldly keeps eye contact with the Queen. Lia stops a few feet away from the throne — instead of curtsying, she takes a bow and doesn’t look away. Someone else might’ve considered her behavior insolent but Rhaenyra impatiently walks closer, not offended and rather intrigued. Daemon wonders if she sees a younger version of herself in Lia — and his wife thinks of it as well. She’s more surprised by the lack of a title than by the name his daughter chose.

“No one in my village had a title or a last name,” Lia points out, and she bears no shame. The look on her face also suggests she doesn’t expect the Queen to understand.

Rhaenyra doesn’t ponder for long. “It is fair to call you a lady, I believe, since you have royal blood in your veins.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Lia simply agrees — and it’s leniency as it is. But the Queen allows it.

She asks more questions than Daemon did, and the girl seems affable with her replies yet somehow she gives all the same information, and not a word more. Still, he observes them with unconcealed satisfaction, pleased with the flow of their voices, with the peacefulness setting in the hall —

“How did your mother die?” Rhaenyra wonders all of a sudden, and Daemon flinches at his spot.

“Of an unfortunate injury she left untreated,” Lia begrudgingly answers; he notices that the violet of her eyes goes a shade darker.

“Wasn’t your mother a healer?”

It’s not intended as a taunt, Rhaenyra just can’t resist the urge to know, but her child-like attempts make Daemon tense up. They are both perplexed by the dry chuckle Lia lets out:

“She cared too much about everyone else but too little about herself.”

There’s no hiding of vitriol seeping through her words but Lia’s face is indifferent again. Rhaenyra studies her reaction — luckily for Daemon, she does so not as the Queen but as someone who experienced the same loss once.

“I reckon, coming all that way to King’s Landing wasn’t easy. But we are glad you did,” she concludes calmly. “It may take you some time to consider this place home — I assure you, the servants are ordered to satisfy your every whim”.

Rhaenyra means well, Daemons knows it, and yet for some reason, he wishes she phrased it better. Whatever Lia actually thinks of the Queen’s speech is left unsaid — his daughter only gives a polite half-smile in return.

“That is very generous of you, Your Grace. Frankly, I feel like I want to rest for a week, nothing else.”

“Do you really intend to?” Rhaenyra’s friendliness slightly falters. “We planned on having you at our family gathering at dinner.”

“Dare I ask you to postpone it just for a day? Surely it would be rude for me to fall asleep at the table,” Lia’s smile doesn’t reach the eyes, and a lull in their conversation makes Daemon uncomfortable.

“Well, I suppose just a day won’t make a difference. After such a long journey you do deserve to rest,” the Queen says after a pause. “Meanwhile, I need my husband to resume his duties. The maid will show you to your chambers,” Rhaenyra calls for a girl who’s been standing at the door, and she rushes to them, quiet as a mouse.

Lia’s eyes flicker to Daemon, and he almost expects her to argue, but she says nothing aside from a hushed “thank you”, and then follows the maid out of the room. Rhaenyra watches them, pensive.

“I truly do not know what to think,” she drawls when they leave. “But she is really quite something,” and her appraisal is followed by a chuckle.

Daemon nods, agreeing. Only he doesn’t find it amusing at all. Lia thinks the maid is just a couple of years younger than her but she doesn’t ask for clarifications. Just yesterday Lia was picking up branches to make a fire in the woods, some dirt undoubtedly left under her fingernails. And now she is being led to her chambers by a maid. It feels as ridiculous as it is nauseating, and it only gets worse when she sees the rooms — the size of the house she’s grown in and with way more furniture than she’s ever seen put in one place.

Lia stands confounded by the sight, and the maid humbly says: “If you are in need of anything, you can —”

“No,” Lia cuts her off so sharply, it startles the girl. Lia turns to her, apologetic. “What is your name?”

“Annora,” she answers meekly, hiding her eyes to the floor.

“Annora, I can guarantee you I need nothing else. You are free to leave for the rest of the day,” Lia tries to sound both persuasive and kind — and not disgusted with her own pretense.

The girl gives her a confused look but takes leave without questions. Lia stays at the doorway listening to her retreating steps, not interested at all at the pompously furnished chambers. After the sounds in the hall die down Lia slips out without looking back.

She roams around, learns every exit and searches through every room left open. She only has one rule: shall things go south, she must know how to get out, fast and without being seen. She memorizes the turns, the pattern of corridors and stairs while trying to avoid the people endlessly pacing through the castle. A few times she has to take a step back, hide in the shadows and in between the columns while maids and guards and noble women with too many underskirts run by. Lia’s impervious to the fuss as she takes time to explore the building, with doors and corners and the awaiting unknown.

When she gets to the backyard, it feels like just a couple of hours have passed but Lia is surprised to see the sun setting, the sky dabbed with yellow and maroon. Once she is outside, she realizes how much she needed some fresh air, how there’s a lack of it in the musty, sweltering castle. She is relieved to see that the yard is way less crowded, with only a few servants and knights at the gates. Her eyes skim slowly over the open space when she hears metal screeching — distinct and all too familiar to her: Lia predictably sees two men fighting, their swords being the source of the sound. Her gaze is drawn to one of them — lean, tall, and fending off his opponent with ease. His hair is long and silver, his hits as clear-cut as the features of his face. Although she didn’t see him that well the first time, she recognizes him immediately. Aemond keeps composure, each stroke of his sword deliberate and sharp, and Ser Criston can’t let his guard down for one second. It is a sequence he’s learned over the years: it’s not meant to be rushed, it’s built on the exhausting suspense. Aemond watches him, throws in a few teasing strikes, leisurely but maniacally tiring his opponent out. Only when you least expect it, he will abruptly swing the sword, his thrusts strong enough to knock an adult down, just enough to satisfy his ego.

And yet, Ser Criston senses that something’s off. The prince is missing his usual fervor, not pressing the fight but rather tolerating it, which Criston considers odd.

“Your focus seems to be elsewhere, my prince. I wonder what is on your mind.”

Aemond shoots him a cold glance and easily blocks his hit, then spins and strikes forward, his sword stopping at Criston’s neck.

“Wondering does you no good, Ser Criston,” the prince remarks with a small grin, retreating.

“Fair enough,” he smiles in return. “I suggest we take a break.”

They had to start later than usual, and the yard has long been empty, quiet, softly illuminated by the sunset. One of the guards goes to light the torches on the walls, and Aemond absentmindedly watches the flames grow as he gulps water. Despite Ser Criston being in the right, the prince still finds the training calming. He does enjoy the soreness of the muscles, his mind focused on his movements, on the way his body adapts to the tempo and responds to the threat. He concludes he can go for another round, still invigorated, somewhat restive, always at the ready.

But when Aemond turns around, his eye is drawn to a cloaked figure, and all the clarity and concentration dissolve upon realizing who he’s looking at. He recognizes her immediately.

Christon follows Aemond’s gaze, spotting the girl too, and then squints a little:

“Is that —”

“I believe so,” the prince replies tersely.

They were on their way to the yard when they saw Alicent leaving Helaena’s chambers looking grim. Caught in the moment, she had to reveal the cause of her sour mood: she wore a grimace of annoyance as she recounted what happened at the small council’s meeting. Her explanation left much to be desired but Criston listened carefully, seemingly intrigued. Both he and Alicent missed Aemond’s stunned expression — he instantly guessed who was the rider of the white dragon.

It’s long been known that his mother and Daemon have a bone to pick, but Aemond is never hasty with his judgment. His uncle’s daughter is a girl he knows nothing about, so he tries not rushing to conclusions, or labeling, or worse. And yet the prince clings to the image of her — so audacious in her freedom, coming into their lives at the speed of a dragon she wasn’t ever supposed to have. He couldn’t help but wonder how their first meeting would go, how she’d be forced to wear a smile and navigate awkward conversations.

