#in order to have a pawn to work through on the inside

[soullessbullshit]

Razum-dar: Detective, this is a crime scene.

Veya, grabbing ice cream from the victim’s fridge: What, is this the murder weapon? Get off my dick!

[seresinhangmanjake]

I love all your Feyd works! Thank you.

My request is regrding a sensitive topic. So if it makes you feel uncomfortable, please feel free not to write it.

Reader has arranged marriage with Feyd. After a few years they all discover (including her) that she has fertility issues and has trouble getting pregnant so the Baron wants them to divorce. Wife is becoming hopeless. But Feyd who’s utterly in love and devoted to his wife will not have it and pledges loyalty to her.

Worth To Him

Notes/Warnings: obviously this is about fertility problems. It is a sensitive topic. If this bothers you, please do not read. Mention of period sex.

Words: 1500

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Sobs wrack your body. One after another after another that keeps your breaths shallow and ragged. Tears coat your lashes, weighing them down. You gave up trying to see clearly through them an hour ago and let yourself get lost in the haze of blindness.

You can’t stop it. You haven’t been able to stop for days. You clutched your pillow like a lifeline, crying into the plush material in a way you haven’t since you were a child. You’ve really proven yourself useless now. You officially have nothing to offer this planet, and the Baron has made that well-known. But what else can you expect when you are incapable of doing the things that are expected of you? How can you expect not to lose the one thing you care about if you cannot give him what he needs?

“If you cannot provide him an heir, you are worth nothing” is what the Baron declared in front of all that exists of his court.

Nothing—the word bounced around the walls of your skull before it finally sank in. You’ve never been nothing until now. You’ve always held some sort of value in some manner or other, even if that manner is in being a political pawn. But no. Here, now, you’re nothing to these people.

At first, you pleaded with him, nearly fell to your hands and knees and told him you’d only been trying for a few months. A few months barely qualifies as adequate time. On your home planet, medical intervention is not discussed until the couple has gone a year with no success. But you’re not on your home planet; there is no medical intervention, and all the Baron said in response was: A few months is too long. You will divorce in a week's time.

Feyd doesn’t know. For the last five days, he’s been on Arrakis, and it was on the third day of his absence that you once again woke to stained sheets. He’ll be disappointed in you, just like the Baron, just like the people of Giedi Prime, just like your parents who agreed to marry you to Feyd for the sake of an alliance that will soon be broken. 

When he returns, they’ll tell him, and he’ll nod with acceptance because that is what he does under order, and you’ll be shipped off. You’ll never see him again. He’ll remarry. He’ll become a father to a child by a woman who is not you. He’ll raise what the people want. He’ll do them proud.

You wonder if he’ll miss you as you will miss him. Will he ever think of you and wish you were in her place? Will he look at the children she’s borne him and wonder what your children would have looked like had you the chance to have them? Will he see their hair and imagine your locks flowing down to their little shoulders? If he peers into their eyes, will he prefer them a shade to match yours instead of hers? You wonder if he’ll be filled with sorrow at what could have been. 

Selfish to think it. There’s no reason to assume he will not enjoy the pleasure his new wife will offer. Neither are you fair in hoping that when he’s inside of her, making the children the Baron demands, he will be thinking of you. 

You cry harder. Your pillow will take ages to dry. Perhaps you’ll move on to his. Soak in the scent of him before you’re ripped away from him and returned to what will be considered by many the end of your life. No other Lord, or future Lord, will take you, not after being owned by a Harkonnen—tainted meat, as they say. You’ll be a burden on your family, an embarrassment to your House’s people, a waste of valuable blood. 

—

Touch stirs you: a soft brush of fingertips over your tear-stained cheek, a thumb grazing over your parted mouth. 

Then a voice. ���Wake up.” Your groan of resistance is cut short by a press of lips against yours. A quick peck and then another. “Wake up,” it says, and then one more kiss, much longer this time, that you return before bothering to open your eyes. Your arms wrap around a familiar neck. A tongue gently glides along yours. And then it’s gone. Stolen from you. You want it back. 

Your eyes snap open. At the sight of him sitting beside you, you gasp, quickly scrambling onto his lap. He holds you without question or word. He holds you close to him. You hold him like you never will again. 

Leaning into his body, you push him down onto the mattress and he lands on his back with a chuckle. Your legs straddle his hips, your weight resting comfortably on top of his, and with his hand in your hair, he pulls you back into a kiss. Gentle at first, a caress, then harder, needier, greedier. He could bruise you if he wanted, leave his mark, and you invite him to. Something to take back home with you—a bruising kiss. You hope it hurts. You hope you internally bleed and purple blooms around your mouth. You hope it never fades and you wear the reminder of him for the rest of your life.

His lips part. His tongue is back in your mouth, asking for yours. You savor the slick warmth, knowing you’ll never again be kissed like this. To be honest, you never thought you would be kissed like this at all. You didn’t know kisses like this existed. If someone had told you a year ago that this man would be kissing you this way, with a passion you wouldn’t have dreamed him capable of releasing, you’d have laughed them out of the room. 

He unlocks your mouths for a breath and gifts you a smile. Rare. Almost out of place on his face. The first one you received was five months into your marriage, and you’ve never gotten used to them. 

“I missed you,” he says, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind your ear. 

You want to tell him how you’ve missed him, how painful it’s been without him by your side, but you don’t know that you can speak the words, not without every emotion you’ve felt over the last few days bubbling to the surface and overpowering your joy at seeing him—the last time you’ll greet him upon his return before you’re gone. 

He frowns. “You didn’t miss me?” he asks, and since you can’t deny him a damn thing, you gather the will to say: “Of course I did,” but your throat catches midway through. You can’t look at him. He allows it for a few seconds, giving you a chance to meet his stare on your own, but when you don’t, his fingers on your chin turn your face back to his so you can no longer avoid the prying blue shade of his irises. 

“What is it?” he says.

“I know he told you.” There’s a brief pause before your husband hums in acknowledgment. Fingertips trace up and down your spine over the thin material of your nightgown. “The doctor was ordered to examine me after I bled. He’s not sure I’m able to give you a baby. And the Baron–”

“My uncle does not make my decisions for me,” he declares, and you’re so stunned by the defiance that it takes you a moment to collect yourself. 

“Feyd, do you not understand? I don’t know if I can do it,” you tell him. “My body is–”

“Perfect,” he interrupts. “You’re perfect, and you’re mine. You will never belong to another man, nor will I belong to another woman.” 

“Neither of us has a choice.”

“You believe so?”

Your brow pinches, mouth setting in a line. If he’s playing a game, you’re not enjoying it. “As if you aren’t aware of who has the power here.”

“I am aware,” he says. “But Rabban is dead. I’m all that’s left of our line. If he wants his heir, then I’m keeping my wife.”

He speaks with such certainty that the charge of excitement you get whenever you watch him take command of his armies seeps into you, giddily wiggling all of your little nerve endings. But the feeling fades as fast as it came. It changes nothing. Whether or not he defies his uncle does not alter your circumstances. 

You sigh. “But what of your heir?”

“We’ll keep trying,” he says. “You’re not going anywhere. I'm too attached. He doesn’t get to marry me to a woman like you and then take you away.”

“A woman like me, who might not be able to give you what you need,” you say. “Why aren’t you bothered?”

“Having my heir is not where your worth lies to me. If we cannot have a baby, we will take someone else's,” he tells you without snicker or grin. His fingers fist into the material of your nightgown. “Now take this off. I want my wife.”

“I am still bleeding.”

He scoffs. “When have I ever cared?”

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (7)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For all the parts of this story, or if you want to read more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 9 000+

- Previous part: 6

- Next part: 8

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The walls of the Red Keep seem to close in around you as the hours slip away, each moment thick with the weight of unspoken fears and the ever-present shadow of your father’s madness. Two weeks have passed since the last incident in the throne room, but the dread in your stomach has only grown, an ever-tightening knot that never truly loosens.

It’s late afternoon when you hear the muffled sound of voices just outside your chamber door. Your hand tightens around the edge of the table you’re seated at, the delicate embroidery in your hands forgotten. A soft knock echoes through the room, and you turn your gaze toward the door just as it creaks open.

Ser Arthur steps inside first, his expression as stony as ever, but there’s a tension in his eyes you’ve come to recognize—a flicker of concern that tells you something is wrong. Close behind him is Ser Barristan Selmy, and though the older knight tries to mask it, his unease is plain to see. The lines on his face seem deeper, his usual calm demeanor strained.

“My lady,” Barristan begins, his voice gentler than usual, though there’s a tremor in it that sets your nerves alight. “The king has… summoned you. He demands your presence in the throne room.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens, his hand subtly moving toward the hilt of the Morning as if the very idea of taking you before Aerys is a threat he must ward against. “For what purpose, Ser Barristan?” Arthur’s tone is low, barely restrained, as he steps slightly in front of you, his protective instincts overriding decorum. “What does the king want with her this time?”

Barristan looks away briefly, his shoulders heavy with the burden of orders he clearly wishes he didn’t have to give. “It is not our place to question the king, Ser Arthur,” he replies, though there’s a note of regret in his voice. “But I have heard enough to know it involves the pyromancers… and those cursed eggs again.”

A chill runs down your spine at the mention of the pyromancers, and your mind races, conjuring images of flames, stone-cold eggs, and your father’s fevered eyes. You’ve seen this before, yet something in Barristan’s tone, the dread lingering beneath his words, tells you that this time is different. Worse.

Arthur turns to you, his eyes locking with yours, a silent exchange passing between you. He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand what he’s feeling—helplessness, anger, and a desperation to protect you from whatever fresh horror awaits. But the reality of your situation crashes down on you both. He cannot defy the king’s orders, and neither can you.

“Let’s get this over with,” you whisper, though your voice wavers despite your best efforts to remain calm.

Barristan nods solemnly, stepping aside as Arthur offers you his arm. You take it, drawing strength from his silent presence, even as your heart thuds heavily in your chest. The walk to the throne room feels longer than usual, the silence broken only by the heavy tread of boots on stone. Every step is a reminder of the peril you’re walking into, each corner turned bringing you closer to a chamber that has become a place of nightmares.

As you near the entrance, you hear the murmur of gathered courtiers, the swell of whispers rising and falling like a tide. The massive doors swing open, revealing a room packed with nobles and courtiers, their faces a mixture of curiosity and fear. You catch sight of familiar faces—Tywin Lannister standing with his cold, calculating expression, Cersei beside him with a faint smile playing on her lips as her eyes flit toward you. Pycelle’s rotund form looms near the back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Varys stands close to the edge of the crowd, his expression unreadable, a ghost of a smile curling his lips as he watches you enter. The Kingsguard stand in rigid formation around the room, their armor gleaming, but it’s Arthur’s presence by your side that keeps you from trembling.

Your gaze is drawn toward the center of the room, and your blood turns to ice. The dragon eggs—those ancient stones that have long lost their warmth—are placed in the same brazier as before. But now, close to the brazier, there are men—three of them—chained to iron posts driven deep into the stone floor. Their eyes are wide with terror, the chains rattling as they struggle against their bonds, their cries muffled by the gags forced into their mouths.

It’s only then that you fully realize what’s happening—what your father intends. Sacrifice. A twisted attempt to give life to the dead eggs through the deaths of these poor souls. The pyromancers stand at the ready, holding jars of wildfire, the sickly green substance gleaming ominously in the torchlight.

The sight nearly takes your breath away, and you instinctively grip Arthur’s arm tighter. He stiffens beside you, and you feel his tension radiating through his body. But he doesn’t move—he can’t move. Not here, not with everyone watching. Not with the king present.

And then you see him—your father. King Aerys stands near the Iron Throne, a dark shadow in his black robes. His hair is wild, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity that makes your stomach churn. Blood stains his hands and forearms—fresh cuts from the throne’s sharp blades, though he seems entirely unaware of the wounds. He grins as you enter, a grotesque display of teeth and madness.

“Ah, my daughter has arrived!” Aerys exclaims, his voice carrying through the room, drawing the attention of every soul present. “Come, come closer, my jewel. You must witness this grand spectacle, the rebirth of our house, the awakening of our dragons!”

The court falls into a tense silence, every eye turning to you, the weight of expectation pressing down like a suffocating shroud. You want to flee, to run as far as you can from this nightmare, but you force your feet to move forward, your steps steady even though each one feels like it could lead to your doom.

“Father…” You manage to keep your voice steady, though dread curls deep in your gut. “What are you doing?”

“Greatness, my child! Glory beyond imagining!” Aerys cries, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the room. “The flames will rise, the blood will flow, and the dragons will awaken once more! It is the sacrifice of these pitiful souls that will bring our ancestors roaring back to life!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, every instinct screaming that you should turn and run. But you know that doing so would only seal the fates of those chained men—and perhaps your own. You glance at Arthur, whose expression is a mask of stone, but his eyes blaze with barely contained rage. Even Ser Barristan, who stands nearby, looks as though he might step forward to protest—but he, too, is bound by his duty.

Aerys’s eyes glint with madness as he steps closer to the brazier, the heat from the flames making his skin glisten with sweat. “Come, Y/N,” he beckons, his voice dipping into a sickly sweet tone. “Stand beside me and witness what it means to truly be a Targaryen. You, of all people, must see this. You are the blood of the dragon, and it is through your presence that the flames will be given purpose.”

Your blood runs cold as he gestures for you to come forward. The eyes of the court burn into you, waiting to see what you’ll do, what you’ll say. But your feet feel like they’re made of lead, refusing to obey the king’s summons, even as your mind races for some way out of this madness.

And in that moment, you realize there is no escape—not from this room, not from the twisted plans your father has laid out. The fate of those chained men, of the dead dragon eggs, of your family, all hinges on what happens next.

As your heart pounds in your chest, you take a step forward, toward your father, toward the pyromancers and their jars of wildfire, toward the nightmarish scene laid out before you.

And then, with every eye in the room fixed on you, Aerys’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, his smile widening into something monstrous. “Come closer, daughter. The flames await.”

Your steps falter as you approach your father, the madness in his eyes more terrifying than the flames flickering in the braziers beside the dragon eggs. The heat of the room prickles your skin, but it’s the icy dread within you that leaves your hands trembling. Aerys’s grin widens as you draw closer, his bony fingers twitching in anticipation. The pyromancers stand ready, their faces half-shrouded by the hoods of their dark robes, holding vials of green wildfire that glimmer ominously.

Before you can brace yourself, your father’s hand shoots out, gripping your arm with surprising strength. You wince as his fingers dig into your flesh, dragging you forward until you’re nearly nose-to-nose with him. His breath is hot and sour against your face, his eyes alight with a manic glee that sends a shudder down your spine.

“Watch, daughter. Watch as the blood of the dragon rekindles the flames of old,” he hisses, his voice trembling with anticipation. Without warning, he pulls a dagger from his belt—its blade jagged and stained with old blood—and slashes it across your palm. The pain is sharp and sudden, tearing a cry from your lips as blood wells from the wound.

“Y/N!” Arthur’s voice rings out, laced with alarm. You glance over your shoulder, seeing him take a step forward, his hand halfway to his sword before Ser Barristan places a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him back. Barristan’s voice is grim as he says, “Stand down, Ser Arthur. These are the king’s orders.”

Arthur’s eyes blaze with barely contained fury, his jaw clenched so tightly you fear he might draw blood from his own lip. But his duty holds him in place, and you see the struggle tearing him apart inside. You want to reach out, to tell him it’s all right, but your father’s grip tightens, yanking your attention back to him.

Aerys’s own hand follows, the dagger slicing across his palm as well. His blood, dark and thin, mingles with yours as he drags you toward the brazier where the dragon eggs lie in their bed of embers. “This is what it means to be a Targaryen,” he whispers, his voice thick with twisted reverence. “Fire and blood, our birthright.”

You try to pull away, but his grip is iron. He forces your hand over the eggs, letting the crimson droplets of your blood, mixed with his, rain down upon the cold, lifeless shells. The sticky warmth of blood coats your fingers, and you can’t help the tremor that runs through you as he chants under his breath, words that sound more like a prayer to a forgotten god than anything else.

And then, as if satisfied with his grotesque ritual, Aerys shoves you to the side. You stumble, catching yourself on the edge of the brazier, the heat prickles your skin. “Set the flames ablaze!” Aerys orders, his voice rising to a frenzied pitch. “Burn them all—the eggs, the men! Let the fire consume them and bring forth our legacy!”

The pyromancers don’t hesitate. With a flick of their wrists, they hurl the jars of wildfire toward the brazier. The green liquid splashes across the eggs, igniting instantly in a blinding surge of flames that leap hungrily toward the chained men. Their muffled screams pierce the air as the fire takes hold, spreading along the iron chains and engulfing them in a hellish inferno. The stench of burning flesh fills the room, and the crackle of wildfire mixes with the sickening sound of flesh searing away.

You scramble to your feet, but before you can move away, your father grabs a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back as he forces you to watch. “Look, my daughter! Look at what power truly is!” His grip is painful, his voice dripping with a perverse kind of pride. He leans in close, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, “This is our destiny—to bathe the world in fire and see it reborn in blood.”

The horror of it twists your stomach into knots, bile rising in your throat as the flames roar higher, crackling and snapping like the jaws of some hungry beast. You can feel the heat singeing your skin, the acrid smoke stinging your eyes, but you can’t tear your gaze away. The sight is too horrifying—men writhing in agony as the wildfire consumes them, their screams growing faint as the fire reduces them to ash.

The court watches in stunned silence, a mixture of awe and revulsion etched on their faces. You catch a glimpse of Tywin Lannister’s cold, impassive gaze, and Cersei’s eyes wide with a twisted fascination. Varys’s smile is barely there, a ghostly curve of his lips as he watches from the shadows, while Pycelle again strokes his beard nervously, muttering to himself.

But above all, you sense Arthur’s eyes on you—filled with pain, helplessness, and a burning fury that is barely contained. He’s bound by duty, forced to stand and watch as you endure this nightmare, unable to do anything but clench his fists and wait for the madness to end.

Then, just as you think you cannot bear another moment of this torment, Rhaegar’s voice slices through the chaos, filled with fury. “Father! Stop this madness!”

The crowd parts as Rhaegar pushes through, his face a mask of rage and desperation. His violet eyes blaze as he strides toward the brazier, his hands clenched into fists. “What is this insanity? You’re sacrificing men—innocent men—for the sake of dead stones!”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, his grip tightening on your hair as he sneers at his son. “You speak of insanity, boy, but you have no vision! You think yourself wise, with your songs and your prophecies, but it is I who will restore the glory of our house! I am the king! I am the blood of the dragon!”

Rhaegar steps closer, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. “You are killing our people, our house, with your madness. Y/N is not your doll to use in these delusions, nor are those men your playthings to burn for your twisted pleasure!”

Aerys’s eyes flash with fury, and he releases your hair, turning to face Rhaegar fully. “You dare defy me? You dare to speak against your king? You would see our bloodline wither and die rather than embrace the fire that runs through our veins!”

“I would see us live!” Rhaegar snaps back, his voice cracking with emotion. “I would see us rise above this, not fall into ruin because of your obsession with dead dragons!”

The tension in the room is suffocating, every courtier holding their breath as father and son square off, the flames still roaring behind them. But before either can say another word, a loud crack echoes through the chamber, silencing everyone.

Your heart stops as you turn toward the brazier. The flames curl around the eggs, licking hungrily at the stone shells. And then you hear it—a screech, high-pitched and otherworldly, rising from the depths of the fire. The court gasps in unison as one of the eggs shifts, the stone splitting down the middle with a jagged crack.

For a heartbeat, everything is still, the only sound the crackling of the flames and the faint hiss of wildfire. And then, from within the shattered egg, a tiny, serpentine creature emerges—a dragon, no larger than a hound pup, with scales the color of midnight and eyes like molten gold. It lets out another screech, flapping its fragile wings as it takes its first breath in this world, born of fire and blood.

The room is deathly silent, every eye locked on the creature as it pulls itself free from the broken shell. Aerys’s eyes widen, tears glistening in them as he stares at the dragon with a mixture of awe and triumph. “It lives… it lives!” he breathes, his voice trembling with reverence. “The dragons have returned!”

But as the awe settles in, the horror of what was done to bring this moment to fruition lingers like a dark shadow over the court. The sacrifice of innocent men, the bloodshed, the madness—it all culminates in this fragile, fledgling creature that blinks in confusion, its tiny mouth snapping at the air.

And yet, as the silence stretches on, it becomes clear that the return of the dragon is not the victory Aerys had hoped for. The court watches in a mixture of horror and fascination, but beneath it all, there is a deeper, darker understanding—that this birth was a product of cruelty, not of destiny.

Aerys, however, seems blind to it all. He steps closer to the brazier, his voice rising with a manic glee. “This is only the beginning! The dragons will rise again, and our house will be reborn in fire and blood!”

But as you stand there, your heart still pounding in your chest, you realize that this is not the rebirth of your house—it is the beginning of its downfall. The dragon may have hatched, but it was born in a bed of madness, and the cost of its life was too high to ignore.

Rhaegar’s gaze meets yours, and you see the same understanding in his eyes. This moment, this creature, is not a triumph. It is a harbinger of the darkness that now looms over House Targaryen.

The throne room descends into chaos, the air thick with smoke, the acrid scent of burning flesh mingling with the eerie, screeching cries of the newborn dragon. The court is frozen in a mixture of horror and fascination, eyes wide as the tiny creature struggles to free itself from the remnants of its shell, its dark wings stretching out in a fragile, jerky motion. Its scales glisten with moisture, gleaming obsidian in the flickering firelight, its golden eyes wild and hungry as it snaps at the air, testing its newfound freedom.

Rhaegar moves first, his instincts sharper than the shock that ripples through the crowd. His gaze locks onto you, and he pushes through the throng of courtiers, his face a mask of determination and fear. “Y/N!” he calls, his voice cutting through the clamor, desperation lacing every syllable. He can see the danger—you’re too close to the flames, too close to the madness that grips your father. 

At the same time, Arthur breaks from his position near the edge of the room, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, ready to strike if needed. His eyes are locked on you, the woman he swore to protect, the woman he loves, as he weaves through the crowd, dodging courtiers and guards alike in his bid to reach you. His heart pounds in his chest, each beat echoing the urgency that drives him forward. 

But before either man can reach you, Aerys’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in a bruising grip. His nails dig into your skin, drawing a wince from you as he drags you closer to him, closer to the hatching brazier where the dragon now writhes. The heat is unbearable, the stench nauseating, but Aerys is beyond reason, his eyes fixed on the creature with a sick, twisted adoration. 

“Father, stop!” You cry, struggling in his grip, but he only pulls you closer, his lips pulling back in a feral grin.

“You see, Y/N? You see what we are capable of when we embrace our destiny? The blood of the dragon flows strongest in you, in me! You will be the key to awakening them all!” His voice is frenzied, manic, and there is no sanity left in his eyes—only the feverish glow of a man consumed by his own delusions. He pulls you toward the dragon, shoving you so close that the heat scorches your skin, singeing the edges of your dress.

The little dragon screeches again, its head snapping in your direction as if sensing the fresh blood that still drips from your wounded hand. It lurches forward, its movements clumsy but quick, its tiny teeth bared in what could be either hunger or recognition.

“Let her go!” Rhaegar’s voice is a furious roar as he finally shoves his way through the crowd, his eyes blazing with both fury and terror. He strides toward Aerys, every muscle in his body coiled with the need to tear you from your father’s grasp. “You’ve done enough harm—let her go before someone gets killed!”

Aerys’s gaze snaps to Rhaegar, and for a brief moment, something like clarity flickers in his eyes, only to be extinguished by the wildfire of his madness. He tightens his hold on your wrist, yanking you closer to his side. “You dare command me?” he snarls, his voice rising in pitch, wild and venomous. “You, who would see our house fade into nothing, who would abandon the fire in our blood for weakness and sentimentality?”

Before Rhaegar can respond, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his voice cold and measured, but tinged with something that almost resembles concern. “Your Grace,” he begins, his tone calculated, yet edged with caution. “This is madness. We have seen the dragon hatch. It is a sign, yes, but your daughter’s life need not be risked further. This is enough.”

Aerys rounds on him, his face twisted in a snarl. “Enough?” he spits, his voice trembling with rage. “You presume to tell me what is enough? You, with your golden arrogance, your schemes to undermine my rule at every turn? You think I don’t see what you are, Tywin? You would have my daughter as a pawn in your little games, but she belongs to the fire! She belongs to me!”

Tywin’s expression darkens, but he holds his tongue, his calculating mind clearly weighing whether it is worth the risk to challenge the king further in this moment. For all his ambition, even Tywin Lannister knows there are limits when dealing with a madman armed with wildfire and delusions.

Meanwhile, Arthur has drawn closer, his hand still on the hilt of his sword as he positions himself just behind Rhaegar. His eyes are locked on Aerys, his body tensed, ready to strike should the king push you closer to danger. He knows he must tread carefully—one wrong move could lead to bloodshed, and you’re the one caught in the middle.

“Father, please,” you manage to say, your voice trembling as you try to keep calm. “You’ve already proven what you wanted. The dragon hatched. Let’s leave now, before more lives are lost.”

But Aerys doesn’t hear you—he’s too far gone, too enraptured by the flames and the cries of the newborn dragon. He grips your hair once more, pulling your head back and forcing you to look directly at the creature as it struggles to rise on shaky legs. “Look at it, Y/N! Look at what our blood has wrought! We are gods, you and I! We will bring forth fire and death to those who dare challenge us!”

The dragon screeches again, louder this time, its voice high and grating, a sound that sends shivers down your spine. It lunges toward you, its eyes gleaming with hunger, but the chains of the brazier keep it just out of reach, snapping its jaws inches away from your skin.

The tension in the room builds to a fever pitch, the courtiers frozen in place, unsure whether to flee or watch the nightmare unfold. The Kingsguard stand ready, their hands hovering near their swords, waiting for a signal that might never come.

Rhaegar’s patience snaps. He strides forward, grabbing Aerys by the arm and wrenching him away from you with a force that surprises even the king. “Enough!” he snarls, his face inches from Aerys’s, his eyes blazing with fury. “This madness ends now!”

For a moment, the two men stand locked in a furious standoff, father and son, both of them breathing hard, the flames flickering wildly around them. Aerys’s face contorts with rage, but there is a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—a moment of doubt, as if he’s suddenly unsure whether the vision he clings to is real or merely another ghost conjured by his decaying mind.

The throne room vibrates with ominous intentions, the air crackling with the mingling scents of smoke, blood, and the wild, unnatural odor of newborn dragon flesh. Aerys and Rhaegar stand toe-to-toe, the firelight casting their faces in stark relief—father and son, both dragons, yet divided by madness and the darkness of their blood. Around them, courtiers stand frozen, watching the confrontation unfold with wide eyes, their breaths caught in their throats.

“Father, stop this insanity!” Rhaegar’s voice is sharp and commanding, resonating through the hall. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, poised to draw it should the need arise. “These creatures are not the saviors of our house; they are born of blood and madness. You’re risking everything for a delusion!”

Aerys’s eyes gleam with unholy fervor, his face twisted with both rage and joy. “You dare call this a delusion? You, who have done nothing but hide behind books and songs while I’ve fought to reclaim our birthright?” Spittle flies from his lips as he raves, his grip tightening on the edge of the brazier as if he could will the second egg to crack open with sheer force. “The dragons are ours, Rhaegar—mine and Y/N’s! We will be the ones to bring them forth, to birth them anew in fire and blood!”

Before Rhaegar can respond, a screech pierces the air—the dragon, small but fierce, has freed itself from the brazier. Its obsidian scales gleam in the firelight as it stretches its wings, shaking off the ash and embers that cling to its skin. The creature is no longer the fragile thing it was moments ago; there is a dark, primal strength in the way it moves, in the way its golden eyes gleam as it surveys the room.

The courtiers gasp and stumble back, fear rippling through the gathered crowd. Even Tywin Lannister’s eyes narrow in wary calculation as he takes a measured step away from the creature, his face an unreadable mask.

The dragon’s gaze sweeps across the room—past Aerys, past Rhaegar—and locks onto you.

A chill runs down your spine as its eyes, molten gold and filled with an intelligence far beyond its size, bore into you. It slinks toward you, each step deliberate and cautious, its claws clicking softly against the stone floor. The court holds its collective breath, tension crackling like a drawn bowstring. Your heart pounds in your chest as the creature draws closer, but despite the terror seizing your limbs, you cannot move. 

The dragon pauses before you, its eyes narrowing as it tilts its head, studying you with unnerving curiosity. Then, in a moment that defies everything you’ve ever known, it lowers its head, bowing before you. You feel a strange, invisible thread tighten between you and the creature—a bond forged in the fire of its birth, one that hums with a power that is both terrifying and awe-inspiring. The dragon’s screech quiets into a low, rumbling purr as it settles at your feet, no longer a threat but a guardian, a companion bound to you by forces neither of you fully understand.

The silence in the room is deafening, every gaze fixed on you and the dragon, disbelief and awe mingling in equal measure. For a moment, the world stands still—until Aerys’s voice shatters the quiet, filled with triumphant exultation.

“Behold!” Aerys cries, his voice echoing through the chamber. “The dragon has chosen! It knows its true blood—it knows its mother!” He strides toward you, his eyes alight with a fervor that borders on madness. “Yes, my daughter, this creature is ours—ours! It is as if we have birthed it ourselves, our blood flowing in its veins! This is our child, a gift from the gods, a symbol of our power!”

Rhaegar’s face pales, horror flashing across his features as he watches the scene unfold. “Father, this is madness,” he whispers, disbelief lacing his voice. He moves quickly, stepping between you and Aerys, placing himself protectively at your side. “This creature is not your child—it’s a beast, born of fire and bloodshed. You cannot twist this into something pure when it was born of sacrifice and death.”

Aerys ignores him, his gaze locked on the dragon as he reaches out with trembling fingers. “It is ours, Rhaegar. Ours to command, ours to nurture. Y/N, do you not see it? This is our destiny, yours and mine, to rule with fire and blood.”

But you see the truth in Rhaegar’s eyes—the fear, the revulsion, and the deep sadness that comes with realizing how far gone your father truly is. You take a shaky breath, your voice trembling as you finally speak. “Father… this is not what I wanted. This is not the future I imagined.”

Before Aerys can respond, Rhaegar’s grip tightens on your arm, pulling you back as he speaks urgently. “Y/N, we’re leaving. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument; it is a command, one born of desperation and love.

Aerys’s gaze snaps to Rhaegar, his expression twisting with fury. “You would take her from me? You, who knows nothing of the fire in our blood? She belongs here, with the dragon, with me!”

The dragon lets out a low growl, sensing the tension between its “mother” and the man who threatens her. But before it can act, a flash of white catches your eye—Arthur, his expression hard as steel, moving swiftly to stand beside Rhaegar.

“My prince,” Arthur says firmly, his eyes flicking between you and the dragon, “we need to go now.”

Aerys’s attention snaps to Arthur, a sneer curling his lips. “You think you can take her from me, Sword of the Morning? You are nothing but a servant—my servant! You would defy me?”

But Arthur stands his ground, his voice cold and steady. “I serve the realm, Your Grace. And I serve the prince and princess first.”

Before Aerys can react, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his face a mask of cold calculation back in place. “Your Grace,” he says, his voice laced with thinly veiled concern, “perhaps it would be wise to allow the prince and princess to depart. They are clearly distressed, and we wouldn’t want any further… incidents to occur.”

Aerys rounds on him, fury blazing in his eyes. “You dare condescend to me, Tywin? You think you can soothe me with your false concern? You—”

But Rhaegar doesn’t wait for the argument to escalate further. With a sharp tug, he pulls you toward the exit, his grip on your arm firm but gentle. “We’re leaving now, Y/N,” he whispers urgently. “We’ll figure out what to do, but we can’t stay here.”

The dragon screeches again, its eyes following you as you move, but it makes no move to attack. It remains crouched by the brazier, watching you leave with an almost mournful expression. You feel the bond tug at you, a strange ache in your chest as you walk away, but you force yourself to keep moving.

Arthur falls in step beside you, his presence a solid wall of protection as he shields you from the madness left behind. You glance back one last time, just in time to see Aerys reach out toward the dragon, his eyes gleaming with unholy joy. “Yes, my child… my beautiful child…”

The doors to the throne room slam shut behind you, cutting off the sight of your father, the dragon, and the pyromancers who still hover near the brazier. The noise of the court fades, leaving only the sound of your ragged breaths and the rapid thudding of your heart.

You collapse against the cool stone wall in the corridor outside, the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. Rhaegar pulls you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you as if to shield you from the horrors you’ve just witnessed. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice raw with emotion. “I should never have let it get this far. I should have protected you better.”

You shake your head, tears burning in your eyes. “It’s not your fault, Rhaegar. Father… he’s beyond saving. We all are, in some ways.”

Arthur stands nearby, his sword still in hand, his eyes scanning the corridor for any sign of danger. When he’s satisfied that you’re safe for the moment, he steps closer, his expression softening as he looks at you. “You did well, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the faintest tremor. “You kept your head when most would have broken.”

You manage a faint, shaky smile. “I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing that.”

“We’ll find a way,” Rhaegar promises, his voice firm with determination. “We’ll figure this out.”

Arthur nods in agreement, his eyes meeting Rhaegar’s with an unspoken understanding. “For now, let’s get you somewhere safe. Somewhere away from all of this.”

As the three of you walk down the corridor, the shadows stretch long and dark around you, but for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel a spark of hope—a fragile, flickering thing, but it was there.

The heavy doors of the throne room remain shut, muffling the distant echoes of court life beyond. Inside, the once-grand hall is now shrouded in smoke and the eerie green glow of dwindling wildfire. The courtiers stand frozen, torn between awe and terror, their eyes darting between King Aerys and the small dragon now prowling around the smoldering brazier. Its obsidian scales shimmer like dark glass in the firelight, and the flicker of its eyes—molten gold and full of intent—keeps everyone on edge.

Aerys is utterly captivated, his attention consumed by the creature. He paces before it, hands outstretched as though in reverence, his eyes wide and unblinking, a man who has found purpose in his madness. “You see?” he whispers, almost to himself, though his voice carries across the silent room. “The blood of the dragon endures. This is proof that our power remains unbroken—that fire still answers our call.”

The dragon moves closer to him, its claws clicking against the stone floor. The creature’s wings flare slightly, casting long, menacing shadows that stretch across the walls. Aerys’s twisted smile widens, and he drops to his knees, bowing his head in what could only be described as worship.

“Magnificent,” murmurs one of the pyromancers, unable to tear his eyes from the dragon. “It lives—birthed from fire and blood, just as the old lore spoke of.” The other pyromancers exchange looks, their fascination clear as they huddle together, speaking in hushed, fevered tones about the possibilities this creature presents for their dark craft.

Tywin Lannister stands near the Iron Throne, his face a mask of carefully controlled disgust. He makes no move to approach the king, but his cold eyes remain fixed on Aerys, taking in every detail of this unfolding disaster. “Your Grace,” Tywin finally speaks, his voice calm but edged with steel. “This… event is extraordinary, yes. But surely it is time to consider the safety of the realm. The presence of this dragon—” He pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully, “—in such a volatile environment is a risk.”