But suddenly she’s here — her black cloak fluttering like an unknown flag, no sign of a smile on her face, no lack of confidence. She keeps her distance and pays them no mind, her eyes set on the table with swords, their blades reflecting red and orange the sky is painted with. Criston takes note of Aemond’s wistful stare, then clears his throat and approaches the girl.

“It is not often that I find ladies to take interest in swords.”

“I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure of admiring the craftsmanship,” she answers simply.

It earns her a pleased look from the knight, prompting him to come closer and point at the two right next to her: “Well, these were cast only a week ago.”

She glances up at him, out of interest or as a precaution, and Aemond sees a white strand of hair sticking out, a clear sign of her Targaryen roots confirmed by the color of her eyes. He examines her discreetly, takes in every subtle detail he can notice as if her appearance can give him a clue for what’s underneath.

“This looks like Valyrian steel,” she infers, and Criston nods.

“You have seen it before?”

“I have heard of it, and it is truly beautiful up close. How long does it take to make one?”

Aemond’s never been good at striking up conversations, avoiding them on the pretext of not liking idle talk. And yet now his taciturnity weighs on him — and he doesn’t know if he’s troubled by the feeling of being excluded once again or the blind urge to be the one she’s talking to.

Criston is way less distrustful and more chatty, and Lia welcomes his nuanced explanations.

“You are quite passionate about the subject,” she concludes.

“It’s only fair for the knight to know more of the weapon he uses,” he says, modest as ever. “Although, I believe we haven’t been properly introduced — I am Ser Criston Cole, the Master of swords. You walked in on me and Prince Aemond training.”

She doesn’t acknowledge Aemond’s presence; the neglect unnerves him. Ser Criston is more worried about respecting social norms.

“And how should I address you?”

“Just Lia will do,” she bestows him with a smile so fleeting, he might’ve as well imagined it.

“Lady Lia, then,” he corrects.

“There’s no value in adding that,” her face is briefly shadowed by disdain.

Aemond comes up to them then, not waiting for any invitations and intending to be reckoned with, his brows draw together at her comment.

“Getting a title is something people usually pride upon rather than eschew,” he points out in a studiously courteous manner.

“Sounds like you care about it more than I do,” Lia barely spares him a glance, her head tilted as she follows the gilded pattern of the sword with her finger.

She doesn’t mean to mock him, her tone plain and stance relaxed, but the relative ease with which she brushes off his remark wounds all the same. Aemond is so used to people being intimidated by his mere presence that the lack of reaction does come off as an offense — or maybe he’s too eager to take it as one.

Ser Criston is oblivious to Aemond’s nerves slowly cracking, too absorbed in the conversation.

“To fully appreciate the craftsmanship, you should see it in action. Do you know how to handle a sword? I can show you.”

“It is kind of you to offer but I’ve wielded a sword before,” she sounds emotionless yet Criston sees a smile in the corner of her lips again. He wonders if it’s a sign of amiability, or a jeer.

“I am sure you haven’t held —”

“You can take one,” Aemond suddenly suggests, words escaping his mouth before he can think them over.

Ser Criston stops midsentence, darting an inquiring glance at him but the prince ignores it, his eye boring into Lia’s back.

“If you have a bout with me,” he adds — and sees that her finger stops at the edge of the blade, signaling that now he’s got her attention.

“You already have an opponent to entertain you.”

“I am not looking for entertainment,” Aemond adamantly retorts.

He is looking for a fight, he wants to say — but when Lia finally glances at the prince, he catches an unspoken sign of understanding.

“If you win, the sword is yours,” Aemond continues as his impatience simmers, risking to bring his temper to a boil.

There is no logical explanation for his persistence — Lia shows no interest and takes no offense, absolutely nothing suggests that she wants to fight, and she merely looked at him once since she came. Maybe that last part is the one he’s got a problem with.

Criston waits for the girl to refuse — and to do so sheepishly, in a ladylike manner. Instead, she fully turns to the prince.

“Seems like you’ve been training for quite some time, aren’t you tired?” Lia eyes him from head to toe. “I’d like us to have a fair bout.”

Aemond stifles a laugh, reeking of overconfidence, his reaction all too familiar to the knight but usually off-putting to the others — just this attitude alone led to more fights than Criston can count, even though the prince had no trouble winning. But Lia doesn’t lash back or quarrel — she is a blank canvas void of any color.

“I won’t cut you, worry not. At least I will try my best,” Aemond’s reply is hardly a promise with his voice being so evidently teasing. “Do you need a warm-up?”

She feels her legs humming from the number of stairs and turns she’s taken; the anticipation heats her body even more.

“I’ll pass,” just for a moment, her gaze turns sneery, and Aemond guesses that she’s also not the one to back down. That bare glimmer of her character is enough to strike a chord in him.

Criston looks between them, finally grasping how the dynamic escalated, the air thick with tension as Aemond and Lia stare each other down without a hint of doubt on their faces.

“You are fortunate to spar with a very skilled swordsman,” the knight mentions delicately, hoping that his implication might cause Lia to reconsider.

“If you say so,” is her only reply.

Before choosing a sword, Lia looks around. This time, Aemond actually wishes there was a crowd to make a spectacle in front of. But as her eyes are roving through the yard, Criston guesses that she is sizing up the space — and it’s not a sign of her lacking experience. She goes to where the shortswords are lined up, and Aemond sniggers: he is proficient with longswords, he maneuvers heavy blades with ease, and going for a lighter version will not pose a challenge. Lia picks one, it’s hilt smaller and set with emeralds: she weights it, makes sure it sits comfortably in her hand. Criston descries her thumb layed on the flat of the blade which gives her a better hold of it — she twirls the sword a couple of times, her movements smooth and polished.

The knight turns to Aemond — and he is already looking at Lia.

“You do know how to hold it. Do you know how to use it?” the prince sneers.

She throws him an assessing gaze. “Do you?”

“We are about to find out.”

🎵

Lia twists the blade backward, and it stops right behind her shoulder, barely an inch away. She holds it there as she approaches the prince, staying at a safe distance. The forged metal is tinted with the blooming sundown: bright, sinister scarlet. It gives Criston a sinking feeling of worry. But he hesitates for just a second too long — and then it’s too late to meddle.

Aemond strikes first, not harshly but rather testing — Lia swiftly moves out of his way, without even raising her sword, and his blade almost grazes her cloak, but the material slips away in the air. The prince takes a step back, circling her as she stands, barely moving but not letting him out of sight, not shying away from him. His gaze hunts her like prey but she’s hawk-eyed, yet to show her own claws.

Criston directs his focus to Lia in an instant. She’s got good awareness of space, her stepping is correct and aligned with her rare hits, her pacing akin to a measured cadence. Using the sword in one hand gives her a longer reach — but she hardly ever initiates attacks. Instead of stopping Aemond or trying to engage, Lia dodges easily, and that behavior only serves to embolden the prince’s fervor. It bothers Criston, and he furrows his brows, discerning how aloof and impassive Lia seems in comparison to Aemond — he’s smoldering, she’s stone-cold, and her movements are almost... lazy.

That’s when Criston realizes: she’s the one wearing the prince out, not the other way around.

It only takes Aemond a few seconds to draw the same conclusion, and he feels a flash of irritation in his chest. He might’ve underestimated Lia but he isn’t used to being toyed with, and even though her face is still without expression, now her style of fighting seems taunting. The prince usually takes pride in his self-control yet he starts slowly losing it — and he hates to lose, he never does.

Aemond quickly weighs his options, chancing a glance at the yard, and a distant object catches his attention. It’s a middle-sized barrel, but it’s enough to slow her movements, he thinks, and once she’s cornered he might consider mercy. He intensifies his hits, pressuring her to move further away, right into his trap, to his proclamation of victory; his hubris blossoms. It turns out to be disastrously premature.