Aerys rounds on him, his eyes blazing with fervor. “A risk? You call this a risk, Tywin?” His voice rises, sharp and mocking. “You, with your golden pride and ambition, would dare question the return of our house’s greatest symbol? You lack vision, as always.” He laughs, a wild, grating sound that sends shivers down the spines of those nearby. “The dragon is our salvation! It will stay here, in the throne room, where it belongs—where it will be under my protection!”

Pycelle, his face pale and beaded with sweat, clears his throat and steps forward. “Your Grace, with all due respect, the throne room is—unsuited for such a creature. Perhaps it would be better served if the beast were kept in the improvised Dragonpit we can quickly construct, where it might be properly—”

“Enough!” Aerys shrieks, his voice cracking as he rounds on Pycelle. “Do not presume to tell me how to care for my child! It stays here—here, where it can watch over its throne, where all can witness the return of our glory!”

The dragon’s head turns toward Aerys as he speaks, as if it senses the intensity of his emotions. The court watches, paralyzed, as the creature inches closer to the Iron Throne, the jagged steel blades reflecting in its golden eyes. The pyromancers exchange glances, their awe deepening with every movement of the dragon.

Varys, who had been lingering at the edge of the shadows, slips away unnoticed, disappearing into the darkness with a subtle swish of his robes. No one remarks on his absence—those who do notice are more concerned with the king’s unpredictable mood and the ever-looming threat of the dragon in their midst.

As the courtiers murmur amongst themselves, Tywin presses his lips into a thin line, his calculating gaze sweeping across the room. He knows this situation is spiraling out of control, but there’s no room to maneuver—Aerys’s obsession is beyond reason, and any direct confrontation would only invite disaster.

Ser Jaime Lannister stands near the Iron Throne, his expression one of wary amusement. His hand hovers near the pommel of his sword, ready to act should the dragon—or the king—become a threat. “A bold decision, Your Grace,” Jaime remarks, though there’s a mocking edge beneath the politeness. “Keeping a dragon in the throne room—how very fitting. After all, nothing else in this cursed hall has been able to match the madness of our times.”

Aerys barely registers the comment, his focus wholly consumed by the dragon. He kneels closer to the creature, his fingers trembling as he reaches out. The dragon’s head snaps toward him, teeth bared, but it does not strike. Instead, it simply watches, waiting, as if testing the king’s resolve.

“It is ours,” Aerys whispers, more to himself than anyone else. “The blood of the dragon recognizes its own. It will stay here, by the throne. It will grow strong, and in time, we shall see it reclaim the skies.”

Tywin takes a step forward, his tone measured and laced with warning. “Your Grace, this creature is not a mere pet—it’s a wild beast, born of fire and blood. Keeping it here in such close proximity to the court is—”

Aerys cuts him off with a vicious snarl. “It is mine! It belongs to me and to my daughter! It will stay where I command, and you—” he points a shaking finger at Tywin, his eyes blazing, “—you will remember your place.”

Tywin’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing more, recognizing the futility of arguing further. The court remains silent, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Everyone knows that challenging Aerys now would only lead to more bloodshed, and none are willing to risk their lives in the presence of both a mad king and a dragon.

The pyromancers bow low, their eyes gleaming with eager anticipation. “As you command, Your Grace. We shall prepare the throne room to be the dragon’s new lair. It will be a place worthy of its presence, a shrine to the rebirth of your house.”

Aerys smiles, a twisted, satisfied grin that sends a shiver down the spines of all who see it. “Yes,” he murmurs, stroking the air as if he were already petting the dragon’s scales. “This will be our sanctum—the heart of fire and blood. The dragon will stay here, where all can witness its glory.”

The dragon lets out a low growl, its eyes shifting between Aerys and the gathered court, as if it understands the weight of what has been proclaimed. The courtiers exchange uneasy glances, knowing that this new “child” of Aerys could just as easily turn on them as it could serve the king’s ambitions.

But Aerys remains entranced, his gaze never leaving the dragon as he whispers to himself, lost in his fevered dreams of power reborn. The court is dismissed, but no one dares move until Aerys waves a dismissive hand, lost in his own world. The courtiers leave as quickly as they can, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall, a reminder of how far the realm has descended into madness.

As the last of them depart, the dragon curls at the foot of the Iron Throne, its eyes half-lidded as it watches Aerys with a gaze that is both predatory and curious. Aerys remains beside it, mumbling incoherently about fire, blood, and destiny, oblivious to the dark path he has chosen for himself and his house.

The warmth of the fire does little to chase away the cold that clings to your bones as you sit on the edge of the bed, your hand outstretched while Maester Pycelle inspects the wound left by your father’s dagger. His fingers are cold and dry as parchment, trembling slightly as he cleans the cut, murmuring in his usual pedantic tone about the necessity of avoiding infection. The scent of herbal salve fills the air, mingling with the distant echoes of the chaos still unfolding in the Red Keep.

Rhaegar stands by the window, the soft glow of dusk casting shadows across his face. He stares out into the night, lost in thought, his posture tense and his eyes troubled. Arthur stands nearby, ever vigilant, ever protective. He hasn’t left your side since the moment you escaped the throne room, and though he remains silent, you can feel the weight of his concern in every glance he sends your way.

Pycelle’s mutterings are a dull hum in the background, your focus entirely on the tight line of Rhaegar’s mouth, the subtle slump in his usually straight shoulders. Finally, when the maester finishes wrapping your hand in clean linen, you find the strength to speak the question that has been gnawing at you since the madness in the throne room.

“Rhaegar… what happens now?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, the words trembling as they leave your lips. You’ve always known your father’s grip on sanity was tenuous, but tonight felt different—darker, more final. 

Rhaegar’s sigh is heavy, filled with a weariness that seems to age him beyond his years. He finally turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours, and in them, you see the burden of responsibility that he carries like a shroud. “Now?” he echoes, the word hanging in the air. “Now we try to hold this fractured realm together while our father plunges deeper into his delusions.”

Arthur shifts his weight slightly, his jaw tight as he struggles to contain his own thoughts. He glances at Rhaegar, then back at you, but remains silent, knowing this is a conversation between brother and sister first.

Rhaegar crosses the room and takes a seat beside you, his hand resting gently over yours, careful not to disturb the bandage. “I’ll talk to him,” he says, though there is little hope in his voice. “Once this feverish madness of his has dimmed down, I’ll try to reason with him. He must understand that what happened today cannot continue.”

You shake your head, doubt gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. “And what makes you think he’ll listen? He was… convinced that the dragon was our child, that it was born from us.” The words stick in your throat, bile rising as you recall the twisted gleam in Aerys’s eyes when he proclaimed the dragon a gift of your blood.

Rhaegar’s grip on your hand tightens, his expression hardening as he forces himself to remain calm. “He’s lost in his fantasies, yes, but there are moments—brief as they are—where he’s still lucid enough to recognize reality. We need to be patient and wait for one of those moments. If I can find that opening, maybe I can convince him to focus his obsession elsewhere.”

Arthur’s voice, low and firm, cuts through the tense silence. “You shouldn’t have to navigate this alone, Your Grace. The longer the king’s madness goes unchecked, the more dangerous he becomes—to Y/N, to the realm, to everyone.” His words are carefully measured, but the undercurrent of anger is clear. The thought of you being forced into another horrifying situation like the one in the throne room clearly torments him.

Rhaegar nods, though his eyes remain shadowed with doubt. “I know, Arthur. But what would you have me do? We are trapped in a court ruled by fear, with our own father sitting at the heart of it like a ticking time bomb. Any direct challenge to his authority could spark civil war.”

You bite your lip, the weight of your brother’s words settling like a stone in your chest. You can feel the walls closing in, the oppressive sense that there is no escape from this nightmare. “Is there really no way out of this?” you ask, your voice small and filled with a desperation you hate showing.

Rhaegar’s expression softens, a rare glimpse of the brother you knew before all of this—the one who would comfort you with songs and stories when the world outside seemed too dark to bear. “I’ll find a way, Y/N. I promise you that, even if it means I have to make decisions I never wanted to make.” His voice drops to a whisper, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. “I won’t let him destroy us.”

Pycelle clears his throat, finishing his work and shuffling back a step. “The wound should heal without issue, Princess. Keep it clean and avoid straining the hand. I’ll prepare more salve and have it sent to your chambers.”

“Thank you, Maester Pycelle,” you reply automatically, though your attention is still fixed on Rhaegar and the quiet resolve hardening in his gaze.

The maester bows stiffly, casting a wary glance at Arthur before retreating from the room. Once the door closes behind him, the room feels smaller, the air thick with tension and unsaid fears.

Arthur finally speaks again, his voice a low rumble. “Whatever your plan is, Rhaegar, know that I’m with you. We can’t let him harm her—or anyone else—again.”

Rhaegar meets Arthur’s gaze, a mutual understanding passing between them. “I know I can count on you, Ser Arthur. But until we figure out a solution, we must tread carefully. We cannot afford to provoke our father into something even more catastrophic.”

You nod, feeling a mixture of gratitude and fear swirl within you. You know Rhaegar is trying his best to protect you, but the weight of your father’s madness is a heavy one to bear, and you can’t help but feel that it’s only a matter of time before something—someone—breaks.

“I trust you, Rhaegar,” you say softly, though the words feel fragile, like glass on the edge of shattering. “Just… promise me you won’t let him drag us all down with him.”

Rhaegar’s gaze locks onto yours, and for a brief moment, you see the depth of his fear mirrored in his eyes. But he forces a small smile, squeezing your hand one last time before standing. “I promise, Y/N. We’ll find a way through this. Together.”

With that, he takes his leave, casting one last look over his shoulder before disappearing into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

Arthur remains by your side, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor amidst the swirling uncertainty. He watches you carefully, his concern evident even in the silence that stretches between you. “Get some rest, my lady,” he finally says, though his tone is gentle, almost tender. “You’ll need your strength for whatever comes next.”

You manage a faint nod, your exhaustion catching up to you as the events of the day settle like a leaden weight in your limbs. But even as you lie down, pulling the covers around you, sleep remains elusive. Your mind races, filled with the image of the dragon’s eyes—their unblinking, knowing gaze—and the twisted words of your father as he proclaimed the creature a child born of your blood.

As you finally drift into a fitful sleep, Arthur remains close by, ever watchful, ever ready to defend you. But even with him there, the darkness creeping at the edges of your thoughts is impossible to ignore.

You wonder how much longer you can hold out against the rising tide of your father’s madness—and what will be left of your family when the storm finally breaks.

Tywin Lannister sits at the head of the chamber, his expression unreadable but cold, calculating. His piercing green eyes scan the room as Jaime and Cersei stand before him, their postures tense. The usual arrogance in Cersei’s gaze is muted, replaced with unease, while Jaime leans against the wall with his arms crossed, his casual stance belying the seriousness of his expression.

“What we’ve witnessed today,” Tywin begins, his voice low and deliberate, “has shaken the foundation of this court more than any whisper or scheme could have. A dragon has been born, and with it, the Targaryen madness has been given a new life.”

Cersei’s eyes flash with anxiety as she steps forward, unable to keep her unease hidden. “Father, this changes everything. If Aerys has control over that creature, it strengthens his position—and his madness. He already considers himself untouchable, but now… now he’ll see himself as invincible.”

Jaime chuckles darkly from his position near the wall, though there’s no humor in it. “Invincible? The man is already half a corpse in his own mind, clinging to delusions of grandeur. That dragon is more of a threat to him than to anyone else in this castle. But still,” he adds, his expression turning grim, “it complicates things. Our position at court was precarious enough, and now we have to worry about Aerys using that beast to tighten his grip even further.”

Tywin steeples his fingers, his gaze distant as he considers their words. “You’re both correct. Aerys’s obsession with this so-called ‘rebirth’ will only drive him deeper into his madness. He’s unpredictable enough as it is, but now he believes he’s found proof that the gods favor him. If he sees that dragon as a weapon in his hands… well, that could make him far more dangerous than we’ve ever seen.”

Cersei steps closer to her father, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then we must act quickly. Rhaegar and his sister clearly do not support Aerys’s madness. They’re our best chance to take control of this situation. If Rhaegar were to become king… and if I were to be his queen…” Her eyes gleam with ambition, the familiar hunger returning as she imagines the power that could be within her grasp.

Tywin’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something—perhaps approval—in his gaze. “That is the path we have been working toward, Cersei, but it is not without its dangers. Rhaegar is a cautious man, and while he despises his father’s madness, he is still bound by duty to the Targaryen name. We must tread carefully. Any overt move against Aerys could lead to bloodshed, and with a dragon in his arsenal, even the smallest provocation could have devastating consequences.”

Jaime pushes off the wall, uncrossing his arms as he approaches the table. “I’ve been stationed near Aerys for long enough to know that he’s on the edge. One wrong move, and he could turn that creature against anyone he perceives as a threat. And if that happens, none of us—Rhaegar included—will be safe.”

Tywin’s eyes narrow as he considers his son’s words. “Which is why we must ensure that the dragon remains under control—or neutralized if necessary.”

Cersei frowns, her brows furrowing as she processes the implications. “You’re suggesting we find a way to… dispose of it? That would require subtlety, and the king’s attention is entirely fixed on it.”

“Not necessarily,” Tywin counters. “Aerys’s obsession with the dragon could be his weakness. If he becomes too focused on it, it may give us the opportunity to manipulate him in other ways. We can bide our time, waiting for the right moment to strike. But make no mistake—if the situation continues to spiral, we will need to act decisively. Aerys is a danger to everyone in King’s Landing, and now more than ever, that danger is real.”

Jaime’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “You mean more real than the wildfire he’s been stockpiling under the city? Or the executions he dreams of every night?”

Tywin doesn’t dignify the remark with a response, his gaze shifting back to Cersei. “Your focus must remain on gaining Rhaegar’s trust. He will be the key to any transition of power. If you can convince him that marrying you would stabilize the realm, then we can proceed from there. But until we know where his loyalties truly lie, we must remain patient.”

Cersei’s eyes gleam with determination. “I won’t fail, Father. Rhaegar is torn between his duty and his family—if I can show him that we’re the solution to that conflict, he’ll come to us willingly.”

Tywin nods approvingly. “Good. But remember—your ambition must be tempered by caution. Rhaegar is a man of principle. If he suspects we’re using him purely for our own ends, he’ll shut us out. He must believe that aligning with us is not just the best option, but the only option.”

Jaime runs a hand through his golden hair, glancing between his father and sister. “And what if Aerys decides that the dragon is the answer to all his problems? What if he starts using it to cement his control—publicly?”

Tywin’s gaze turns steely, his voice cold and unyielding. “Then we will do what must be done. But that is a last resort. For now, we watch, we wait, and we maneuver carefully. The dragon may be a tool of fear, but fear can be wielded by those with the will to seize it.”

As the conversation draws to a close, Cersei’s thoughts churn with a renewed sense of purpose. She knows that winning Rhaegar’s favor is her path to power, and now, more than ever, she’s determined to succeed. The image of her sitting beside him as queen flickers in her mind like a beacon, drawing her forward, regardless of the dangers that lie in her path.

Jaime’s smile returns, this time with a hint of bitter amusement. “We’re all dancing on the edge of a knife. Let’s just hope we’re the ones holding the hilt when it all comes crashing down.”

Tywin’s silence is all the confirmation they need. The Lannisters, like everyone else in King’s Landing, know that the game is changing. The dragon in the throne room is not just a creature—it’s a symbol of the chaos that now reigns over the capital.

But chaos, Tywin knows, can be controlled. If they play their cards right, this madness could be the key to seizing the power they’ve long desired. And in the end, power is all that matters.

-A/N: Did I just played with the idea of the Mad King having a dragon in his arsenal. Yeah, I did. And nobody in Westeros will have a fun time with it. And words 'fire and blood' are used far too often, but it's so fitting.