Lia looks over her shoulder — and then jumps over the barrel like it wasn’t ever there, barely an obstacle, or at least not for her. She gives him a look that makes him feel stupid — and Aemond is anything but. Even from a distance, Criston can feel the anger that sparkles in the prince, his shoulders tensing up and his grip on the sword tightening. He is scary when he’s angry — when he allows himself to be, when the build-up emotions emerge from the darkness of his stiff restrain — Aemond doesn’t hold back then, and he is scarily dangerous, dreadful, deadly.

But anger is only fuel and, shall you spill too much of it, the fire will be too hard to control — and the lack of control can be lethal when someone aims a blade at your heart. Yet it seems that what Aemond may lack, she’s got plenty of, and Criston finds himself wondering if that unemotional canvas of hers is actually a facade that covers something else.

They are separated by the barrel but Lia has no intention of hiding behind it — as she goes back around, she tosses the cloak away, and Aemond finds himself involuntarily staring at her. Her clothes are also dark: the upper garment is long-sleeved and waisted, the dense material of her trousers fitted tightly around her thighs. It differs from everything he’s seen on the ladies of the court, and she wears it like a second skin that covers every curve of her body. As Aemond’s eye lingers, he lets his guard down, almost missing the moment when she hits, fast and without warning — the prince blocks it and their swords lock at foot level, her blade stopping right at his knee.

Aemond’s face expresses the utmost bewilderment. She didn’t cut him — but the intent was there.

The prince inhales sharply. He can forgive her still, he can dismiss her insolence and blame it on her lack of manners, on her luck, on any ludicrous reason he may come up with in the minute he takes to calm himself down. He’s trying with his every breath, with his every muscle to regain control and resolve the situation peacefully.

But Lia isn’t looking for peace when she says — brazenly, her eyes fixed on him:

“Doesn’t seem like you live up to the praise you’ve been given.”

His temper explodes. Aemond lunges at her, an annoyed grunt bubbling in his throat as he strikes, merciless and quick. She bends backward, his sword gliding just above her, and then she ducks under his arm and moves away. He barely has time to turn to her when she winds in from the other side, their swords clanging — and Criston regains his senses at the loud sound.

The knight feels his heart racing, the feeling of worry now bruising as he can’t take his eyes off them.

Aemond’s blind spot is on his left but Lia never aims there — taking advantage of his weakness would be too easy of a win. It’s just as easy for her to note that he is right-handed, and that’s where his defence is flawed: his fierce intent to cover his left side leaves him open to attacks from the right. The moment she realizes that, her hits become more frequent and more vigorous, as her sword cuts through the air with a flick of her wrist. She’s got speed and agility, she’s unwavering: she is a hunter too.

Aemond does not give in, already furious, and yet, even with the most ferocious attempts he misses her — merely by an inch — but misses nonetheless. Lia dodges his attacks, each of her blocks calculated and her gaze alert, her desire not to yield only matching his. It is refreshing, it keeps Aemond’s blood pumping, the anger-driven energy coursing through him. It also hurts his ego quite a bit.

There is a bizarre harmony in the way they carry themselves, Criston notes, and their anger looks about the same — fiery and scalding. And it’s only a matter of time before anyone gets burned.

Aemond runs out of patience first.

Lia bats his sword aside once more and falls into his blind spot — Aemond needs to spin around to keep her in sight. But his mind is clouded with fury that pushes him to take a risk: he swings at her at that very second, his aim nothing but instinctive. He’s never followed blind instinct so literally; he’s also never done anything so dangerously stupid.

Criston’s heart plummets like a pebble through a hole as he watches Lia’s blade miss Aemond by a hair — and it truly is a miracle if he’s ever seen one. But then the prince’s sword lands right next to her shoulder, and they both instantly halt movement, their breathing heavy and eyes locked.

There is dead silence around them, the sun is long gone, the sounds vanished, all the guards witnessing are petrified.

It takes all of Aemond’s willpower not to press the blade further into the material of her clothes to cut it. He doesn’t want to hurt her but he wants to leave a mark. A sign that he did win, a reminder of his victory just for her to keep.

“I shall teach you a lesson on how to keep your attitude in check when you’re talking to a prince,” his words are laced with frustration yet he smirks, bathing in the satisfaction that winning always brings him.

“You should learn not to get ahead of yourself,” she whispers — and with that, he suddenly feels a metal blade poking at his ribs. Taken aback, Aemond looks down and, surely, she’s holding a small dagger to his side with her free hand. His delight is as short-lived as ripples on a pond.

“Now, this is not fair,” he mutters, not looking so smug anymore.

“Fairness be damned when someone’s threatening my life,” she glances up at him, their faces so close they can feel each other’s breath. She smells of ashes and crisp freshness of the forest, and her expression doesn’t change but her eyes darken, just like the sea does before the storm, which makes him feel uneasy.

And yet, Aemond refuses to lower his sword.

“Will you be as fierce without an arm?” he hisses.

“I can survive without one. But I’ll cut into your heart first,” her voice is terribly calm, and he knows she’s not bluffing.

“That is enough,” Criston is on the verge of yelling. “No one will cut anything!”

He tries to squeeze in between them but to no avail — Aemond doesn’t budge nor does Lia. Criston’s never been the one to babysit the kids, yet right now he wishes he had more experience with tantrums — because that’s exactly what it is, he thinks. Except the two participants have long outgrown the age appropriate for such behavior, and both are, unfortunately, armed.

He takes a deep breath and throws a hand in between them, more firmly this time.

“You know as well as I do that this has to end,” the knight gives them a stern look. “And with both of you intact.”

Lia’s eyes dart to Criston, and he takes it as a sign of her being the one he can reason with.

“I do not think using a dagger was acceptable but to be fair, we never established any rules. And you are a good fighter,” he puts emphasis, not letting the prince interrupt. “So I propose we agree on a draw, and you will still get your sword.”

She looks at Aemond: “I believe said agreement requires mutual consent.”

Criston maneuvers his palm next to Lia’s shoulder and puts his other hand close to where her dagger is. He glances anxiously at Aemond, and the prince scowls: it’s not in his habit to share victories. He holds her gaze for a couple of seconds — and then they lower their weapons, the movement almost synchronized except Lia does so with grace while Aemond just does everyone a favor.

Criston gently stops the girl, his hand intercepting the one she’s holding the sword in.

“I will sharpen it myself and have it back in the morning,” he promises — and she gives it up with no objection.

Aemond seethes at her compliance he hasn’t been graced with, clinging to his sword while his pride whines in offense. He watches Lia put the cloak back on, twirling the dagger in one hand, so unbothered and composed as if he left no impression on her while she all but carved her way into his head. She has her back to him when he thoughtlessly makes a move in her direction, and Criston’s eyes widen, a word of warning rooting in his throat — but he doesn’t get a chance to voice it.

Lia stops and turns to Aemond in one swift motion, her gaze heavy and cold — and immediately on him again. For the second time she takes him by surprise, and the prince freezes at the spot. She looks directly at him and, without breaking eye contact, slowly shakes her head no. She doesn’t utter a single word but the coldness of her gaze speaks for itself. Her eyes are saying if you dare to pick the sword, I will kill you. I will bury my dagger in between your ribs, and my face will be the last thing you see.

She’s standing in front of him — a woman wrapped in the darkest shades of black, and she radiates the most alarming threat he’s ever seen. She gives him the same feeling he gets every time he touches the blade with his bare fingers, every time he flies with Vhagar up in the sky, rising above the clouds until his lungs start burning and the air is too cold to breathe in. It’s the feeling of imminent danger, of him balancing right at the edge of a foul. It’s challenging as much as it is fascinating. And Aemond likes a good challenge.

He takes his hand off of the hilt, his crooked grin a telltale sign of his refusal to wave a white flag just yet. Criston breathes out with relief. Not a single word is shared, and Lia leaves without giving them another glance, the prince and the knight gazing after her.

“I want to ask what just happened but I am not sure you will give me an honest answer,” Criston remarks.

Aemond keeps silent, his eye following Lia’s cloak, and the desire to go after her feels like an itch, like a pull he can’t explain.

“I don’t think it will be wise to tell my mother,” the prince says all of a sudden.

Confusion is evident on Criston’s face, brighter than the light of the torches it’s illumed with.

“She would’ve wanted to know of it,” the knight attempts to reason. “I am your family’s sworn protector and it’s my responsibility to —”

“I am asking you as a friend,” Aemond cuts in. The prince doesn’t move nor does he look at Criston, his sharp profile not letting any emotions slip through. And yet, these words are the biggest sign of trust Aemond has ever shown the knight in years.

Criston bites down a smile. “Understood, my prince.” Lia navigates the corridors and goes past her chambers, past the bed made for her, to the other end of the castle. She sneaks to the gates and lures the guards out by throwing a rock at the fence; she finds it funny that it takes two grown men to look for the source of the noise. The girl escapes into the darkness of the night, into the vibrant city filled with people scurrying about.

She blends into the crowd without effort. Her eyes wander — over the busy taverns and rowdy alleys, over the goods for those who are willing to spare a coin: raw meat and cheap wines, silks and whores wrapped in them, all put on display. The air is sometimes foul-smelling, and some corners are drenched in filth; yet, these streets grant the freedom the Red Keep don’t offer. It’s almost tempting to get lost and forget her way back — but she cannot allow it. So Lia puts the hood on and walks faster, the exhaustion already stepping on her toes.

Halfway to the Dragonpit, she feels a gaze on her. She catches a few drunkards staring, red-faced, hardly threatening; same for the beggars and street dancers that reach for her but can’t keep up. The one who does stick out is a girl eight or nine years of age — her face sly and eyes following Lia, her clothes too neat for her to live on the streets. Lia takes note of the kid but doesn’t take action; her dagger hidden under the cloak saves her from the hassle of worrying.

The cavernous building atop the hill looks even bigger at night, grand and daunting, with the armored guards wearing stern faces. But they let Lia pass unhindered, perhaps to compensate for their hostile greeting in the morning. She quickly slips into the tunnels swathed in stillness. When she walks into the cave, she finds Olwen barely awake. Weariness flows through her like a stream of water, and all the build-up tension floats away with each inhale — deep, slow and blissful. As she is standing there, the darkness interrupted only by the glow of her dragon’s eyes, she quietly reminds herself:

“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Calls himself Knuckles.”

Olwen glances up at her and lets out a roar, low and choppy, and it sounds almost like a purr. The dragon moves his head closer to Lia, and she sits on the ground, gently touching the rough skin of his snout. She knows he can feel it — her anger sparkling at the surface, ready to ignite at any second. But he also feels the pain that’s been wailing deep inside, vile and heavy on her heart. She thinks it is unfair to him — this connection that they share, the unexplainable bond, and she almost wants to apologize. She knows he won’t understand.

Lia leans back on the dragon, using her cloak as a blanket and letting the exhaustion wash over her. Her eyelids flutter shut and she whispers again:

“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Goes by Knuckles. Raven woods. Yellow and brown...”

This reminder is not a lullaby but a never healing scar branded onto her skin, tearing her life in half, leaving nothing but ruins, bodies, death. But when Lia finally drifts off, she is greeted with no dreams, and it feels like a blessing, that oblivion of hers. Because most nights, when she closes her eyes, she sees a dark forest burning in flames, filled with endless screams. Back at the castle, the one-eyed prince lies wide awake, his restless mind not letting him sleep as he keeps replaying the events of the evening in his head. Aemond’s body has gotten tired but his nerves are strained, head flooded with the memories of Lia: the way she looked at him, daring and unashamed, the way she moved — dexterous, fast, never giving up. A recalcitrant opponent, a resistant fighter, a bastard with a wild dragon.

Or maybe she’s a dragon herself.

He wonders if he can tame her.

• when she turns to him and shakes her head — that was inspired by the scene from “Hawkeye”. 🔥 my masterlist

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

tagging everyone who asked: @greenowlfactif, @iiamthehybrid, @melsunshine, @rosegardenpatsu

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Phantom of my Soul

Terzo x fem!reader

A/N: uggghhh this took me so long because of writers block but I love how it turned out! There's sooo much smiling in this one but I just want him to be happy okay 😭 hope you enjoy!

~Fi 🪻

Warnings: none, just fluff with some angsty elements, Terzo being insecure about his neck scar :(

Word count: 4.69k (hehe)

Italian was translated with Google

Please don't copy my work! I put a lot of effort and heart into the things I write.

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The beautifully crafted stained windows of the abbey were throwing colorful shapes on your face as you walked down the stone hall. You could hear nothing but your shoes on the stone, which was odd considering it looked like a lovely spring day outside. You had expected to hear a bird song or a lost bumblebee buzzing through the cold hallway, but there was nothing. Strange.

The air was thick, like a fog almost. As you continued your stride through the old church, you noticed a little crack on one of the windows. Stepping closer to insepct it further, the crack began to grow, eating its way through the glass.

The shrill sound of the cracks cutting their way through the finely made motives made your ears hurt. You took a step back when the cracking became even louder and tiny glass shards started flying. With a loud shatter the window broke to pieces.

Ducking, you shielded your face with your arms, hoping to get some protection from the sharp shards of glass flying at you. You managed to to keep your face without scratches but your arms were less fortunate. Tiny cuts adorned your skin. It definitely could've been worse, so you were lucky. For now.

You had expected to see the blooming courtyard on the other side but were instead met with an unsettling gloom. But it wasn't outisde.. it was like a door or a portal of some sorts. Like a tear in the fabric of reality. You were drawn to it somehow, yet it evoked an unsettling feeling in your stomach.

You stepped closer starring into the deep void. Hesitantly reaching out your hand, you carefully touched the gloom and the deep purple smoke clung to your skin. You tried shaking it off your hand, to no avail. Then just second later it seemed to have vanished into thin air. Stepping even closer you curiously gazed into the window before you. Suddenly, you were met with a pair of eyes. You stumbled backwards, wanting to scream but the air got caught in your throat and all you could manage was a wrangled gasp.

The eyes were starring right into your soul it felt like. One a piercing green, the other a blinding white. A dark gloved hand slowly reached its way out of the smoke, the mysterious eyes never leaving yours. You glanced at the hand, up at the eyes again and decided maybe it was time to go. You bunched up your dress and ran down the now dark hallway. Panting heavily, tears welled up in your eyes. What on earth was that? Did you even want to know?  Curiously the stone hall only seemed to be getting... longer? It kept stretching further and further and panic bubbled up in your chest.

Quickly looking behind you, you could see that a second hand had now emerged from the window, gripping the stone frame, seemingly wanting to pull out whatever the hell was inside of it. A sharp pain shot into your head making you halt your sprint, holding your head in your hands. You groaned, stumbling to the side and supporting yourself on the cold stone walls.

"Amore mio.." a deep voice whsipered. It was as terrifying as it was oddly comforting. Tears were running down your cheeks. What was that? You quickly pushed yourself off the wall and used all your remaining strength to make it out of this damned church.

Finally, the door was getting closer. That beautiful, heavenly, ornate door that would be your way out of here. Just as you were about to cross the threshold, the heavy door slammed shut, leaving only darkness.

You shot up from your bed, gasping for air. You were heaving, placing a hand on your chest to hopefully get some air and you quickly looked around, hoping you weren't in that terrifying abbey anymore. Some of your hair was sticking to your forehead and your sheets were drenched with sweat. "It was just.. a nightmare.." you mumbled, trying to calm yourself. You'd finally registered that you were in your room, letting out a relieved sigh. "Just a nightmare.." you whispered to yourself.

Brushing some of your hair out of your face, you laid back against your pillows. You should try to get some sleep. That was one hell of a nightmare after all. As soon as you closed your eyes, you saw that hallway again. The shattered window, the smoke. Those eyes. Annoyed, you rolled over on your side and pulled the covers up to your nose. But no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn't sleep. There was so much on your mind.