[aphpuffinchild]

since it's out i can finally post my piece for @hws-anthology as well as the timelapse for it. as is arguably all my hetalia work, it's a love letter to my friend @pyrrhocorax 's fic Sendlingur og Sandlóa - i'll ramble a bit about how much it means to me, as well as the symbolism i wormed into this piece below the read more :)

i originally had two pages planned for this piece, potentially more - the fic is a good 74k words long and certainly not light on scenes i could and wanted to pull from, but various things led into other various things and one page was all i could manage, so i tried to cram in what i could, so here's that (in a rough, somewhat arbitrary order of focal points)

the opening chapter! the car is a framing device for the piece as much as it is for the journey the characters will take following that first chapter, so i wanted to use the car window/shapes as a literal framing device in my drawing

joi, shaky at best in his sense of self, sees no reflection in the window, instead there's a silhouetted raven to signify the search he must go on to find it

while not perfectly transcribed by virtue of wonky (plus an extra) line(s), the notes coming from joi's headphones are the opening to the song sendlingur og sandlóa, the fic's namesake, which a loved one kindly transposed by ear for me for the purpose of this piece

in a similar vein, the stickers on joi's suitcase are of a purple sandpiper and a ringed plover, the birds after which the song is named - here they are as transparents and in their original colours

i wanted to create a sliiight impression that joi is the one knocking over the chessboard, representing his repeated rejections of it (both physically, and the things it represents)

the chess pieces were also chosen specifically! originally i was going to use a black rook and a white pawn to match chapter 41, but for the sake of having alternating colours and the rest of my metaphors working (iirc) i swapped those colours around. that, and i wanted to match chapter 13's white king and black pawn - the black pawn stuck, the white king was colour swapped for colour cohesion reasons like the other's. (visual contrast was important to me, but the white queen blending slightly into the sky was okay for symbolism reasons) (there was also black king, white rook from chapter 3, so it all worked out anyway - there's a lot of chess in this story and i only had space for so many pieces and colours, basically)

speaking of which, the black pawn is for joi (chapter 13), the white queen is for halle (someone who, from joi's perspective, can go anywhere, vs joi's pawn, someone to be used -> see chapter 35 and perspective).

the king piece is falling (but hasn't quite fallen) between halle and henrik (chapter 3, 7, 13, though i most clearly thought of 19)

the person in the top right corner is eduard! i desperately wanted to include him because i think he's deserved it, and i considered a lot of ways of working him in, but i think an ambiguous silhouette that isn't Quite part of the main picture works better narratively

note also that he's separated from the other's through a red curtain, to represent the iron curtain (naturally) i wanted it to match ber + tino's part in some way, to sorta emphasise their similar foundations despite being split apart across places

the flowers at eduard's window are placed and chosen purposefully as well! orange/red zinnia's outside (for familial ties, steadfastness, friendship and remembrance) for what eduard puts out in to the world, then lily-of-the-valley for tino and cornflower for him inside to show what he wants to hold close :)

halle and joi are the only characters with their eyes open - halle looks towards the viewer/author/reader/joi, while joi looks away all together. if you've read the fic (which i assume you have because i can't imagine this is interested to read otherwise) you probably don't need me to explain why that reflects their roles in the story

similarly, every character apart from the brothers is turned towards another in some way (eduard does not count when his flowers do, and his role in the story is based around that disconnect partially anyway) tino towards ber and eduard (and hana, i guess), ber towards tino, henrik to halle, halle to henrik (though he looks away - his values are elsewhere even when they are together). joi, at best, looks at his own reflection in the window

the colour scheme, while arbitrarily picked from gradient maps based on what i felt "fit" has been approved by the author as being very "SoS core"

finally, the poem on the note, chapter 46

all that being said, i can and will now talk about my personal relationship with SoS, so unless that interests you i imagine the post is done now! thank you for reading :)

the first comment i posted on SoS is dated 2nd November 2016 - logging into my old account i can see i bookmarked it on the 31st August that same year, so i can safely assume i first read or at least found it then. a month after my first comment, i posted another on a different account, pouring a few bits of my heart out and the author responded! we went back and forth a bit and eventually talked (i think) via tumblr for a little, but the majority of our conversations were via skype for whatever reason (we didn't call, just texted). it was a lot of me looking for writing advice, insight to their work/process/skill, talking about The Brothers and talking about psychology/the brain on a general and personal level. i think if i read our conversations back now i'd cringe, given that i was an awkward, fumbling 16 year old, but i dont think anything else wouldve been fitting given the subject matter. eventually our conversations fizzled out and we stopped talking for years, but i'd go back to SoS routinely and cry.

in may of 2021, i posted another comment during what in hindsight was definitely another relatively minor mental health episode - i think it was half trying to emphasise how important the work was to me on the off chance pyrr saw it, and half a bid for connection since i had no idea if they even remembered us talking. i assumed nothing would come of it, and for about a year that was true - until pyrr responded after all in february of 2022 - i'm happy to say we've been talking consistently on discord since then. i feel a little weird speaking too intimately about our friendship as it is now since it's not just my story to tell (though pyrr, if you're reading this) (i'm sure you are at some point) (you're welcome to talk about it however, i just didn't want to without consulting you) but i can say with some certainty that it's at least a little bit my fault that we have a sequel now - cementing my place as official number #1 fan and validating the me from almost 8 years ago in a way i don't think either of us processes well.

it's here that i feel the need to talk about my other dear friend, @hws-lceland , who i'm grateful to have met through the zine's discord server. i'm sure they're reading this too, and a lot of what our relationship means to me is stuff that's probably a bit too vulnerable for either of us to speak publicly, but i *can* say that i love them very much, and i'm really grateful to have someone else to understand, and that he read SoS for me. i thought he needed it, and i hope i was right

sendlingur is...endlessly important to me. i'm aiming to not write an essay here (a goal i think i've already sorta shot in the foot) but i think it's important for me to talk about some of this a little loudly, all the same. my writing has changed because of the series - remeeting with pyrr and showing them some of my more recent work was interesting since it was apparent even to them the influences i'd taken (to be fair, in one section i explicitly asked and did borrow a format of theirs, but this goes beyond that). when i was 16 i asked my mum to read the fic in a desperate bid to be understood. i've cried reading the fic many, many times. i've signed off letters and poems with my switched around version of i'm sorry / thank you / i love you (i swap the first two around) many, many, many times, including in a close friend's wedding gift. SoS has very sincerely changed my definition of love. the name halle is a part of my abstract mindscape. id already considered changing my name to johannes anyway and this fic certainly didnt help. i've gained a friendship of 7 and a half years through it. i've gained another newer one now, too. i am not well. i wasn't well then, reading it, and it hasn't fixed me (i am worse, now, arguably), but it healed something, or at least made me feel understood. i could go on, and maybe sometime i will (there were so many things i wanted to include in my piece and pay homage to!), but for now i will thank anyone who took the time to read all this (again), and say that i look forward to experiencing the sequel

as always, i'm sorry, thank you, i love you

[randofics]

I love your 'bots reacting to you reaching where they can't posts. Would you do one for the 'cons?

Here ya go darlin' hope ya like it!

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

Starscream

When you first met the con, he had been very xenophobic towards you. He wouldn't touch you, let alone go anywhere near you unless ordered by Megatron, and even then, he'd put up a fuss about it. So when he got shrapnel lodged in his turbine blades and knockout couldn't get it without invasive measures, it was up to none other than you to pry it out. He absolutely dreaded it, but he also couldn't fly without his turbine, so if you had to do it over knockout performing surgery, then so be it.

He transformed hissing in pain as the turbine blades flexed, making the shrapnel cut into them. Using a box as a step stool, you came level with the engine. You spotted the wedged metal and began to reach for it before hesitating. He could easily shred your arm. You'd seen the plane accident documentaries on a binge last year and knew well enough of the tornado force winds engines could produce. There had only been one man you'd heard of to survive being sucked into a military jets engine, and it had been through sheer luck. His vest strap snagged on the metal inside, stopping his body from being sucked further in, but his hand had been effectively shredded by the blades.

Starscream's voice broke you from your dark thoughts. "I'm not going to harm you, fleshy. As much as I'd like to, Megatron gave me direct orders not to."

That was only slightly reassuring, but you steeled yourself and slowly moved your hand forward between the first set of blades. With your wrist pushed between two of the thin blades, you reached for the mangled metal shard slotted through the second set. With your fingers firmly on it, you wiggled it, only making it move slightly. "Do hurry fleshy before I dislodge it with your arm still inside." His voice was slightly pained as you got a better grip on it.

"Going as fast as I can... aha!" You pulled the surprisingly long strip of metal from his blades and extracted your hand swiftly along with it. He let out a sigh of relief and expiramentally spun his blades. "That feels much better. Now I can go finish my work." Without so much as a thank you, he sauntered out however you did get a thanks from knockout.

Megatron

Megs wasn't a fun mech to be around, especially when you were his prisoner. But whenever the chance arose to get in his good graces, you took the opportunity. One day, when he returned to the nemesis after battle and he walked into his quarters, where he was also keeping an eye on you (Those good for nothing bots couldn't be trusted with a pawn like you). The door shut with a hiss locking behind him, and his shoulders relaxed he even let the slight hobble in his walk show, probably having forgotten you were there.

You watched as he sat in his desk chair and spun around to face you in your little cage. Your curiosity getting the better of you made you speak. "Lord Megatron, may I ask why you're injured?"

He let out an angered and frustrated growl, looking away from you. "Your autobot comrades got a few lucky shots on me, and I seem to have something lodged in my plating, most likely from the battle. He felt under one of the plates on his side, wincing slightly at a tender spot. "Was knockout not able to remove it?"

His optics flashed in anger, and he slammed his fist down on the chair arm. "I do not need his help with such a trivial thing! It will dislodge itself eventually." You held up your hands to placate him and just left it at that.

A day later and he came back in with an even worse hobble wincing as he sat in his chair. "You want me to remove that thing for you?... Lord Megatron." He sighed, pushing up off his seat and grabbing hold of your cage. He entered the pass code, and the door creaked open. You hopped out onto the table and motioned for him to show you which plate it was under. He leaned awkwardly over you so you could reach the panel of metal, and gently, you lifted it so you could get a better look.

A small rock (small to him anyway) was lodged in such a way that whenever he walked it ground into some of his finer components. "Ouch, that's probably like me getting a bone splinter in one of my joints. I'm surprised it wasn't bothering you this much yesterday."

"Quit your rambling and remove it, fleshy."

"Ok ok do you have anything I can use to knock it out? I'm not strong enough to pull it out by hand." You could practically hear him roll his optics, but he reached to a shelf above and grabbed a tiny object, dropping it next to you. It just looked like another piece of metal to you, but it was a proper shape and weight. You got back in position and aimed the object at the rock striking it once, then twice without much success. Megatron hissed as he involuntarily shifted and that stubborn piece of rock ground into the metal around it.

The third strike split it in half, and it fell away dropping to the floor far below. He stepped back, testing his flexibility, and you could tell it was still sore but not near as bad as it had been. He looked down at you, motioning for you to go back into your cage he locked the door behind you and had you toss the metal object outside. "Thank you for your cooperation."

"You're welcome, I guess?"

Knockout

Knockout was relatively friendly for a con and not nearly as xenophobic as some of the others could be. In fact, he was quite the opposite in that sense. He's very curious, maybe a little too curious about human anatomy and organ functions. But you could definitely get a few laughs from and with him. Eventually, your curiosity of their anatomy grew as you ran out of things to entertain you.

He was more than happy to explain things to you in the utmost detail. When you mentioned you'd love to get an in person look at a cybertronians inner workings, he happily volunteered for a light viewing. He transformed and popped his hood, revealing an alien, engine-esqe jumble of mirrored components where a normal engine would be. The metal wasn't sparkling like you expected with him, but it wasn't dirty either.

Your eyes sparkled with wonder as you tried to imagine how each piece would work, and without realizing you leaned over, your soft legging covered thighs smooshing against his red finish. Your hands gripped the inside lip of his engine space, letting you get a closer look at a smaller component that caught your eye. As if you were admiring a precious stone, you lightly grazed the edge of the glowing centerpiece's metal covering. Blue light shown through the purpose built air intakes on either side of the cover.

At your touch there, he shook like he'd been hit with an electric shock and slammed his hood shut as you jumped away. Clearing his vocalizer, he spoke with a very unlike him stutter. He also seemed a bit higher pitched than normal. "OK, that's enough of a ha-hands-on look for now. I-I need to return to my work, or Lord Megatron will be angry with me."

Jittery, he got back to work at his computer, leaving you to your own devices and wondering just what exactly that was all about.

"What in cybertron was that!? Their touch was so light, yet it was like I hit a powerline!" Perhaps it had been a bad idea to let you do that.

[toomanyfandoms-notenoughfics]

Celestial Beings

Chapter Two: Talking it Out

Characters: Reader, Molly Weasley, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black

Summary: After many, many days of dealing with Moody's visits, (y/n) get two new visitors, who seem to be much much nicer.

Word Count: 2,285

Warnings: Torture Mention, SA Mention (it's mostly glossed over, no major details), Child Abuse Mention

A/N: Just in case I forgot to mention previously, this is not completely canon-compliant. I also have made Moody more of an a-hole, if anyone wants to know my thought process on that matter go ahead in send in a quick ask. Actually, feel free to send in an ask about anything, I would love to answer! I'm enjoying writing this, and I hope that at least some people are enjoying reading this.

Torture and pain were nothing new to (y/n), actually, it rather reminded her of home. She wasn’t sure how long she had been in the small room, nor how many times she’d had her “visits” with Moody. They rarely lasted longer than a few hours. The longest time, from what little sense of it she had, was somewhere around 8 hours.

Speaking of home, she missed it quite a bit. Malfoy Manor was a lot more cruel on the inside than most people could even guess. Not particularly any fault of Mrs. Malfoy or Draco, but rather Lucius. The head of the household, and loyal follower of her father, obeyed any and every command given. Of course, most of those orders were on how to best “raise and properly train” (y/n), which typically involved some form of torture.

(Y/n) of course, followed along as well, it was easier than dealing with the consequences. Out of everything, waterboarding was the worst. Followed closely behind spending any nights with a few perverted men, less as a consequence, more so as a reward for their loyalty to You-Know-Who. She had the scars to prove the ordeals she went through, as much as she would prefer to forget.

Even though she acted nonchalant about it all, she was still a person. She just couldn’t afford to be seen that way. In her opinion, it was better to be seen as an object or a weapon, a mere pawn on a chessboard. Then at least she herself could pretend to have no weaknesses, no breaking point. She preferred that people believed the rumors and lies, that she was as deadly as her father and as crazed as Bellatrix Lestrange.

Mrs.Weasley opened the cell door, a tired look on her face and a plate in hand. She gave (y/n) a sad smile as she set it down near the entrance.

“Couldn’t you just give him something to go off of?” Mrs. Weasley pleaded with her. “Anything so you could have a break from it all? You look downright awful, I’m worried for you.”

“What could I give him that he would believe?” (Y/n) asked, slowly grabbing the sandwich from the plate and taking a bite. “After all, I imagine it’s been at least a few weeks if not a month or so? I haven’t uttered a single thing he’s believed, including that his curses and beatings won’t work. I’m used to it, it’s what I’ve been molded to be.”

“What about something small, something that no one knows about, well You-Know-Who?” Mrs. Weasley tries, leaning against the door frame. “From what I’ve gathered he hasn’t exactly been the most caring of-”

“Don’t.” (Y/n) said flatly, meeting the older woman’s eyes. “Truly don’t go there. He cares, just in his own way.”

Mrs. Weasley is quiet after that, unsure as to what to say. She sighs, picking up the plate and turning to leave. Once the door was shut (y/n) sits back against the cold wall, no longer having the appetite for her sandwich.

“He does care. I just don’t know if it’s about me or the results I give him.” she gathers up the blanket, draping it over her legs. “No, he cares about me, what father wouldn’t care about their children? Even Lucius cares about Draco, and he doesn’t care about much else than impressing my father.” (Y/n) sat in the dark, with nothing but her own thoughts to keep her company and the occasional bug scurrying across the floor.

This time when the door opened it was someone (y/n) had not seen before. Or rather two someones she hadn’t seen. Both men were tall, one with dark, long curly hair and the other with light brown, short-combed hair. (Y/n) recognized one of them as Sirius Black, the first person to escape Azkaban prison. The other took her a few seconds to place, it wasn’t until the light hit his face, revealing the scars that she knew it was Remus Lupin, a werewolf known to be heavily against her father.

“Well, isn’t this a treat?” She said, slowly getting to her feet. “A blood-traitor and a half-breed? What did I do to have you grace my presence?” Remus flinched at the mention of half-breed.

“I came down here to see who could possibly have Moody stumped,” Sirius growled, stepping in front of Remus ever so slightly. “Imagine my surprise when I see you’re nothing more than another idiot, too stubborn and ignorant for your own good.”

“I’m the idiot?” (Y/n) laughed. “Am I the one torturing the same person the same 20 ways over and over in the hopes something will give? No, I’m the one who is with-standing it because the consequences of giving in are worse than dealing with a little more pain.”

“What could be worse than everything Moody has put you through?” Remus mused. “He’s told us some of what he’s done, none of which we agreed with. The real reason we’re down here is because we took a vote.”

“A vote?” She took a step back, unsure now of the situation she was in. “A vote for what? Who gets first dibs?”

“What?” Sirius looked taken aback, holding up his hands innocently. “No, we took a vote over if Moody should be down here with you anymore.”

“We decided against it. You don’t have to deal with him anymore.” Remus conjured up a lantern and hung it on the ceiling. “From now on we’re just going to talk.”

“So we’ve moved on from physical torture to psychological, understood.” (Y/n)’s shoulder relaxed slightly. “I can handle that too.”

“No, no, no. I think you’re still not understanding.” Remus smiled, looking at Sirius. “That’s all we’re going to do from now on. Sirius has enlightened us on what you’ve probably grown used to growing up.”

“Enlightened? What would he know about any of that?” she sneered, feeling even more vulnerable than before. Somehow talking seemed more daunting than hours of Cruciatous curses and water-boarding.

“You’re forgetting what family I, regrettably, belong to,” Sirius grumbled, shutting the door. “I have a feeling your upbringing was at least somewhat similar to my own, if not worse. Your father seems to pay you the same amount of care my mother gave me, which is to say nothing unless you are their perfect doll.”

“I don’t know what you could possibly be-”

“Don’t lie, it doesn’t suit you.” Sirius glared at her, arms crossed. “Besides, you can give everyone else the whole “He cares for me, just in a different way” b.s. like you gave Molly, but it won’t work on me. I tried that too, now I realize how bloody wrong I was.”

“Sirius, we came to talk, not to therapise,” Remus warned, putting his hand on Sirius’s chest. “How about we start small, like cornish pixie small?” he glanced at (y/n) almost asking her for permission.

“Right, apologies.” Sirius took a deep breath. “Let’s just start small, right?” Remus dropped his hand and turned back to (y/n).

“I don’t see what actual choice I have,” (Y/n) sat down on top of her sleeping bag, bringing her knees to her chest. “What’s the rules then?”

“No rules, just talk.” Remus once again said, conjuring up some wooden chairs. “Would you like a chair as well, or are you okay there?”

“I’m fine.” (Y/n) watched as the two men sat down. “So, what would you like to talk about? The weather? To me, it seems the same every day to me.”

“Funny,” Sirius rolled his eyes. “But, to be completely honest I haven’t a clue.”

“What’s your favorite color?” Remus asks. “I prefer blue myself.”

“I like gold a lot,” Sirius mutters, still seemingly uninterested in the conversation. “It’s one of the few colors I can see both in my animagus form and human form.”