Not to mention it was like someone was whispering into your ear everytime you closed your eyes. Like they were in your head. You let out a frustrated sigh and slipped out of your bed, putting on a robe. You lit a candle and made your way to your bookshelf. There had to be a book about that church. Or at least a mention, you just had to find something.

You skimmed through your selection of books and a black leather-bound one caught your attention. Putting down the candle, you pulled out the book and blew off some of the dust that had settled on the cover. The dust had hidden a shimmering, golden title that read 'The Emeritus bloodline and the ecclesia impiorum'

Emeritus? Emeritus.. Emeritus! Of course! You had heard stories of this bloodline. They were typically told by mothers to keep their nosy children away from the abandoned building but maybe there was some truth to these stories.

They were said to have ruled over the land surrounding the ecclesia impiorum, which you assumed was the old cathedral not far from here. Which, in retrospect, looked a whole lot like the abbey from your nightmare. At least what you could tell from the drawings. Then again, don't all churches look the same? Your brows furrowed. Weren't they all dead? This didn't make sense.

You opened the book, being met with a family tree of sorts. Your eyes widened at how many people this bloodline entailed. A long scroll of paper fell out of the book, revealing even more relatives of this family. Oh my God, why were there so many of them?! Shaking your head, you continued searching the book for more information about the church and anything that could be useful to explain the dream you had. After what felt like hours, you shut the book.

You paced around your room, arms folded in front of your chest, frustrated. There had to be an explanation for this. The book didn't help your search but instead introduced some very odd concepts and customs to you. Like the one of the so-called 'prime mover'. The maternal 'mate' of the current ruler. Whatever that meant.  And some of them were.. strangely detailed. The grounds the abbey stood on were supposedly cursed. You wanted it to be paranoid superstition but after that nightmare... you weren't so sure.

You did find out some things about the late leader of the ecclesia impiorum. A rather.. scary looking fella called Terzo. His face was painted to resemble a skull. Which was a theme in his family after looking at the ancestry and examining a multitude of paintings printed in the book. As well as the differently colored eyes... hm. He was the third in his branch of the bloodline and last 'Papa' of the church, at least at the time the book was written. He was also decapitated for some reason, that the book didn't deem important enough to mention.

You placed a hand on your throat and swallowed. That couldn't have been a nice way to go. You looked back down at the book. This couldn't be it. Maybe you missed something. You sat down at your writing desk, opening the book again. You carefully looked at every single page to make sure you didn't miss anything. And what do you know, you had missed an entire chapter. Strange.. It's like it just.. appeared. It was about rituals, all different kinds, and surprisingly, most of them were way less bloody than you had anticipated. Some of them even mentioned... Ghosts? Oh, great. God, you really hoped you didn't have to deal with any ghosts.

A good amount of the later pages were ripped out of the book. You groaned, resting your head on the book. Were spirits and entities messing with your head or had you just hit it too hard on something as child? You didn't know. But you had to do something. That dream just wouldn't leave you alone, no matter how hard you tried to distract yourself. It was burned into your mind.

After some more nervous pacing in your room, you had decided to investigate for yourself. This was probably one of the dumbest ideas you've ever had but you needed answers.

Taking your trusty candle, you snuck out of your room, quietly closing the door behind you. You made your way down the grand staircase and across the marble foyer. There was chill in the air, a breeze carrying in a few leaves as you pulled open the heavy entrance door. You wrapped your free arm around yourself. You should've brought a coat.

There was a bumpy, dirt road leading to the church. The closer you got, the more you felt at ease. You couldn't explain it, but it was like it was calling you. Luring you in. It felt like you were carried by the wind because you blinked once and were now met with the terrifying presence of the ecclesia impiorum. But.. you just left your house? What.. your mind began to fog up, like a haze had been put on you. Your mind was screaming at you not to open those doors but run back home, where you were safe and warm. But your body just kept moving closer, arm reaching out to pull open the heavy door. You stepped inside. "This is a horrible idea.." you whispered to yourself. Your entire body tensed up the moment you set a foot into this abbey.

Looking around, this hallway looked almost exactly like the one from your dream, just.. older. There were missing bricks, cracks in the stone and cobwebs in every corner. The beautiful windows were now dusty and dull, compared to the vibrant glass you had seen in your nightmare.

But the strangest part was you had never been here. How could your mind have know what the ecclesia impiorum looked like from the inside?

Stepping in further, the wind blew through the cracks in the stone, making an unsettling noise. Then, with a loud bang, the door slammed shut. You shrieked, dropping your candle. You scrambled, trying to pick it back up before the flame died, and you'd be alone in the darkness. Luckily, you were fast enough, and the flame had survived the fall.

Scanning the hall with the candle, your movements halted when you saw glass shards on the floor. Your blood ran cold, and all the color drained from your face. No.. how was this possible? It was just a dream. Right? You couldn't explain this. Could anyone? What was all this? You backed away, tears stinging in your eyes and your breathing beginning to speed up.

Lost in a spiral of thoughts, you were ripped out of them when you felt a warm breath on your neck. Your eyes snapped wide open and you let out a blood curdling scream. Practically jumping away from whatever the hell that was, you turned around and were met with a dark figure. "Hello, amorina" it said, the voice shaking you to your core.

You couldn't move, you couldn't talk, you could barely breathe. All you could do was take in this mysterious man in front of you. His black hair was messy, his face painted. A deep purple vest, embroided with swirly patterns hugged his figure. He was wearing a black shirt with big sleeves and ruffles around the wrist underneath it. Black gloves, a cape and some golden accessories adorned him. Then you met his eyes. His eyes. They were the eyes you saw in your nightmare. Without a doubt. You took him in, scanning across his face and then down his neck.

Hands clasping together over your mouth you gasped. There was a giant scar on his neck, shimmering in a beautiful golden color. Yep. You had lost your mind. You couldn't comprehend what you were seeing. He was Terzo Emeritus. He was supposed to be six feet under with his head chopped off. Your fight or flight response kicked in and you took off. Sprinting away from the third Papa of the ecclesia impiorum. But before you could make it far, you ran right into his arms. You grunted as your face hit his chest.

You were panting and panicking, quickly running off into the other direction. You were, once again, stopped by Terzo. He grabbed your wrist and said some things you couldn't understand, you were set on prying your wrist from his grasp. Scratching at his arm and pulling your entire body weight in the other direction trying to get your wrist free, but he didn't move an inch.

Tears began spilling out of your eyes. "L-Let me go!!" You sobbed. You were so tired, having used up all of your strength at this point. Sinking to the floor, you continued sobbing. His grip on your wrist loosened, and he sunk to the floor next to you. You looked up at him through your teary eyes. "Perdonami, amore mio," he whsipered, rather softly at that. "W-What..?" you questioned, trying to catch your breath.

"I ,eh, lose my temper sometimes. It's not easy being back from the dead, amorina." You blinked a few times, then scrambled away from him. You were talking to a dead man. "You're dead! You're supposed to be dead! Why aren't you dead?!" You screamed. Terzo looked offended. "That's not very nice" he mumbled grumpily.

Terzo got up, barely taking a step towards you when you spoke. "You take one more step in my direction and I swear to god I will kill you with a candle." He defensively put his hands up. "Now you better explain why you're standing in front of me instead of being in a dusty coffin" you fumed.

You were still sitting on the cold stone floor right underneath the shattered window. You had sneakily grabbed a larger glass shard in case Mister fancy pants was to pull any funny buisness. He sighed defeatedily.

"I guess I do owe you an explanation. But first, let us move to something a little more comfortable, yes?"

You eyed him suspiciously.

Nonetheless you followed him through the dark hallways. You definitely shouldn't follow strange men who were suppose to be dead but you trusted him somehow. It was very odd. Considering everything that has happened so far you were surprised how calm you were around him.

You had reached something that looked like a study. "Please, sit." He gestured to a purple velvet sofa, a soft smile on his face. Terzo took a seat across from you on a matching velvet chair. He cleared his throat and intertwined his hands and placed them in his lap. "You are right, I am supposed to be dead. I got.. betrayed.. by my own flesh and blood. But, It seems that your presence on these grounds has somehow, eh,  brought me back?"

He wasn't sure how this happened. This shouldn't happen. It's impossible. You looked at him with a slightly shocked expression on your face. It took you a minute before you had organized your thoughts and spoke. "So what you're saying is that my snooping around in this old abbey has magically brought you back from the dead and reattached your head?"

Your last few words have seemed to struck a nerve as his face fell and he reached to his throat. Your eyes widened as you realized what you had just said. "I-I apologize. I didn't mean to be so insensitive.." you apologized, looking down into your lap. Terzo gave you a sad smile. "Eh, it's quite alright, amorina." He assured you. A small smile spread on your face as you looked up at him. You just noticed how handsome he looked in the dim light that the few candles in the study provided. His eyes were filled with kindness. He was peculiar. Who knows, maybe that comes with being back from the realm of the dead.

Your brows furrowed as you pondered a question. "What is on your mind, hm?" Terzo's voice broke you out of your thoughts. "Why me?" You questioned, looking at him. "I'm not special." Terzo hummed in acknowledgment. "Maybe, amore mio, that's where you're wrong," he said, his voice smooth like honey. You were deep in thought again, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for why it was you that brought him back.

Terzo couldn't help but admire you. You looked so cute with your brows pulled together, lightly chewing on your lip. Your eyes lit up as the book came to your mind

. "The book!" You exclaimed. "What book?" He questioned. "The one about your family! I found it on my bookshelf. It said something about a 'prime mover'. Do you know anything about that, Terzo?" You asked him, hoping he could shed some light on this situation. It was his family after all.

Terzo stiffened and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. You could've sworn you saw the faint hint of a blush on his cheeks. "W-well.. I do know about that but, eh, " he rubbed the back of his neck, " it's quite.. a lot to take in, amorina" Terzo smiled nervously. You looked unimpressed and crossed your arms in front of your chest.

"Spill"

He swalloed hard, not wanting to scare you off.

"The prime mover is something like a soul mate, you see. The Papa and the prime mover have a special bond. They're souls are connected. The soul is not, eh, bound to any realm, it's free to do as it pleases. And if they don't find to another they keep searching." He explained.

Terzo cleared his throat after seeing your surprised face. Your were lost for words. He was right, it was a lot to take in. Was your strange dream his soul trying to reach out to you? You were supposed to be this man's soul mate? You didn't even know the guy! Not to forget the fact he's supposed to be dead.

But it would explain why the nightmare didn't let you sleep peacefully. Why you were so eager to find out what it meant. Why you felt so drawn to this church. And drawn to him. He was handsome, there was no denying that. Actually, the more and longer you looked at him, the prettier he seemed.

He had treated you with nothing but kindness and gentleness. His voice broke you out of your trance. God, his voice. "Dolcezza? Are you alright?" He questioned with worry being evident in his voice. He had moved to sit next to you on the velvet sofa, taking your hands in his. His face displayed his worry as he searched for any indicator of emotion in your eyes.

Internally, Terzo was a nervous wreck. He hoped you didn't resent him for this. That you would turn him away and despise him for the rest of eternity. It would break his heart. You were the most beautiful being to exist to him. You had enchanted him. It was unexplainable to him. He'd met you not long ago but felt like he'd known you forever. He knew your soul, your heart and your mind. "I.. I think I am, yes. It's a lot but.. it makes sense now" you smiled quietly. Terzo gave you a small smile back that melted its way into your heart right away. "It does, doesn't it, amorina?" He chuckled. You nodded, a blush on your cheeks.

Both of you just sat there for a while in comfortable silence, enjoying eachothers company. Terzo spoke, breaking the silence. You were almost upset as you enjoyed just sitting with him but as soon as his lovely voice hit your ears all was forgotten.

"Would you care for a walk, amore mio?" He asked, slightly looking down at you. "I would love that, Terzo" you smiled. He offered you his arm, leading you through the old stone halls, past the chapel and the altar room until you had reached the garden. It was absolutely magnificent, the moonlight shining on the different colored petals and reflecting off the small stream running past the ecclesia impiorum.

You let go off his arm and gasped. "It's beautiful" you beamed. Terzo couldn't help but smile. "You should see it during the day. The colors are much more, eh,  vibrant. But I have to admit, it doesn't look bad with all these stellas shining upon it." He spoke.  Terzo looked up at the stars and the moon high up in the sky and you could've died right there. He was so beautiful in the moonlight.

But the light also revealed the glistening, golden line running along his neck. Your heart clenched at the thought of the horrible thing they'd done to him. Those thoughts were quickly replaced when Terzo gave you a toothy smile.  He took your hand without a word and pulled you into a dance. Placing one hand on your waist and holding your hand rightly in his he started guiding you.

He hummed an unfirmiliar tune and swayed you to the rhythm. You layed your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes. This was so peaceful. Him humming a beautiful melody, dancing with you underneath the moon with a slight breeze giving you a chill. "Per favore non lasciarmi mai, amore mio.. " he mumbled to himself. "hm?" You looked up at him.

"Nothing, amorina.." he smiled, stroking your hair. Terzo went back to swaying both of you. You two stayed like this for a while until you gently moved his hand from yours and placed it on your waist so you could put yours on his chest. Your hands made your way to his shirt collar which started dragging down to reveal his scar. Terzo eyes widened as he realized what you were doing.

"Amore-" he took one of his hands off your waist trying to stop you. You gently grabbed his wrist and placed your other hand on his cheek.

"Please" you pleaded. Terzo's eyes soften as he let you lower his hand back down. You pulled him closer by his shoulders and let your lips ghost over his neck. You went along his scar and up his jaw. He let out a small groan as you made your way back down to his scar, kissing and sucking his skin.

His hands tightend on your waist and as he let his head fall back. You pulled away, your lips slightly swollen, Terzo panting.

"I love your scar, Terzo" you whispered.

"Amorina, I.. it's hideous-" he sighed, letting his head fall forward.

You couldn't stand hearing him talk about himself like that, it broke your heart. You took his face in your hands.

"No. It's beautiful. Just like you." You assured him.

Becoming teary eyed, he placed a gloved hand an top of yours and smiled at you. "You're perfect amore" he muttered, before pulling you in to kiss your lips.

They were so soft. You never wanted him to stop kissing you. Fireworks were going off in your heart. It's strange what can happen in just one night. You pulled him closer by his neck and he slightly dipped you. He pulled away and admired you in all your glory. Your lips stained by his paints, chest panting. He quite literally took your breath away. He stroked your cheek.

"sei il mio sole, dolcezza.." he whispered. "I don't know what that means, but I'm sure you're right" you smiled, making him chuckle.

"I love you, amore mio"

"I love you too, Terzo"

With one final kiss you two were united. Lips to lips. Heart to heart. Soul to soul.