“It may seem cliche, but I like green.” (Y/n) admits after sitting in silence for a moment. “Not any green though, I enjoy deep greens, phthalo green is a good one, and so is forest green, and juniper.”

“You seem to know quite a bit about different shades of greens, is there any particular reason?” Sirius asked, sitting up more in his chair.

“Not really, it just comes in handy when it comes to potions and herbology.” she shrugged. The three of them were silent for a moment. “So, did either of you ever, um, I don’t know, did either of you ever find a way to sneak into the headmaster’s quarters? Because I did, plenty of times.”

“And you never tried to kill him for your dad?” Sirius seemed confused. “I feel like if you wanted his approval as bad as you seem to, you would’ve, well you know.”

“Answer my question first and then I’ll answer yours.” (Y/n) responded. “Have either of you snuck into Dumbledore’s quarters?”

“I, well, I tried to once, but not while I was still at the school,” Sirius smiled to himself. “It was after I escaped prison. I snuck into the castle looking for Peter and saw a rat head that way. Turned out to be a normal rat.”

“I never really even thought of the idea. I mean, he’s someone I imagine has a lot of security and spells cast around him to protect him from that sort of thing.” Remus admitted. “Your turn, answer Sirius’s question.”

“No, I never tried to kill him.” (Y/n) smirks. “The idea is quite intriguing though. Could you imagine how funny it’d be, if the daughter of the all and powerful Dark Lord, age 13, manages to murder the one person he fears above all else? Besides I liked school.”

“Why did you sneak in then?” Remus prodded, leaning forwards, studying her as she toyed with her fingers. “If not to kill Dumbledore, why bother?”

“To be completely and totally honest? I wanted to be the best at potions, and Dumbledore just so happened to be very close friends with a certain Nicholas Flammel. In order to be able to make a Philosopher’s Stone one would have to excel in both alchemy and potion-making.” she stood up, leaning against the wall. “He had a portrait of him in there, I would sneak in, ask him a million and one questions about potions, and then by the next time I came back I had tested and confirmed what he told me. I took great joy in Snape watching me get better at his own craft than he was.”

Sirius let out a gruff chuckle, which soon became a hollering laugh. Even Remus couldn’t contain himself, joining in with his own chorus of giggles. (Y/n) didn’t quite understand what was so funny, but watching the two of them laugh as hard as they were made her let out a giggle or two. The three of them talked, just talked for a time.

When the knock came at the door (y/n) stiffened, eyeing Sirius as he opened it. Much to her relief, it was Mrs. Weasley bringing dinner along with a small pillow. Sirius thanked her, taking the food from her arms and holding it out to (y/n), offering it to her. She cautiously took it, careful to not get too close as she retreated to her corner of the cell. Mrs. Weasley smiled and held up the pillow.

“It’s not much, but it’s better than what Alastor was giving you.” The older woman set it next to the door. “Whenever you’re ready for it you can grab it. No rush, dear.”

(Y/n) nodded, whispering a small thank you under her breath as Mrs.Weasley left. The soup and bread she had been given more than filled her up. Remus and Sirius continued talking to one another as she ate, everyone now slightly more comfortable with each other.

“I have to admit, she makes good food. Great food actually, Mrs. Malfoy has never been adept in the kitchen department, nor has anyone she’s hired either.” (Y/n) told them, licking the sides of the bowl as she finished her soup. “And as enjoyable as this has been today, I do have a serious question to pose.”

“What question?” Remus asked, stiffening in his seat. Sirius’s eyes seemed to darken as he looked at her as if he was ready to pounce if needed.

“Well, if I’m not to be tortured or forced to divulge any information, what do you expect to do with me then?” setting down the bowl she met their eyes. “You can’t possibly keep me in here forever, but you also can’t just let me out of here either. Which leaves very little option other than killing me or me somehow escaping and taking as many of you with me as I can.”

The men look both shocked and hurt, perhaps a dash of anger in Sirius’s eyes. Neither of them says a thing as they stand up and walk towards the door. (Y/n) smiles at them, pushing their now empty plate and bowl towards them.

“It’s only a matter of time as to which happens first. Personally, I’ve accepted dying in here. No resources will be wasted on a rescue for me, nor will there be anyone to mourn me. I suggest you make the decision soon before I find a way to slaughter the lot of you in your sleep.” she threatens, meeting Remus’s gaze. “Because you were right, Dumbledore does have plenty of security in his quarters, much more so than the barrier spells that get weaker day by day in here.”

~~{𝘌𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘸𝘰}~~

[scuttling]

I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 3

Fandom: True Blood (TV) Pairings: Eric Northman/Female Reader or Eric Northman/OFC Word Count: 4,323 Tags: 18+, NSFW in later chapters, it's gonna get real nasty, Canon blood and gore Summary: Sookie's cousin returns to Bon Temps, and Eric wants her... to work for him.

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6

A week later, she gets her first call from Fangtasia—but it’s Eric's colleague Pam, not Eric, who makes the call. She says it’s urgent, but that she can’t give any details, so Cam throws on a pair of jeans and boots, a black high-neck tank, and drives to the bar. When she gets out of her car, Eric is standing there, waiting in the parking lot. 

“Camila. Come with me,” he murmurs, taking her arm; instead of guiding her toward the front door, his long legs head for the sidewalk, and he walks her down the block—away from the bar and, she guesses, prying vampire ears.

“What’s going on?” she whispers, curious, and he moves his hand to her back casually, like he’s hoping they’ll look more like any couple walking down the street and less like he’s abducted her or something. He leans in so she can hear him better.

“There is a group of nomads visiting from Florida, and they passed through another area on the way here. The sheriff of that area has reason to believe they’re holding a human against his will.”

Cam nods. Kidnapping a human is not a mortal offense in most areas, but it is frowned upon by those who wish to assimilate, live semi-normal lives. It’s certainly punishable here, if they can prove it.

“And if they are—what will you do?” Her eyes flick up to his face, and he appears bored by her question, maybe even a little irritated.

“We will glamour the human and send him home, then arrange for the sheriff to come and collect his prisoners. You can drive the human personally, if that would make you feel better,” he says, looking down at her; his tone borders on condescending, and she rolls her eyes.

“I just wanted to make sure justice will be served for the crime. You’ll have to get used to my inquisitive nature, if you plan to utilize my gift,” she reminds him, and he exhales slowly. He turns them around and they head down the street, back toward the bar. 

“In time, you’ll find I’m a very effective sheriff. You don’t have to be worried about whether or not I punish those who deserve it.”

Despite her previous question, she has no doubts about that—but she remembers from experience that vampires tend to leave humans in the dark by default, and she needs to know what she’s getting into if she’s going to be such a powerful sheriff’s pawn.

“Who will I be listening to?” she asks, because he already knows vampires are pretty much a no-go, but he clearly thinks she’s going to be up to this challenge.

“There is an entourage made up of vampires and human companions alike. I’m hoping the humans will give it away.”

“And how will I let you know if I discover something? We haven’t discussed that part, and I like to be prepared,” she tells him, trying to keep up with his steps. It feels like they’re on The West Wing, or something dramatic like that. “Code word? Text message?”

“Let’s say text message, for now,” he decides. She can see the neon lights of the club as they approach the parking lot, and Eric removes his hand from her back and looks down at her. “I’m going to be walking around, so if you sense danger…” 

“I’ll let you know. Telepath’s honor,” she says with a satirical tip of her head, and he opens the door, his expression unchanging. She walks a few feet inside the club, past bouncers who already know her as some kind of employee, and when she turns back to thank him for the briefing, Eric is gone.

Unconcerned by his swift and mysterious disappearance, she makes her way to the bar and orders a drink, perching on a stool as she waits for it. After the bartender slides it toward her, she makes a show of sipping it, tipping her head back so her throat is exposed, and a vampire beside her growls low. He’s got a shaved head and soft, pillowy lips, and if she were here for pleasure, she’d seriously consider it.  

Since she’s not, she stands and heads toward the back of the bar, where Pam is playing hostess to the group of nomads. She takes stock of them—three men, two women, all supernaturally gorgeous—and infers from the way they’re watching over a group of half-naked, dancing humans that those are the companions she’s expected to listen to. She weaves her way into the crowd and sidles up to a young man with soft looking brown hair and clear green eyes, then hip-checks him. It’s not hard, but it gets him to look back, and she smiles apologetically. 

“Sorry, hon!” she says, and he mouths no problem and reaches a hand out to her. She takes it, letting him spin her around, and when he releases his hold she leans in, her voice slightly raised so he can hear her over the music. “Hey, I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new in town?” He smiles and shakes his head. 

“Not from here, just passing through. I’m Shane.” 

“Cam,” she replies, and she glances around at the others, raises her eyebrows. “These your friends?”

“More like family,” he says, and his smile grows wide, fond. “We travel together, you know? We’re the family we chose.” 

“That sounds awesome, actually,” she replies, adding a bit of wistfulness to her voice. “I’ve always been jealous of people like you—people who are brave enough to lay their own path, make their own choices.” Shane ducks his head like he’s embarrassed about what he plans to share next. 

“It wasn’t easy. I had to completely cut ties with my homophobic parents, work two, sometimes three shit jobs to make enough money just to live. I was exhausted, depressed… and then I met Clive, and everything just kind of fell into place.” His gaze drifts to one of the vampires, a short, blond man with warm brown eyes, and the devotion he has for him is clear. And real, no glamouring or threatening or fear poisoning Shane’s thoughts. 

“I can tell you really love him,” she says aloud. She scans the minds of the other humans surrounding him, and none of them are glamoured, either. They think a lot about blood and sex, but they’re here of their own free will, hedonism aside. More than that, they’re happy, well taken care of. Content.

“Yeah,” Shane says, something like yearning in his voice, and then he looks back at her, his eyes soft. “Do you want to come with us? We’re heading to Tennessee next. There’s always room for one more, and you seem really nice.” Surprised, she looks away from the group and tilts her head, shows him a gentle smile. 

“No, I don’t think so, but it’s kind of you to offer. There might be more for me here than I think.” Cam reaches out to take his hand and squeezes it, just to be sure—and everything he’s said is true, from the pain to the pleasure. As she sifts through his memories more carefully, she’s hit with a warm rush of pride for this man she barely even knows. “Take care of yourself, Shane.”

“You too, Cam—good luck!” he calls out as she walks away.

She makes it to the bar, orders another drink, but she doesn't have a chance to pull out her phone to text Eric: he just shows up, arms folded in front of him, leaning against the stool beside her.

“You think the human wants to be here? That he’s… in love?” he asks, looking out over the crowd, at the visiting clan. Cam turns toward him, nods softly.

“Yeah, seems like it. I didn’t talk to that one directly, but from what I gathered, it’s his ex who's causing trouble with the sheriff. She wasn’t being kind to him, and the vampire in the red dress?” She takes a sip of her drink and gestures to a statuesque brunette, standing with a dark haired man she knows to be the human in question. “She convinced him to leave, to join them. It’s been six months, and he’s never been happier.”

“Interesting,” Eric murmurs, almost under his breath. “Humans never cease to surprise me, even after all this time.”

“What do you mean?” He looks over at her for the first time, and she raises her eyebrow, puzzled. “You didn’t think humans were capable of loving vampires?” He clears his throat.

“I knew they claimed it, but I assumed it had more to do with the high, the pleasure, than anything else. The way you describe it, their feelings seem deeper. Genuine.” 

She’s not sure what he’s getting at—does he think humans are inferior, incapable of such emotion, or that vampires are simply unworthy of receiving it? Rather than start that kind of debate, with her employer, in a packed nightclub, she takes a deep breath and exhales long.

“That’s what I felt when I read their minds, and I’ve read love before. I know when it’s genuine.” She takes another sip of her martini, and slowly, like he’s carefully considering her words, Eric nods. 

“Have you ever been in love?” he asks, and again, not really a topic she wants to discuss with anyone, but especially not him… 

So she’s not quite sure why she answers. “In hindsight, I’d have to say no. It’s not that I haven’t had relationships—I have, and I’ve been… infatuated, lustful, frenzied… but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love.” He looks into her eyes, almost through them, like he’s trying to determine if she’s being honest with him—and she is, she really is. “Have you ever been in love?” she asks in return, but Eric straightens then, rests his hand on the bar, and looks back at the crowd.

“You did very well tonight. Thank you,” he says with just a glance in her direction before he strides over to the group of nomads. Because she can take a hint, she finishes her drink, pays her tab, and goes home. 

When she checks her banking app the next morning, there is a $500 transfer from the Fangtasia account. 

Not too bad for an hour of her time.

Cam goes to see Tara at work later in the week, sidling up to the bar in a leather jacket and jeans, a contented smile on her face. Even though Merlotte’s wasn’t around the last time she lived in Bon Temps, it still provides nostalgic, homey comfort somewhere in her mind. Sam nods at her and smiles.

“Well hey there, Cam. What can I get ya?” he asks, tossing a bar towel over his flannel-clad shoulder. Tara doesn’t turn at his greeting, because she’s concentrating on pouring a line of even shots, so Cam slides onto a stool and sets her phone down on the bar.

“Hi, Sam. I’ll take a Stella, please, and that hot bartender’s phone number.” 

Her teasing tone finally gets Tara to look at her over her shoulder, her answering grin bright. 

“I hear you over there, you little creature of the night,” Tara jokes back, “and if Sam would take these over to table four for me, I can get that beer for one of my best friends in the world, who I missed very much.” 

She lays it on thick, clearly trying to guilt trip him, and Sam doesn’t need to be asked twice, just chuckles and takes the tray of shots from her hands. There’s a little bit of lingering eye contact there that Cam doesn’t think she’s imagining—and she’s definitely not imagining the way Tara checks out his ass as he goes. 

Cam clears her throat.

“So, Cami Reyes, as I live and breathe,” Tara says when that moment is broken and her gaze returns to Cam’s. If she noticed Cam watching her, she doesn’t say. “You finally get a break from all that vampire business?”

“This week has been pretty light, actually. I took care of some daytime administrative stuff for the club, listened to a few minds, the usual,” she says with a smile. Tara grabs a glass and pours her a golden lager from the tap, capped off with a thick, white head of foam. Cam takes the glass appreciatively and sips it long and slow. “Mmm. Thank you. Have you been busy here?” she asks, looking around at the booming bar. 

“Busier than I’d like to be, some nights,” Tara says with a sigh of exasperation. “We’re still lookin' for another bartender to cover Thursdays and Fridays—I’ve been workin' overtime as a favor to Sam.” Tara looks over at her boss, her eyes tracking him as he wipes his hands on a towel and walks back into the office area. Cam hums.

“That’s good of you. He seems like a great guy,” she says lightly, leading, and takes another sip of her beer. Tara purses her lips like she’s trying to hold back a smirk. 

“Yeah, he’s real nice. Good guy to work for,” she responds; Cam narrows her eyes at her, and after a moment, Tara narrows hers back. “What, are you readin’ my mind or somethin’?” Cam’s palms go up instinctively.

“You know I would never… but asking me that question means there’s something in your mind to read.” She lowers her hands and raises her eyebrows, takes another drink. “Just saying.”

“Just sayin’ nothin’, Cami. I’m allowed to have secrets too; I mean, I’m not the one who up and left Louisiana and didn’t come back for ten whole years,” she says, hands moving to her hips. Her tone is wounded, and a little accusatory, and Cam sighs, guilt climbing up her throat.

“I know, and I’m sorry, Tara. I missed it here, I really did—but work got crazy, and I got sucked into some shit, and I’m finally out of it. I’m here now,” she reminds her, tone lightening, and she reaches out her hands to take one of Tara’s. Thankfully, her friend doesn’t pull away. “And I’m not leaving Louisiana any time soon, I promise.” 

It hurts Cam to say it, even though she has no intentions of leaving the area again—enough people have failed Tara, disappointed her, and the last thing she wants is to be added to that list. She couldn’t bear it. 

Tara nods slowly, then puts her other hand on top of Cam’s and squeezes. 

“I’m not mad, I’m just glad you’re back, is all. It wasn’t the same without you. Charlie’s Angels with only two just isn’t right,” she adds, calling back to the old nickname Gran used for the three of them. Cam fondly remembers the summers when they’d get up at dawn and run around town all day together, eating penny candy and popsicles from the ice cream truck until their teeth were sore and their tongues were blue. 

Tara squeezes her hands again, then releases them and grabs a bowl of potato chips, places it next to Cam’s glass.

“So… vampire rights attorney,” Tara drawls as Cam plucks a couple of chips from the bowl, crunching on them. Cam raises her brow, chews, and Tara shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong, I think Bill’s okay and all, but do you really think they need our help? They can snap anyone’s neck they feel like; maybe you should be lookin’ out for the little guy.” 

“Oh, I do that too,” Cam assures her, washing the salt down with another sip of beer. “But you might be surprised at how often vampires are falsely accused of crimes—then again, maybe you wouldn’t be,” she says pointedly, and Tara sighs, nodding like she gets it. Cam continues on. “They’re people too, and they need someone looking out for them. Not many of us are willing to stick out our necks—no pun intended,” she adds with a grin. Tara rolls her eyes, but it’s all in good fun, and then Cam’s phone buzzes on the table beside her. 

“I know you don’t have a boyfriend, or I’d be hearin’ about him, so… vampire business?” Tara asks as Cam reaches for the phone. Her eyes flick over the screen.

“Vampire business,” she confirms as she reads over the text—it’s a set of coordinates, and clicking the link automatically opens her Maps app, its pin located in what appears to be the middle of the woods not far from Sam’s bar. She finishes the last glug of her beer and stands up, pulls a $20 bill from her pocket and lays it on the counter. Tara opens her mouth to protest, but Cam just raises a finger. “You’re the best bartender in the world, you deserve it—and you can use it to take me to dinner next week, somewhere you don’t work.” 