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Ecclesia impiorum = church of the unholy

amore mio = my love

amorina = little love

dolcezza = sweetness

Perdonami = Excuse me

Per favore non lasciarmi mai = please don't ever leave me

Sei il mio sole = you're my sun

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[lilxmoo]

little things i picture about squad 312's appearance

Tyler

i know the series talks about his dimples a lot, but i think he's one of those people who not only has huge dimples, but their whole face kinda crinkles up when they smile in the cutest way. eye lines, maybe even a nose scrunch :')

he gets stubble really quickly, and as a younger teen he wasn't great at shaving (no dad around to teach him y'know) and cut himself with a razor more than once, so his whole chin area is just kinda bumpy, with a couple tiny cuts around if you pay enough attention

SCARS AROUND HIS CRYBERNETIC EYE THERES NO WAY HIS FACE WAS UNTOUCHED AFTER THAT

what can i say he's very conventionally attractive there ain't much to talk about here

Scarlett

I always pictured her as a midsize girl, and Jay Kristoff in an interview (when asked about the whole bit with her talking about her boobs in aurora burning) said "her struggles as a larger woman". Obvs he could've just tryna be polite abt her chest but i've taken my midsize scarlett headcanon and RAN (she's curvy anyway sooo)

Her hair is very 80's styled i think

but she has the 2000's eye makeup with the smoky eyeliner and pale under brow :)

one of those girls whose nails are always changing

Cat

GRAPHIC EYELINER GRAPHIC MAKEUP RAAAGHHGI

Tattoos on the buzz of her hair - i think this is canon but it's not mentioned much and i've never seen anyone draw it

huge fan of grunge jewelry, the chains, rings, probs has like 72 piercings

also side note she's a silver girl and scarlett is gold

i think she's quite skinny - i kinda picture a jinx from arcane build for her. couldn't tell you why though

Tiny eyebrows

Her face is always a teeny tiny bit glittery from when she sleeps in makeup after nights out

Finian

this man is not conventionally attractive and it's very important to me that we all remember this

he's skinny to the point where you can see his ribs - aftereffects of his illness

this means all of his veins are very noticeable, face is very sunken

good nails though - he used to pick em when he was a kid but the metal of his exo stops him now

hair is kinda chopped (canon)

his exo also kind of carries him in a way - like it's sleek, but you can see that it's almost pushing him to make certain moves rather than the other way around

also (and this might be a hot take) but i don't think he has very interesting fashion, and i don't think he wears makeup. in his pov's he's actually surprisingly withdrawn and doesn't really enjoy having all eyes on him. also the series only ever says he wears black

Zila

this girl is conventionally attractive and it's also very important to me that we remember this

Scar says she's cute as a button, dariel hits on her, auri says she looks like a girl from her high school

i know her skin is just GLOWING

also with her love for her earrings i think she actually would enjoy making herself look put together

great nails, bling, very chic

i've always pictured her hair to have dark brown highlights for some reason

i think she has baby deer eyes, just big and brown and cute as a button

Kal

oh gorgeous space boy

i've said this many times now but i do think his ears flick back (think na'vi) when he's mad, although i headcanon that for all syldrathi

MONOLIDS MONOLIDS MONOLIDS MONOLIDS MONOLI

LONG NOSE LONG NOSE LON

He's described as lithe, not particularly muscly (although he is ripped) so I always picture him as quite slender

his hair is ever so slightly pale purple and maybe a lil iridescent

Auri

again, monolids

but i imagine her freckles to be EVERYWHERE like they cover every part of her body

i think her skin is desaturated and slightly grey around her white eye, she's pretty tan everywhere else though

her veins are white ever since becoming a trigger

her hair is strangely layered - i think she probs cut it herself, but it looks nice because she doesn't care and she always makes sure it's very healthy

pear body shape idk why i just know

[fictionkinfessions]

i NEED to talk about how I looked before I combust-

ok white long hair vulpes truthers are 100% correct yes that one picture of me in that end cutscene is right i think I had a buzz cut once and hated it and never did it again

I had blue eyes, no clue if that's canon or not because I'm always wearing those goggles

I had a scar on my face, I'm pretty sure??? Pretty sure it went from my eyebrow to my lip, and am really unsure if there is a second one--

yes I had dog fangs, I don't know how or why, but for some reason my canines were dog canines. one a normal tooth the other silver, yk like those gold teeth but instead of gold it's silver

and this has nothing to do with my physical appearance but hats, oh my god I had so many hats. dozens at least. every kind of hat you can think of, the tackier and uglier the better. I. Loved. Hats. I had a slight problem with hats but honestly of all the things I did, hat hoarding was the least of my issues

alright I've graced you all enough with my ramblings - it's not my fault bethesda made me look, well, like that, so I just had to get it out that no, I did not look like that, but yeah, vale, until next time

~Vulpes Inculta (Fallout Nea Vegas) #😈❤️

placeholder text because tumblr wont let me post ask messages without something in the reply box

[thesightstoshowyou]

I would LOVE a scene of Asa treating Cricket's wounds!!!!

YES ME TOO THANK YOU FOR THIS

~~

Warnings: Knife play, bondage, blood, descriptions of wound care and medical supplies

There are moments, few and far between as they are, when Cricket wonders if the Collector’s blood lust will finally win out over Asa’s self-control. When the knife digs a little too deep and glittering eyes lose all traces of humanity, true fear takes root and the sliver of control she possess slips from her grasp. Air freezes in her lungs and muscles seize in anticipation of the killing blow….

But it never comes.

His exhale rushes across her skin, the ever present scent of cigarette smoke stinging her nose, and the blade withdraws. Crimson drips from the handle and wets black nitrile. Cricket releases a shuddering sob and terror drains away, a dull buzz taking its place.

Dirtied gloves snap off, and with them goes the Collector. Like the changing of the guard, new nitrile squeaks when Asa interlaces his fingers. In his eyes is the familiar, cool apathy. Back to business.

Her arms—bound with wire and pulled taut over her head—are freed enough for her to work feeling back into them, but not enough to interfere with his duties. When he cups her cheeks, the warmth of his hands is palpable even through the gloves. Hair soaked with tears and sweat is brushed away from her face as Asa begins his assessment. His dark gaze appraises skin color and pupil dilation while his thumb tugs her bloody lip down to make sure her teeth didn’t shred it too badly. The routine of it has become a weird source of comfort.

Asa pauses when he gets to the deep gash stretching the length of her sternum. It burns a white hot line down her chest and she doesn’t have to look at it to know it will scar. Wet warmth leaks freely from the wound and pools in her collarbones until little rivers of crimson spill onto the gurney under her back.

After several moments of silent appraisal, Asa retrieves a handful of gauze and presses it firmly to the cut. Cricket winces, but fights the urge to curl in on herself. He must stop the bleeding and she must stay still for him to do so.

“Good girl,” he coos. The way goosebumps prickle along her arms at the sound of his rough voice makes her eyes burn with fresh, unshed tears. No matter how bad it hurts, no matter how fearful she becomes, her body is forever devoted to him.

Swift tapping reaches her ears and she glances over to see Asa flicking air from a syringe. The vial on the tray tells her the clear liquid within is Lidocaine. He’s going to stitch her up, then.

Cricket clenches her eyes shut as the needle descends. Several sharp pricks precede burning medication, but soon all discomfort in her chest melts away to nothing. When she feels the tugging of surgical needle and suture, her eyes crack open.

Above her, Asa works diligently, his motions fluid and practiced. She turns her head away and lets her gaze focus and unfocus on the drab, yellowing wall. Soon, scissors snip excess thread and something that reeks of antiseptic is sprayed onto the closed wound.

Last is her throat. The little superficial cuts under her ear are cleaned with soap and water and slathered with Vaseline. The deep, aching bite mark on her shoulder requires a bit more dabbing and leaves her skin raw and red. Cricket barely registers their sting over the other hurts.

Finally, finally her arms are fully untied. Effortlessly, Asa scoops her up off the table. She lets herself be moved, overwhelming fatigue settling deep in place of adrenaline. Limply, her legs hang over his arm as her head falls against his firm chest.

He’ll put her to bed now. Tomorrow, the Collector will bathe her and feed her and treat the wounds he inflicted. She’ll be granted some respite for a week or so, while she mostly heals. Then the whole ordeal will begin anew.

Asa tucks the blankets in around her shoulders. She doesn’t adjust her position, too afraid to pull her new sutures loose. Eyelids drooping, she whispers, “Thank you, Sir.”

“Goodnight, Cricket.”

[malumxsubest]

FIRST MEETINGS MEME

A meme for first meetings and introduction threads, aka a ‘What you will notice about my muse first’ cheat sheet. Repost, don’t reblog. Bold what applies. Fill in details.  blank meme & credit: x

Sex: Masculine. Feminine. Non-Binary. Notes: despite being a genderless entity, amelia ( void ) prefers a feminine physique and pronouns.

Species: cosmic primordial deity - void

Complexion: fair with neutral undertone.

Height: five foot. ( 5'0" ; 152.4 cm )

Body Type: Endomorph. Mesomorph. Ectomorph. Other / More Details: she has a slight romantic body type despite being slender. has child-bearing hips. click here for an example.

Body Build: Small. Medium. Athletic. Muscular. Soft. Curvy. Voluptuous. Other / More Details: she is petite. however she has long legs and a bit of a short torso.

Body Hair: None. Shaves/Waxes. Trims/Grooms. Untamed.

Color: the curtain certainly does not match the drapes. the hair down there is like a reddish-brown along with her eyebrows. however her eyelashes are black. Notes: she does not have underarm hair or hair on her arms, legs and body. but she does have hair on the pubic area. cleanly shaven and/or waxed -- depending how she feels on the day. HOWEVER, she is not put off by body hair or pelvic hair. she considers them natural occurrences. for herself, though, she prefers to be well-maintained.

Head Hair: None. Buzzed. Short. Medium. Long. Very Long. Asymmetrical Cut.

Color: deep red wine colour; cabernet sovereign is the closest semblance.

Style: she typically has it down because she adores the length which reaches to her knees. since her hair is thick, she has it layered and curled to accentuate the curly-wavy hair she has.

Eye color: emerald Details: her eye colour can differ depending how she's feeling. if she's relaxed, her eyes are typically a shade of dark emerald green with faint speckles of lighter shades of green and a HINT of red flakes. if she's irritated, they are eerily brighter to a jade shade. however, if she's looking at something that she's attracted to ( romantically & sexually ), they darkened into a forest green. [ additionally, when she's in a state of immense hunger and/or anger, the scleras are black and her irises are a deep red colour; pupils can disappear completely or are black. but when her body is on the brink of shutting down or in extreme stress as she uses her abilities extensively, they are completely black with black veins cracking around her eyes and along the temples and downward to her cheeks. furthermore, on rare occasions, she'll reveal her void eyes; cosmic burning embers and glowing white pupils. ]

Scars: See Other Information below ( FASHION ). she does have another scar ( two if i want to be technical ), right between her breasts where she had taken a stake straight through and it punctured all the way out her back where there's another scar. these are the scars she cannot get rid of.

FASHION

Fashion Style: Vintage. Traditional. Casual. Artsy. Vibrant. Geeky/Nerdy. Tomboy. Sporty. Trendy. Preppy. Girly. Bohemian. Elegant. Formal. Grunge. Punk. Rocker. Gothic. Other: amelia finds herself leaning more to dark aesthetics and dark & elegant couture. she's deeply fond of the goth and metal community. from the romantic to edwardian goth then to over sized band shirts and leather jackets with unique black boots or heels; either custom made or high-quality made. although, she prefers to wear horror t-shirts and band shirts in the privacy in her own home after being stripped from her tight-fitted clothing. either way, she loves dark aesthetic no matter what. OH, let's not forget she also loves to wear pieces of latex in her wardrobe/outfits. whether it's dress, chokers, pants. latex is a wonderful piece to utilize in her wardrobes.

Color Palette: black is primarily the main colour for her wardrobe. but she loves deep reds & greens. even her undergarments are black and dark shades of reds.

Piercings: cute little vampire fangs piercings on her nipples. and she has several piercings on each ear. a couple ranging from 20 to 16 gauge.

Tattoos: some tattoos, but she has her sons’ names on the inside of her right wrist. runes symbols and spells scattered around her body. (i will make a psd/post about her tattoos and piercings at a later time. )

Other Information: has two scar lines across the bridge of her nose; one connecting from one apple of the cheek to the other whereas the second (2nd) one is a bit shorter (1/4" - 1/2" shorter in length); the scar fairly raised on the skin -- seemed self-inflicted.

EXPRESSION

General Facial Expression: typically a neutral expression; or a resting bitch face/deadpanned. but will also have TINY smirk on her face some of the time.

Default Body Language: closed off with arms closest to her whether at her sides or crossed over her chest. when she's sitting, she sits with regality. if she's bored, she will tilt her head to one side with a slight narrow eyes. it depends on how she feels, honestly. it changes. however, usually she is closed off.

General Movements: as she walks, she walks with purpose. as if she's prowling, hunting in the night and searching for her next prey. she exudes confidence and refined elegance.

NOTABLE FOR RP

Presence: it depends how she feels, honestly. though, in general, people would assume she's unimposing due to her short stature. but she is intimidating because of the way she carries herself with confidence and elegance. akin to someone of royal status. she's cold, indifferent with a stare that would pin one down if she notices someone. it can be quite stifling in a way, with the way she carries herself. it's like she wants to devour anyone that comes in contact with her. her eyes are almost always half-lidded like she's has a look of pure disdain for someone despite being short. but if she tolerates someone or loves them, she lowers her guard a bit and becomes a bit more affectionate.

Appearance: she is well-kept, tidy. despite being in her dark, alternative attire that consists of metal accents like chains and spikes, her entire appearance is clearly well maintained. her makeup could be considered as work-place goth with minimal exaggerated contouring. just simple smokey black-red eyeshadow, black lined eyes, trimmed & shaped brows and with whatever lip colour she desired that particular day. however, when she's out and about and NOT at work, she dresses to the nines with whatever she's feeling that day. it could be an attire of latex with velvet or chains and buckles, spikes, etc. just overall, she's a tidy person.

Scent: amelia emits a concoction of a scent that lingers and captures the air she's in. it's an haunting amalgamation of a cosmic allure, drenched in iron with the amount of blood she ingests. if you're near her, her mysterious scent devours your senses and self with the way it clings to someone. it seems forbidden, inhuman and otherworldly. it's too unique to pinpoint the smell exactly. it's like it's a whisper of an ancient era that long since passed from eons ago. it's suffocating yet has such an intoxicating allure. it's both enticing and unsettling just like her persona because she's not what she seems. it is similar to a pareidolia or the uncanny valley with the way she seems human and sounds human. of course, her scent would emphasize her character. it leaves a mark in the back of your mind, slowly consuming you just like the creature she is. she's sweet, yet tart like black cherries but with a hint of something floral like black parrot tulips.

Voice Description: she has an elegant, sophisticated tone that takes on a darker, seductive quality. she sounds playful. has that sensuality, alluring touch. it can be quite melodic as she speaks with different pitches and elongated vowels and tones. and it has a hint of smokiness around the edges of certain words. example, click here.

Accent: yes / no More information: she didn't have an accent in the very beginning. she could only mimic the words from the tribesmen that "raised" her. she seemed detached from the world and the language around her. it's uncanny where it would raise the hairs on someone's skin. despite not having a human accent, amelia developed a combination of tsakonian/doric greek & received pronunciation english accents.

Speech Mannerisms: since she has a dual accent, sometimes her rp dialect is more pronounced in certain words such as long 'a' for day or short 'i' in sit or a soft 's' in measure. additionally, in rp, she aspirates the 'th's in words like think. whereas her tsakonian/doric accent, her 'o's are rounded more so as an 'oh'. for the letter gamma ( or 'y' ), it comes out more as a 'ch' in a guttural sort of way like 'ch' of the german word bach. her speech will flow in a melodic yet expressive way where it rises and falls in certain pitches and tones with her doric accent but her rp helps when it comes to enunciating and emphasizing in a clear, refined manner. for example, she will place some stress emphasis words for distinctive accentuation like detail pronounced as de-TAIL for rp. in taskonian/doric accent, she will add stresses on the next-to-last syllables like philosophy as phi-LOS-o-phy. and when she gets excited or angry, she speaks faster and hissing her words.