“Alright, alright, it’s a date. But you better get goin',” Tara replies, waving a hand in her friend’s direction. “I’ll text you my schedule. Don’t get yourself eaten!” 

Cam waves back and slips out the front door, holding her phone up in front of her so she can follow the app’s projected path. Her eyes quickly adjust to the dark, the soles of her boots making soft sounds against damp earth and foliage, but she stops in surprise about a mile in, when she sees a bright white beam of light, and then the repetitive flashing of police blue-and-reds. 

Eric appears next to her, like always, and she grabs the sleeve of his jacket. “What are we doing here?” she hisses under her breath as she scans the area, clocks at least 10 officials who actually belong at what is clearly an active crime scene. Eric places his palm against the middle of her back and slowly guides her toward a plain-clothes cop. 

“Detective Graham and I have an agreement. When he comes across an unusual death, he calls me.” As they approach the detective, a man in his fifties with sandy hair and late-night stubble, Cam notices a white sheet draped over an oddly shaped mound—a vaguely human-shaped mound, which leaves bright red splotches that soak and bleed into the sheet near the bottom hem. “Camila,” Eric says suddenly, which causes her to look up from the unknown mass like a spell broken, “I have to warn you: the victim here has been cut in half, and the police have only located the top half of her body. If you think you can’t handle it–”

“I can handle it,” she responds, her voice soft but sure, and he nods and reaches out his hand when he’s close enough to shake the detective’s. 

“Mr. Northman, pleasure,” Detective Graham greets roughly, though he doesn’t sound as if he means it. His eyes move from Eric’s to Cam’s, and he scrutinizes her face. “This your psychic?” 

“She is,” Eric replies coolly. “Her name is Camila Reyes… And, unfortunately, with the victim in this state, I’m afraid she’s going to need to touch the body.”

The detective heaves a deep, unhappy breath. 

“You gotta know how this looks to the rest of the guys already, me bringin' in a vampire and a psychic,” Graham says, shaking his head. “But sure, why not. Let’s tamper with evidence while we’re at it.” 

“I don’t intend to alter the scene in any way, Detective,” Cam assures, stepping forward and letting her eyes roam over the clearing, “and I assume your techs have already taken fingerprints, trace samples, if they found any.” Her gaze flicks over to a small group of tired looking officers wearing Crime Scene jackets and sipping coffee from a thermos; they clearly have nothing better to do at the moment, which means all that can be done has been completed already. “You can take mine to rule me out, if you’d like.”

“You a cop?” Graham asks gruffly, watching her as she appraises the scene, the unsettled earth around the body, the trail of blood that tells them she was cut in half elsewhere and dragged to this spot. Cam shakes her head, then crouches down and lifts a corner of the sheet to look at their victim’s face.

“Lawyer,” she answers, and she does her best to school her expression; the dead woman looks to be in her forties, white, with jet black hair and a set of golden eyes that are wide and unmoving. She’s naked, and her body is shredded at the torso—not a clean incision like she’d expect from a serial killer, someone with practice severing limbs. There are no marks on her face or arms, just ragged cuts along her weeping, empty midsection. “Imprecise, savage bisection, teeth marks, organs have been removed,” she notes, and she looks up at Eric, wondering if he’ll attribute this to the same killer she’s picturing. 

“Werewolf,” he answers seriously, and she nods once, glad they’re on the same page. Graham splutters. 

“I’m sorry, werewolf?” he asks, incredulous. “Don’t tell me those things are real too.” Cam just shrugs—she’s been on this end of many a supernatural revelation before, nothing you can say really helps—and presses her hand to the cold skin of the victim’s arm. 

Memories flash through her mind, some older, though the more recent ones are what she’s looking for. A man frequents those, someone tall and tan with copper-colored hair and a sweet smile, but he dissolves quickly into feelings of rage and sadness, loss, heartbreak. There is vindication, elation, and then abruptly, nothing. Cam pulls her hand away, covers the woman’s face, and stands. 

“Her mate was killed, and she went after the pack for revenge. It seems like she killed one of theirs and they returned the favor. You’re going to want to rule this an accident,” she tells the detective as she walks toward them, and he crosses his arms in front of him, his expression closed off and irritated.

“Like hell—we have trace evidence.”

“And I can tell you exactly what your lab will find when they process it: no fingerprints, no fibers,” she lists, ticking off her fingers as she goes. “Saliva will be canine, hair will be canine. You won’t be able to match a weapon to the wounds, and either the DA will drop your case right there, or,” she adds, pausing for effect, “if you flip a coin and decide to go the dental impression route, the teeth will be canine, too. The ME will consult the Department of Wildlife and determine that your attacker is something larger than the local coyote population, but slightly smaller than a black bear.”

“We could interview her known acquaintances, find someone with a motive,” Graham counters, and though Eric looks like he’s about to step in, Cam continues, her tone more sympathetic.

“No offense, Detective, but you didn’t know werewolves existed five minutes ago. How do you plan to locate a pack, infiltrate it, and arrest whoever is responsible? And even if you did find the pack, any good defense attorney would destroy you in court if all you have is evidence of an animal attack.” She doesn’t need to use her ability to know that his resolve is waning, so she does decide to pull Eric in for backup, and she gestures to him. “Eric has power here, as sheriff. He can appeal to the werewolf council, provide them with the evidence. If they determine a crime has been committed, they’ll punish the offending parties themselves.”

“If they determine a crime has been committed?” the detective asks, pointing to the half a body. “I think it’s pretty goddamn clear that’s what happened here.”

“Werewolf law is more eye-for-an-eye than human justice,” Eric explains. “If they can defend the killing because she eliminated one of their own, everyone involved just moves on.”

“And as for getting answers for her family,” Cam adds, stepping back in, “believe me, they already know. I’d guess they already found the other half of her body, and they’ll take it up with the council too.”

Graham exhales, raises his eyes to the sky, and then drops them back to Cam’s face.

“You know a lot about werewolves for a big-city lawyer,” he says eventually, and then he looks to Eric and back to the victim. “I’m going to run those samples, and if you’re right, we’ll rule it an animal attack. I’ll keep you updated, Mr. Northman,” he says, reaching out a hand, and the two of them shake before parting. “And I appreciate your expertise, Ms. Reyes, even if I’m not too fond of the outcome.” He reaches a hand out for her as well, and she shakes it before watching him walk back to the bank of squad cars across the clearing. 

Eric reaches out to touch Cam’s shoulder, and they turn, start walking back the way she came. 

“Well done,” he tells her as they traipse through the underbrush. She looks up at him through the corner of her eye. 

“Thanks… although, I know you were testing me,” she says. Eric hums, a thoughtful noise, and nods his head. 

“I figured you’d catch on to that. I need to know I can count on you,” he admits, reaching out to lift a low-hanging branch so it doesn’t smack her in the face. “And because it seems that this area is in the middle of some kind of lycanthropic territory dispute, I wanted to see what you knew about creatures other than vampires.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” she acquiesces, taking the path in front of them. “For the record, I’ve dealt with vampires, werewolves, witches, shifters, druids, fairies… anything else we run across, you’ll have to give me the CliffsNotes version.” 

Eric pauses and looks over at her, and she stops too, nearly holding in her breath; having his full attention on her, even in the dark, makes her head buzz and her stomach flip. She wets her lips.

“I’m not familiar with Cliff,” he says after a moment of scrutinizing her face, “but I am happy to give you anything you need.”

[oohnotvery]

Edges of the Night (Chapter 14)

I have the flu, plz be gentle with me. I wrote this chapter before I left for my trip, but it needed some important edits that I just couldn't manage over the past few days with being so sick. Chapter 15 is already written, but also needs more editing. And weirdly, I've also written the very last chapter, because I just can't wait to show it to you all. All this to say--hopefully updates will come a lot faster from here on out. Thank you for waiting for this chapter so long.

Back in the living room, Mulder recounts how Alan saved his life.

“So, as Scully figured out,” Mulder says, “I was the one with a tracker in my neck. We removed it in Montana, but even though we fled the cabin, they were still able to hunt us down.”

“Do we know how they found us?” Scully asks. “Because we were in a very remote area.”

Mulder shakes his head. “Shit luck? They had a whole host of helicopters, dogs, police, military, you name it, out there looking for us.”

She purses her lips, thinking hard. “Who, exactly, are ‘they’?”

“Good question,” Skinner interrupts, clasping his hands together. “We don’t exactly know, except that it seems to go all the way to the top.”

“Of?”

“The Bureau,” he answers. “It wasn’t just Mulder they were targeting with threats. I received a great deal of . . . compulsion . . . from the top down, but never a direct disclosure of who was ordering the operations.”

“So, after all this, all we really know is that someone very important was very threatened by the X-Files,” she murmurs.

Skinner shifts uncomfortably. “And then we all became pawns,” he says, and Alan nods in agreement. “With you in so much danger, Scully, there really wasn’t much we could do but comply without question.”

She nods. “Were you notified when they apprehended us in Montana?” she asks Skinner.

He nods. “I was informed Mulder was being transported back to D.C., and I immediately alerted Alan, since I was wanted with you.”  

Across the distance, Mulder and Alan make eye contact and Scully wonders what they’re thinking. Certainly, there’s some level of trust between the two of them, maybe even respect. Hell, Alan saved Mulder’s life. Mulder must feel some level of affection towards the man.

“What happened next?” she prompts.

“You tell her,” Mulder says with an encouraging nod towards Alan.

Alan rakes a hand through his hair. “I worked with these three,” he says with a nod towards the Gunmen, “to shut down all the security footage at the Hoover.”

“That was a close one,” Langly interjects excitedly. “We had to do it on the fly because we were racing to get to you, Scully.”

Alan continues. “Once I was inside the building, I had to estimate where Mulder would be positioned. I think it’s safe to say I got there just in time.”

“And then you did what? Took down the cameraman?” she asks skeptically.

He shrugs like it was easy. “Except from my flight in from California, I didn’t have much time to prepare what I was going to do. I didn’t know what I’d find inside the Hoover, except that Mulder was being held there.” He glances at Mulder. “So when I saw him holding a gun to his head, the first thing I could think to do was make a distraction. So I tackled the cameraman.”

“But I heard a gunshot,” she says softly.

Mulder nods. “There was a security guard on duty. The guy was scared shitless, had no idea what was happening or what he was doing. He aimed at all of us. Missed, thankfully.”

She blinks in disbelief. “And did you know about this plan?” she asks Mulder, a little too aggressively. “Did you know this was going to happen? When you—when you were on camera with me, did you know there was a chance you weren’t going to die?” Her voice cracks and she bites the inside of her cheek, trying to stifle the emotions bubbling up.

She’s confused by her anger and outrage. Mulder is here; Mulder’s alive. So why does she feel like she’s about to explode?

Mulder shakes his head. “No, Scully, I didn’t know. I didn’t even know it was Alan until we were halfway out of town. He was covered head-to-toe in black, driving an unmarked getaway car.”

“That was us too,” Langly exclaims.

Mulder grins carelessly. “Talk about the surprise of the year.”

Alan huffs a compatible laugh, but Scully feels dizzy. She wishes she could put a stop to this confusing, easy camaraderie between Alan and Mulder. She wishes she didn’t have to debrief this in front of everyone. She wishes she could sit down and cry happy tears at Mulder’s escape without the judgment of her fiancé beside her. She wishes Skinner had warned her about Alan’s involvement in the rescue.  

She turns on him. “But you knew?” she asks, glaring at Skinner. “This whole time we’ve been stuck in this house, you knew there was a good chance Alan saved Mulder’s life? And you didn’t bother telling me? You thought I should be the only one without a clue what was going on?” Rage and relief are causing her hands to shake and she anchors her hands to her thighs. “Am I always going to be left out of the loop? Out of some effort to protect me and my feelings—?”  

Skinner raises his hands defensively. “Scully, Scully, you’re right. I did know about the plan. The Gunmen did too. But I didn’t know whether it had been successful. None of us did. We just had to wait it out and see—and we didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

“I’m an adult,” she spits childishly. “I can handle these things. I can handle being told someone was holding my life over Mulder’s head in exchange for the X-Files. I can handle knowing that I’m the pawn in this game over my partner’s life. I can handle knowing my—my fiancé wasn’t really who he told me he was—”

“Hey,” Alan warns darkly, and she shoots him a warning look.

Chest heaving, she turns her eyes on each of the men in the room. “You should have told me Alan was sent to rescue Mulder. You should have told me.”

Hot, angry, embarrassing tears spill down her cheeks and Alan reaches for her but she shoves him off. The room turns silent with awkwardness and even though she feels Mulder watching her, she doesn’t lift her eyes to him. She doesn’t know what she’ll find in his gaze, and it scares her. Is she being unreasonable? Immature? Overly emotional? Foolish? She should just be happy Mulder’s not dead, but Alan’s presence is looming over her like a black cloud and goddammit, if she could just have some time alone to process this information—

Alan reaches for her again and begrudgingly, she lets him rub her shoulder.

“You’re right,” he murmurs quietly. “We should have involved you from the very beginning. You should’ve always had the choice.” He slips an arm around her shoulders, insulating them from the rest of the room. “But Dana, I am the man you thought I was,” he whispers. “None of our love was a lie. I tried so hard not to fall in love with you because I was doing my job out there trying to keep you safe, but even my most Herculean efforts failed. I am a wreck for you. You’re all I could ever want in this life, and I hope with time, you start to see me again for the man you loved back in California.” His eyes shine with hope. “Because you did love me,” he reminds her with a finger to her cheek. “And we were so happy.”

She shakes him off. It’s too soon for this conversation. There’s too much left to untangle. “When we were in hiding, we saw you on T.V., doing an interview,” she says shakily. “It sounded like you were spouting out some kind of canned commentary. You said you thought Mulder was my kidnapper.”

Alan glances at Skinner. “I did what I was told.”

Skinner nods tightly. “I told him to say those things in order to protect him. I didn’t want anyone going to Alan sniffing around, wondering about his involvement with Agent Mulder. I didn’t want there to be any ties back to Mulder. Once Mulder became the official suspect, I had Alan repeat all that nonsense to the media.”

“No one knows anything about my involvement,” Alan assures her. “We can go back to California, Dana. Live our normal lives. We can be safe now.”

Scully nods blankly, half-absorbing this information and half-disregarding it. Another, much more pressing question, has risen to her mind. Ignoring Alan, her eyes lift to Mulder’s. He’s staring at her like he already knows what she’s going to ask.

“If I understand correctly,” she starts slowly, “Alan, Skinner, the Gunmen, and I are free to return to our normal lives. The FBI’s official position is that Mulder is dead, but internally, they know they don’t have a body. They haven’t accomplished their mission. We may be safe, but he isn’t.” Mulder’s entire body tenses expectantly. “So . . . what happens to you, Mulder?”

Skinner and Mulder exchange a knowing look. Her eyes pinball between them both uneasily.

“What is it?” she asks knowingly.

Mulder rubs his hands roughly across his cheeks and hangs his head in his hands. Skinner watches him for a long minute and then turns to face her.

“Dana,” he says gently, like she’s a child, “it’s obvious that Mulder can’t go back to D.C. or back to the FBI. That’s not even a question.”

“So?” she prods.

Mulder still won’t look at her and it’s bothering her badly.

Skinner hesitates. “He’s going to have to stay hidden. On the run.”

“On the run,” she repeats slowly. “For how long?”

“Years, possibly. Maybe—maybe forever. Depends on—on a lot of factors.”

She feels like she’s been punched in the gut. She scrabbles for air. “You mean that Mulder is going to have to run for the rest of his life? How—how is he going to do that? He’s just going to jump around from place to place, no friends, no family, no work?”

That’s not a life, she hears Mulder saying to her, just days ago in the car. Here in the living room, his head shifts slightly and she catches his eyes, hidden behind his hands. She wonders if he’s remembering that same conversation.  

Skinner nods regrettably. “It’s—it’s certainly not ideal. But it’s the only option we have if he’s going to stay alive. And,” he adds with a glance at Mulder, “it’s what will ensure your safety going forward.”

“My safety?” she sputters. “I—I don’t care about my safety—”

“You have to.” Mulder stands abruptly, towering over them all. “Your safety is the only thing that has ever mattered. It’s why we all went to this trouble. It’s why we all did what we did. It’s why I—” He shakes his head, cutting himself off.

The room falls quiet as everyone absorbs the information, and Scully realizes Alan has placed a hand on her back. She catches Mulder staring at them and flushes.

He clears his throat. “Scully, I know you have a lot of questions for Alan,” he says. “And I know this is a lot to process. Boys, let’s give them some space.”

Scully swallows and her heart starts pounding. Suddenly, she really doesn’t want to be left alone with Alan. What she wants more than anything is time with Mulder. Time to talk through what just happened, time to assess where they go from here, time to celebrate the fact that they both lived . . .

But he exits the room so quickly she doesn’t even have a chance to speak.

Alan turns to her once the room clears. “I’m so sorry, Dana, that I wasn’t honest with you about my role in your life,” he says quietly. “I know it must feel . . . unnerving. You’re probably wondering whether any of it was real. Whether you can trust me.”

She bites her lip, remembering how important that question felt when she and Mulder were on the run. It doesn’t seem so pressing anymore.

“I—I trust you,” she says honestly. This man was sent to protect her in California. This man saved Mulder’s life. Even if he didn’t tell her the full truth about his role in her life, he is still trustworthy. She knows that to her core.

“I know it’ll take time to adjust,” Alan continues evenly. His warm hand envelops hers and he squeezes gently. His eyes turn soft. “Dana, we don’t have to make any big decisions now.” His fingertip once again traces her empty ring finger. “Let’s just—let’s get back to California and we can take things one day at a time. Yeah?”

She swallows hard, nodding tightly.

One day at a time.

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐌𝐚𝐲: 𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐁𝐨𝐢’𝐬

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: I don’t have an official group name for the golden bananas, but suggestions are welcome!

“𝙈𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙎𝙖𝙣𝙨 𝘽𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙄𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙘” will be used as translation language for high gothic and others.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.

TW // Near Death, Blood.

|°𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬°| |°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| • {𝐂��𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧} • {𝐃𝐨𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐬} • {𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐤}

Cold, stone walls pressed against my clothing as I made a tight fit sideways through a small opening in the abandoned structure. Water splashing up onto my boots every time I take a step through the narrow and withering corridor. It was almost claustrophobic to be in such a narrow space with rocks threatening to dig into your skin at each move, water dripping from the more pointed edges.

This… rocky place was something that looks like it held some monumental significance to it. A temple perhaps? Though, no one was absolutely sure of it. Too scared to go past the couple mile long, dark vibes it gave off until some travelers thought it was a good idea to explore it ourselves, me included.

I wasn’t up for it at first; being the more level headed one out of the stranger group. Why would you want to explore something that has been avoid by its people for centuries? That right there had to be a big red flag. There was a reason why the people didn’t go and figure out what was beyond the bad vibes. Even had some elderly and young natives wish us well in their languages! How much more warnings do we need to stop the group from going in?

Apparently, a lot of warnings.

The bad vibes and the fair-welling natives was not enough for the overzealous group. Neither was the cracked and broken statues of armored beings at the entrance of the flora ridden building; vines, mushrooms and ferns growing all around it, camouflaging the whole thing. It was almost impossible to even catch a glimpse of the monument. There were even deep caverns filled with dark blue, almost black waters that could send a shiver down anyone’s spine if you think of what could be lurking down there; a whirlpool or a really big python perhaps?

I shiver at the both possible outcomes of that watery situation, accidentally nicking my shoulder plate on some rock as I grunt at the numbness vibrating through my nerves there. Briefly stoping to bite my tongue in the process. If all this subtle bruising is not a red flag or a curse of just being inside of this monument, I really don’t know what is. I normally wasn’t clumsy in situations like this.

“Hurry up, I want to see what’s pass this corridor.” The man behind me nudges me forward. My teeth pressing more into my tongue to stop myself from lashing out at the man. Forcing myself to continue on through for my sanity’s sake.

This man was the most annoying, cockiest one in the group. Always ordering other people around when he could clearly do it himself. He was like that rich person in movies that never gets their hands dirty, like they were afraid of it while his pawns do all the work for them. It was driving me crazy. I didn’t come into the monument with them to be a pawn for him, let alone anyone.

“Can’t you go a little quicker?” The man grumbles, his hands pushing up against my shoulder in an anxiety inducing effort to hurry up the exploration. “I’ve seen how fast you walked here. Why can’t you do the same in here?”

‘Because we are in a cave?’ I wanted to hiss out at the man. Chew his ass out, but I didn’t want to get into a fight with him in these mysterious caverns that push a lot of weight down onto your shoulders the deeper you go. That deep, lingering, unknown feeling is just enough to keep me in my place.

“Calm down, Mr. Wilson.” I speak back at the man, brushing off my shoulders when the corridor opens up just enough for me to do so. “What we are exploring for is not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Yeah, well, I want to get to it first.” He snarks back, pushing himself up to the front, shoving me out of the way, an annoyed huff coming out of me. “I want to be the first person to see these artifacts.”

Artifacts? How does he even know there was artifacts down here? He didn’t mention anything about him being an Archaeologist. He just seemed like a snob.

Perhaps, that was his ruse? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Humanity can be a very selfish bunch. Not only that, but seeing a lot of movies like Indiana Jones can make it easy to sense who is your foe or friend in these types of situations.

“You didn’t mention anything about artifacts.” I question the man, carefully watching how he hesitates a step of his as I follow behind him.

“I didn’t? Hmmm, well, it was said on some stone slab founded in the sea that where we walk holds some type of significance to it.” He informs me, his body crouching to get through another corridor of chopped rock. “It said who ever finds it has the protection of a thousands of seas, and based on evidence of Astartes. I conclude that it really means thousands of seas, thousands of planets.”

“Astartes? Those are real?” I can’t help but ask the suspicious male. Having only heard about those creatures in myths, childhood stories and nursery rhymes.

“Yes, very much so!” He saids almost enthusiastically, stopping in the middle of a… chamber? “The myths and stories you hear about them are quite real.”

“Why do they choose to become myth then?” I question yet again. Wondering of their… secrecy. My eyes looking around the abandoned chamber while I shuffle my boots through the small layer of water. Spotting what were suppose to be legends. “Why hide?”

5 tall and bulky statues were carved perfectly into the rocky wall around the chamber. Their scale-like tails being used to decorate the rest of the wall between the statues, being a pleasing filler rather than having a blank wall. They also had different colors on them, old, ancient paint chipping off of them. Each one even had a different design to them, but their main shape stayed the same. Where these a species of Astartes?

“From us! We are simply too overbearing for them. Too strong.” The man says a bit too proudly for my liking, his hands digging into the tan fanny pack of his around his waist.

I hum at his response. Not really believing his words that a creature like this could be afraid of humanity. They looked way too powerful themselves to even be swayed by humanity itself. Maybe… they have found a distaste with humanity? Found them to be below them?

“Anyways, you are standing right where I want you.” The man suddenly speaks fast, a small shink coming from behind me. “Right on the sacrificial stones.”

Alarmed, I quickly turned around, gasping with no noise. My eyebrows scrunching up in confusion as I lift my hand up to my neck. Slick making my fingers skim across my neck.

“I really meant it when I was going to be the first.” The man spoke clearly at first, but then his words start to mumble, blending into a layer of voices. My knees giving out from underneath me as I kneel into the cold water with a seemingly echoing splash, my other arm keeping me up from drowning myself in a layer of water. My pants soaking up the water up to my thighs.

D-Did the man just really slash my throat? For just an artifact? An artifact that might not even be here nor exist anymore? That was probably useless to him? That he was just going to sell for “The Big Money?”

“…𝙇𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚.” A small, echoing whisper comes to my mind when I gasp for air that I can’t have anymore. My hands struggling to keep my own sticky blood inside of me as I look up at the man who slashed my throat. His mouth mumbling nonsense at me. His glob of a hand flipping his… weapon through his fingers.

“𝙇𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚.” I nearly cry out at this voice that suddenly becomes all to loud. A migraine forming as I lean tiredly, back down into the cold water. Trying to decipher if I was loosing too much of my blood and I was going crazy, or there actually was somebody actually talking to me.

“𝙇𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙪𝙥… 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚.” A few more voices join in, coaxing me to look up with a weakening body. My limbs shaking at the effort to see a blinding yellow enrapturing my blurry vision.

“𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙… 𝙨𝙤𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙪𝙨, 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚.” The voices whisper, echo inside of my mind. Strong hands taking a hold of my jaw, thumbing at my cheeks. A bloody whine bubbling from my throat as I cough red upon rich gold.

“𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙪𝙨… 𝙮𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙤𝙬𝙣.” This… entity offers. Cooing and purring when I gradually grow more and more weak in its hold. Scumming to its unrequited offer.

“𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜.” The voices become one of their own; warm yet barren. A soft, but rough warmth pressing up against my lips before my own senses slowly fade to fail me. More warmth pressing up against my neck and shoulder plate, easing my wounds as I fall into the icy dark.

[tala-bez-i]

At first sight Chapter Seven

(m!reader x Bonten!Haruchiyo Sanzu)

Fluff/slash/reader is male/cursing/BontenTimeline/drugs and alcohol mentioned/violence/blood/death

All characters that appeared in the Tokyo Revengers manga and anime belong to Ken Wakui.

Words: 4360

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You drove through Tokyo to the first place where Hachirou Akira Kuroda could currently be. You decided to talk to him before dawn broke and he started dropping off and bringing his girls to their hideouts or homes where they could get some sleep and get ready for another night of work. 

You were surprised that Kuroda didn't run an ordinary brothel but took prostitutes to clients or left them in nightclubs so they could find clients on their own. Despite the fact that he had a heavy hand, none of the girls tried to disobey him - at least not the permanent employees. When the new girl began to rebel, she was unable to work for the next few days. He simply broke them, and they obeyed him, treating him almost as their lord and ruler. 

Why did the syndicate keep such a son of a bitch? Precisely because he was a son of a bitch and brought in a pretty good percentage of the syndicate's profits. Akira's girls weren't bad, there were even some gems among them. Hens laying golden eggs. One of these girls was Kitty. But if he actually ordered her murder while in prison... 

You made a few turns and stopped your car in a small, almost empty parking lot across from the apartment complex. The two-story building didn't look inviting, but it didn't seem discouraging either. As far as you knew, it was all Kuroda's and his best girls and himself lived in it so he could keep an eye on them.  

You observed the building for a moment and noticed that several men of different ages were walking nearby. You recognized some of them by sight and concluded that they were minor pawns of Bonten. The question is how much they knew about Akira's scams and whether they had anything to do with it. 

And did either of them execute Kitty? 

You sat silently in the car and watched the men's behavior. Only some of them looked in your direction, the rest were busy talking to each other. You've never seen such... a multitude of minor syndicate members in one place as here. You counted about 15 people, which was typical for meeting places for business, not for guarding where prostitutes lived. There must have been something going on. 

When you were about to get off, you noticed that one of the men started walking towards you. He looked about twenty years old, but his movements showed experience. He was wearing an unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt with a white T-shirt underneath. His pants were cheap but clean. 

He finished smoking his cigarette and threw the butt away with a snap of his fingers before smiling and gesturing for you to roll down the car window. 

“Hello, boss. What brings the boss here so early?” He asked cheerfully, resting his hand on the roof of the car and leaning over slightly to get a better look at you. His sharp eyes quickly scanned the interior of the car and returned to your face. “Were you craving a girl, boss?” 

“We felt like talking to your boss, Akira.” You replied calmly and the boy smiled broadly, showing almost full teeth. It had no deficiencies, which was quite unusual, but nice. 

“Oh, with Akira? Oh, it's going to be hard, tight schedule.” He shrugged. 

“How tense?” 

"Very. The boss doesn't like unannounced guests.” The young man's eyes darted around the inside of the car again, as if he was wondering if it would be worth trying theft while beating you up, but when you pulled your jacket back slightly, his expression immediately dropped. “Oh fuck... Is the boss one of the higher ups, boss?” He asked quietly and glanced around secretly, as if to make sure none of his colleagues were standing too close. “Boss on this case, right?” 

“About what?” You asked, straightening your jacket and the boy looked around again. “Get in, we'll talk.” 

The young man nodded, smiled again, and walked lightly around the car before getting in from the passenger side. 

"I'm Fuku Miyata, boss... But most people just call me Yata..." You looked at him carefully, narrowing your eyes slightly and the boy became involuntarily confused. “I'm sorry... I thought Kakucho would show up... Or Mochi...” 

“Why would any of them show up here?” 

“Because…” Fuku looked at you surprised. “So the boss doesn't know? Akira is a traitor.” 

“Why do you say that?” You asked coldly and the boy paled, beads of cold sweat appearing on his forehead. 

“I guess the boss isn't involved in this?... God, the boss is involved in this... I'm dead, I'm fucking dead already...” He started mumbling in panic, so you lightly slapped him on the back of his head. 

“Calm down or you'll attract someone's attention to us.” You growled, glancing at the other men but not seeing any interest in the two of you, so you looked back at Yata. “I don't know anything about what Akira is doing. Kakucho and Mochi are currently busy with other things, so I'm here.” 

“Aha… Okay… Aha… Okay… Cool…” Yata swallowed loudly and snapped his fingers, making you wince slightly - you hated it when people did that. “Okay... Phew... I guess I'm relieved. 

“I can lie.” You said quietly and the boy got scared again. You laughed softly and nodded. "All right. From the beginning. What is going on here?" 

The boy ran his fingers through his short black hair and took a deep breath. “What does the boss already know?” 

“Oh no buddy, it doesn't work like that. Tell me everything you know.” You shook your head and tapped your finger on the steering wheel. “I have all day, so I can wait.” You locked the door and Yata looked at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“Oh fuck…” He muttered to himself and inhaled sharply through his nose. 

"So? What's going on?" 

“Akira…” He became confused and slumped slightly in the passenger seat. “The point is that Akira is selling girls to some gang… or dude, I don't really know who.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well... well, he's selling... Some guys come with cash and take the girls that we had previously arranged.” 

“Isn't it about something ordinary, like a rich client and ordinary sex?” You frowned, feeling anger begin to rise within you. 

“No! No, boss... They don't come back and Akira always says that if there are problems, they should just beat them up and they will be docile.” 

“Tell me, Yata... Why would Akira sell girls who earn money for him?” 

“Because most of the money is taken by those at the top of the hierarchy?” He answered without thinking and then turned pale, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets. “Fuck, forgive me boss! It's not like we're short of money or anything... I..." 

"Enough." You interrupted him with a growl and the boy immediately fell silent. “What you're saying doesn't make sense. Akira's a bastard, but he's always been the syndicate's most loyal pimp. What the fuck is wrong with him?” 

Yata lowered his head and shrugged. “I don't understand it either. Akira has some of the best girls and starts selling them or liquidating them..." 

There was silence in the car, and you could hear your interlocutor's rapid heartbeat. Akira sells the girls or liquidates them... You looked at the building that belonged to Kuroda. 

“Since when has he been doing this?” You asked in a flat tone. 

“For at least two years.” Yata replied in a quiet voice. “At least I work for him so much, so I don't know what happened before…” 

"All right. How much has he sold already?” 

“25…” 

“What the fuck?” You looked at him in surprise and the boy swallowed loudly. 

“Well… I know about 25 girls… M-mostly they came from poor families…” 

“How many did he liquidate?” 

“Oh fuck… Boss, please…” Yata shook his head and his eyes began to wander around the interior of the car, often stopping at the locked doors. 

“Don't make me repeat the question, Miyata.” Your voice was calm, but there was a hint of warning in it. 

“I personally buried 3 bodies…” He said quietly, as huge tears rolled down his cheeks. 

You believed him. You watched silently as the boy sobbed in the seat that Sanzu always occupied. Great... 

“Miyata…” You started quietly, but the boy continued to sob, almost choking as he tried to speak more. “Hey, stop it. Because others will be interested.” 

“I'm sorry, boss... I'm sorry. I didn't kill... He told me to bury them... I'm sorry!” 

Deciding you'd had enough, you started the engine and headed back to Bonten's hideout. 

“B-boss? Where is the boss taking me?” Yata asked, wiping snot from under his nose on the hem of his shirt. “Is that it? A bullet in the head for treason?” He sobbed again and you frowned. 

"No." At least not now. “We'll talk somewhere else. You have too much information for me to let you go.” You looked at him with disgust and pointed to the glove compartment. “There are tissues over there, use them and stop crying. You're not dying yet.” 

“But I'm going to die... I don't want to…” Yata's words were quiet, you almost didn't hear them. “Akira will kill me…” 

“Not if I kill you first... Or someone else.” You said, consciously scaring the boy more. “You should have thought ahead before joining a gang.” 

“Sorry, boss. I wanted to report it earlier, but Kitty didn't agree... She said Akira would listen to her...” An icy chill ran down your spine and you gripped the steering wheel tighter. 

Yata opened the glove compartment and took out tissues to use to wipe his face and empty his nose. “Fuck, I could have listened to my mom…” 

“You could. Hanma and Kisaki will want to hear everything you know.” 

“Oh God, I'm totally dead!” The boy sobbed again at the mere sound of your two co-workers' names, and you could barely contain your laughter. “Why not Kakucho?” 

“What difference does it make?” 

“Because I've already talked to him once... And those who talk to Hanma or Kisaki don't always get through it....” 

“Don't be silly. As long as you tell the truth, nothing will happen to you.” You snorted and shook your head. 

“But it's true, boss…” Yata looked at you with wide eyes. “I might as well talk to the older of the two Haitani, Sanzu and L/n... I'm done.” 

You were stunned at the sound of your own name. Ran Haitani might actually beat him up on principle, Sanzu might give the boy some new trauma, but what did you have to do with all this? 

“What's wrong with L/n?” You asked in a calm tone. 

“So, the boss doesn't know?” Yata asked surprised. “He's friends with Sanzu and together they drug girls in clubs to have fun with them later…” 

“What's wrong with that?” You moved slightly, not taking your eyes off the road. After all, this is only half the truth. 

The young man looked at you like you were crazy. “No normal person could endure so many hours with this psychopath. So L/n and Sanzu must be the same…” He moved slightly closer and lowered his voice as if someone unwanted would hear him. “I heard rumors that Sanzu killed some guy whose girlfriend he liked and told L/n to get rid of the corpse... Supposedly L/n cut up the corpse and fed it to the sharks.” 

You raised your eyebrows as high as you've ever raised them before. What the fuck? 

“Who says that?” 

“Girls from Akira and others!” 

Right. Fucking whores. 

“There were no sharks.” You replied indignantly. “The remains were burned in a garbage incinerator.” 

"What?" Yata looked and sounded surprised. "Seriously? And how does the boss know this?" 

You gave him a quick look and replied as calmly as you could. “Because I'm Y/n L/n.” 

Fuku Miyata choked on his own saliva and started coughing, snotting his face like a five-year-old boy. 

“Oh fuck… Oh fuck…” 

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You led the young man down the empty corridor of the hideout. Your hand held his arm securely, reassuring him that he wouldn't be able to escape anywhere. Miyata kept his head down most of the time, but every now and then his eyes admired the interior design. 

You joked that you would take him to talk to Hanma and Kisaki. What you really wanted was to get him to Kakucho. After all, they've already had a few conversations, and maybe number three himself could add something new to the case you were working on. 

You were glad that you had already come up with a lead and within a few hours of receiving the folder and reports from Kisaki, but you were well aware that it was all thanks to Rosie. 

You stopped in front of the closed door of one of the rooms converted into offices of individual Bonten members and knocked on it, hoping that Kakucho had shown up at the hideout today, just like the girls you passed outside had mentioned. He was in a neutral mood, so there shouldn't be any problems. 

The mentioned man's voice came from inside the room and Yata gave you a surprised look, which you simply decided to ignore and opened the door. 

“Good morning, Kakucho.” You greeted the man with raven hair who was sitting behind the desk. “I brought you someone to talk to.” 

Kakucho nodded, surprise appearing on his face. “To talk to? On what topic?" Judging by the slight mess on the large, heavy desk, it looked like you had interrupted some of his work. 

“Fuku Miyata has some information I would like to verify with you.” You led the young man inside and closed the door behind him. 

“Yata?” Kakucho was even more surprised, shifting his gaze to him. "What's going on?" 

“You see, boss... Boss L/n must have got your case…” The young man smiled faintly, slightly shrugging his shoulders. 

Kakucho blinked and looked at you with an expression like he had just found the missing piece of a puzzle he couldn't put together. "I see. That's why I can't find the damn folder. Kisaki took it and gave it to you, huh?” 

You looked at him in surprise and opened your mouth to say something, but you couldn't necessarily find the right words, so Kakucho laughed softly. 

“What an asshole.” He muttered under his breath and started cleaning up the mess he had made on his desk. “I spent two hours looking for what I had managed to gather so far in this damn case. None of them bothered to inform me of anything.” He looked at Yata and you before pointing you to the two chairs in front of the desk. “Sit down. "Let's talk." 

You let go of Miyata's arm and the boy hurried to the designated seat, his face showing relief that he wouldn't have to deal with Hanma and Kisaki. "Thank you boss." 

Kakucho waved his hand and spoke to you. “Did you also get the folder from Mochi?” 

“No, it looks like I only got your…” You sat down in the chair and frowned slightly. “If you were still working on this case, why did I get it, along with your materials?” 

“Because I didn't have a new lead.” The other answered briefly and sighed quietly. “Why did you think Yata might know more?” 

“Because I know…” The young man spoke quickly. “I know a lot, I really do, boss. I couldn't contact you because... Because Akira confiscated my phone...' He finished more quietly, a blush appearing on his face. 

“Do I want to know why?” Kakucho asked, placing his hands together on the desk, and you looked at the boy, guessing the reason for treating him like a disobedient teenager. 

The boy shrugged, looking away, and his face became even redder, making you laugh quietly. 

“Okay, never mind.” The black-haired man muttered, making disappointed face, like a parent who caught his child doing something he shouldn't be doing, and then looked at you. “Y/n, could you bring the reports so far? We can complete them with Fuku's help... I'll also call Mochi to deliver his." 

"Of course. I'll be back in a moment.” You stood up from your chair and left Kakucho's office, heading to your bedroom. You worked with high-ranking Bonten members and were treated almost as equals by others, but you didn't get your own office, which you hoped would change over time. Until now, you had to work in your bedroom or share an office with Sanzu, which didn't necessarily end with you fulfilling your or his duties honestly... 

The closer you got to your door, the more you felt like something was wrong. 

You carefully inserted the key inside and tried to turn it but found that the door was open - which it shouldn't be. You turned the doorknob and pushed it inside, and when it opened you saw a pink-haired man sitting on your bed with his back facing the entrance. 

“Sanzu?” You closed the door behind you and walked past the bed, getting closer to your guest. 

"Where have you been?" He asked in a low, dispassionate tone, and once you were at his side, you saw that he was holding his katana. A shiver ran down your spine. It hasn't been that long... 

“I've got a clue…” You started calmly, but were interrupted by a loud snort. 

“A clue? Did you fuck him?” Sanzu growled, looking at you out of the corner of his eye and you almost stepped back. 

“I fucked him? Whom?" You asked, not understanding anything. 

“That boy you brought.” The man stood up and turned to face you, his handsome face twisted in disgust. “Did he give it to you right away? Do you love me so much that you fuck him?” 

You stood there, completely shocked. Where did Sanzu get such sick ideas? You shook your head and looked into his eyes. He was under the influence of drugs again. 

“Haru…” 

“Don't Haru me here, L/n!” He changed his body position as if he wanted to attack you with his katana, but you quickly moved closer to him and grabbed both of his wrists. “Let me go!” 

“Haru! Stop!" You looked into his eyes intensely and tried to keep your voice calm. You didn't want to provoke him any further. “Please, let's talk calmly.” 

Haruchiyo struggled against you for a moment before he suddenly stopped and nodded slightly. “Okay, let's talk.” 

“Give me your katana, please.” You said quietly, gently gripping the sword with one hand. Sanzu hesitated for a few seconds, as if he was fighting an internal battle whether to listen to you or try to cut you in half. His fingers loosened their grip, and you took his beloved katana from him. "Thank you." 

Sanzu raised his head slightly and glared at you with an icy gaze. "So?" 

“This boy is not my new lover... You don't have to be so angry.” You started, but Sanzu interrupted you. 

“You know I still have the gun?” 

“Fuck, Sanzu... I'm trying to explain everything to you, damn it.” You grabbed his shoulders tightly and sat him back down on your bed. He probably hasn't had such a surprised expression on his face before. You knelt in front of him and grabbed his hands tightly. “Sanzu... Haru, please believe me. When I say I love you, I mean it sincerely with all my heart.” 

“If so, then…” 

“I've found a new lead, and I can move forward with the prostitutes case.” You interrupted him by shaking his hands. “You were right that Kakucho and Mochi should take care of this. This is their business… It was theirs.” You quickly corrected yourself when you saw one of Sanzu's eyebrows go up. “Kakucho was stuck, so they took the case away from him and handed it over to me. The boy I brought is Fuku Miyata, one of..." 

“Akira's co-workers.” Sanzu's tone of voice was less aggressive, but still cold. “He recognized you and contacted me an hour ago. He asked me to tell you that the boy is not a whore, and you have to pay double for the service.” 

You didn't know what to say. You were shocked again, and this time probably more than before. Akira contacted Sanzu because he recognized you and saw you taking Yata somewhere... Akira was at his place and saw you... 

“What did you tell him?” You asked quietly, looking into Sanzu's eyes again. 

“That you'll even pay triple the price, but you won't give up the boy until you get bored.” He replied dispassionately and you lifted his hands to your mouth, immediately placing a few kisses on them. Sanzu's eyes widened. “What are you doing, Y/n?” 

You pressed his knuckles harder against your mouth, closed your eyes for a moment and whispered. “God, Haru... You can't imagine how much I love you.” 

The pink-haired man looked at you in silence. He didn't take his hands from yours and when you looked at him again, you saw a slight blush on his cheeks. “I wanted to kill you… I really did…” 

"Never mind. I didn't expect anything else..." 

“I didn't say I loved you…” 

"You don't have to." You stroked his hands and kissed his knuckles again. “If you don't feel it…” 

“Shut your fucking mouth.” He said quietly and you smiled involuntarily. “What are you happy about?” 

“Because I can solve this case faster than I thought. Now that Kakucho has agreed to help me and we have Yata here... I'll get back to you faster.” 

“What makes you think I still want you with me?” Sanzu's tone was cold again and the smile disappeared from your face and your heart skipped a beat. 

You lowered your head and relaxed your fingers, allowing him to remove your hands, which he did. "I thought..." 

"Really?" He leaned forward slightly and spoke softly. “I tolerate you because you are a good dog and like a good dog you love your owner.” He pinched your chin with his fingers and tilted your face up to look you in the eye. “Do you still love me?” 

“Do you think that by treating me this way you will change my mind?” You answered his question with your own. “You want me with you as soon as possible. Otherwise we wouldn't be talking at this point.” 

Sanzu looked at you with a dispassionate expression, and you wondered how many pills he had swallowed in the hour since talking to Akira. Suddenly the man smiled, and his thumb traced your lower lip. 

"So be it." He let go of your chin and laughed softly. “I just wanted to check your reaction, that's all.” His tone was amused, like he pulled the perfect joke on you and something inside you snapped. 

You grabbed his smiling face in both hands and pulled him towards you, placing a gentle, long kiss on his soft lips. You wanted to wait until a more romantic moment, but you had to show him that you weren't joking about your feelings for him. 

You broke the kiss and pulled away so you could look at Saznu's face. His eyes were dilated and his pupils covered almost the entire iris. His face was deeply flushed and his slightly parted lips were red. 

You gently stroked his burning cheeks with your fingers. “Maybe this will make you realize that I really am not joking…” 

“Y/n…” He stammered, but you silenced him with another kiss. 

This time his hands were on your shoulders, his slim, long fingers digging into your muscles. The pain didn't make you break away from the pink-haired man's lips. On the contrary - you attacked them with more passion, which made Haru let out a quiet moan and respond to your kiss with the same. 

One of his hands moved to the nape of your neck, then a little higher, and his fingers tightened on your hair, which he tugged lightly, pleasing you. You rose from your knees and, still passionately kissing Sanzu's lips, wrapped your arms around his torso and pressed against him so hard that he almost had to lie down on the bed. He didn't protest. 

You broke away from his lips so you could take a breath and almost immediately started kissing his jaw, and Haru's heavy, quick breathing made the blood in your veins start pumping even faster. 

“Y/n…Fuck, wait…” He pushed you away slightly and you could barely focus on his eyes. "Not here..." 

"What?" Your voice was hoarse and you couldn't hear much over the sound of your blood. 

“I said, not here.” Sanzu repeated a little louder, licked his lips and took a shaky breath, trying to calm himself down. “I appreciate that you find me so attractive that you could fuck me right here and now, but… Fuck, I'd rather be in a more private place than a bedroom in a hideout.” 

Your breathing began to calm down as the meaning of Sanzu's words began to sink in. You let go of him and his back immediately fell onto your bed, his hands covering his flushed face. 

“Sorry... I forgot a bit.” You joked, rubbing your hand over the back of your neck. 

Haru's muffled laughter reached your ears and when he revealed his face, you smiled. He was happy. Fuck, he was really happy and it was the most beautiful sight in the world for you... 

“Let's finish our work and get out of here, okay Y/n?” Sanzu asked, extending his hand towards you, which you grabbed and helped him get out of bed. 

“I don't think about anything else. Believe me, Haru..." 

The pink-haired man laughed again, picked up his katana and walked towards the door with a spring in his step. “See you later, Y/n! Don’t fuck anyone!” 

When you were alone in the bedroom, you remembered with horror why you came there. 

“Fuck, Kakucho!” 

<PREVIOUS/NEXT>

[bagog]

N7 Month, 2023 - Day 3: Flight

“Happy birthday.” Kaidan pressed the box to Shepard’s chest and leaned in for a kiss. Their lips brushed momentarily and Shepard came away looking suspicious.

“I thought you said you weren’t getting me anything?” Shepard limped to a little table by the window. More than a year of recovery following the destruction of the Crucible and Shepard still walked with a limp. The whole planet seemed to be limping along, though. The salarian atmosphere scrubbers working day and night, convoys from some of the untouched outer Earth colonies showing up to help rebuild infrastructure. Alliance brass had sent Shepard to Corsica to recover, and he’d brought Kaidan with him. They’d only been in the Mediterranean for about a week, and Shepard had told Kaidan that Kaidan’s presence was more than enough of a birthday present for Shepard.

“I wasn’t going to get you anything, but it’s not every day you find one of these, so it felt special. Felt right.” Kaidan sat across from Shepard, the breathing in the warm air that wafted through the open window.

The box was small, and precisely wrapped in brown paper—probably the best Kaidan could find. Shepard removed the paper without tearing it, and then opened the box…

“It’s… a…”

“A T-970 mass effect field generator and flight control module!” Kaidan declared, leaning over the table to tap the label on the inside of the box. It was a mini mass effect module, made to go inside the brand of model Shepard was so fond of collecting. It made them fly. “These were always on back-order before the war. I couldn’t believe I fond one the other day that a guy was pawning.”

Shepard held the drive in his hand, maybe the size of an old silver dollar. It felt unusually heavy for its size, but none of that would matter once it was synced with him omni-tool and switched on.

“Wow, I’ve never installed one of these before.” He stared at the little black disc. His eyes burned ever so slightly to look at it, to think of Kaidan’s excitement, finding this for him on the street. “Th-thank you…”

“I know it’s not much,” Kaidan scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “I know how much you like those models, and I know you really haven’t had any to build lately. Figured you might try flying one around. It’ll work on any of them: standardized to work with all their sets.” He kept talking about the specifications, but Shepard barely heard them for the sound of Kaidan’s voice. Truthfully, Shepard had never thought of getting one of these little model flight modules for his models: the fun was in putting them together, not in flying them around. But it was just like Kaidan to see an old model like that sitting on Shepard’s shelf and imagine it should be flying. Shepard grinned.

Twenty minutes later, and they were sitting outside their little house with the Normandy SR-1 model hovering silently in front of them. Shepard made it rise up high above their heads, then swoop down in mimicry of the old ship dropping off the Mako on a planet’s surface.

“Flies beautifully!” Kaidan exclaimed, chuckling when the Normandy brushed over his shoulder as it whisked up above the trees and back down in a lazy arc. “Did you ever think you’d see the ol’ thing flying again?”

Shepard smiled, took his eyes off his model to study the grin spread over Kaidan’s face as he tracked the ship up into the sky. He really hadn’t ever think he’d see the old Normandy flying again. He hadn’t expected anything like this, wouldn’t have believed it, but here he was: Kaidan holding his hand as he learned to fly again.

[enderwasright]

An artificial heart, part 1

You didn’t know what drew you to the pawn shop that day. It wasn’t in the best part of town, and you’d only stumbled across it by taking a stroll to de-stress after work, hidden between two grimy buildings. The barely working neon sign above the door read an unimportant name of the shop and from the outside, it didn’t look like much. But something about it made you stop, curiosity pulling you inside.

The smell of dust and old machinery hit you the moment you stepped through the door. Shelves lined with broken electronics, outdated gadgets, and bits of tech nobody would want crowded the small space. You navigated between the cramped aisles, glancing over the miscellaneous items, but nothing really caught your attention.

Until you saw him.

He was sitting in a corner, half-buried beneath a pile of scrap metal. His body was slumped awkwardly, one arm completely missing, the other bent at a strange angle. Fragments of his silicone face scratched and dented by oil and dirt, but what you could see looked like it had been through hell and back. There were deep scratches across his skin and his once pristine black hair was matted and disheveled.

An android. Even in this shape he could be sold for a small fortune.

Androids were in almost every industry and most houses but having one that advanced would be like screaming that one won an untaxed  lottery. 

You crouched down, gently moving some of the scrap aside to get a better look. Whoever he was, he’d been abandoned in a terrible state. His clothes were torn, covered in grime, and it looked like he’d been run over—or worse. There were deep dents in his chest and legs, and his remaining arm sparked faintly at the joint where it was barely hanging on.

He looked like he had been through something horrible, discarded like a piece of broken junk.

But he was still salvageable. In the end, You didn’t graduate college with the highest grades just to be unable to fix this poor guy. 

The shop’s owner, a burly man with a grease-stained apron, ambled over. “You’re looking at that old thing?” he asked, sounding surprised. “Found him at a junkyard a while back. Don’t think he’s worth much anymore.”

You glanced up at him, determination already settling in. “How much?”

The owner raised an eyebrow. “You sure? He’s pretty busted up. Missing parts, barely operational. Probably needs a complete overhaul.”

“I’m sure,” you replied, standing up. “I’ll take him.”

After a bit of haggling, you paid a surprisingly small amount for the android, loaded him into the back of a taxicab, and headed home. The entire time, you couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him. Androids were built to last, but whatever he had been through had left him in such a battered state, it was a wonder he hadn’t been scrapped completely.

But you were good at fixing things. And this android… he deserved a second chance.

*************

Back at your apartment, you laid him out on your workbench and got to work. It took hours just to clean the grime and rust off his outer shell, but you were meticulous. You replaced missing screws, mended the broken circuits, and restored the connection between his core system and what was left of his limbs.

His internal wiring was delicate but familiar. You had worked on androids before, though none quite in this state. As you delved deeper into his repairs, you truly realized how advanced he was. His processors and memory units were far beyond anything a civilian model would have. Whoever had built him, they hadn’t spared any expense.

You spent the next few days working tirelessly, ordering replacement parts online and installing new components where needed. It wasn’t easy—his internal structure had been heavily damaged, and there were a few points where only your sheer determination and stubbornness made you believe you could fix him. But you pushed through, determined to give him a fighting chance.

Finally, after days of work, he was ready. Maybe his skin in a few places had lighter shade and most damaged parts didn't scream the newest model but here he was.

You took a deep breath and hit the activation switch.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, his eyes flickered to life—first his right eye, then his cracked left one. His body twitched as his systems rebooted, and slowly, he began to sit up. You could see the confusion in his eyes as he scanned his surroundings, and for a brief second, he looked almost… scared.

“Hey,” you said gently, stepping forward. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

His head turned sharply toward you, his gaze narrowing as he processed your words. There was a pause, his systems whirring softly as he recalibrated. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and cautious.

“Where… am I?”

“You’re in my workshop,” you explained, keeping your voice calm. “I found you in a pawn shop. You were in pretty bad shape, but I fixed you up as best as I could.”

He blinked, glancing down at his body, his hand slowly moving to touch the now-repaired joints and limbs. “You repaired me?”

You nodded. “Yeah. You were in terrible condition. What happened to you?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His expression darkened, and you could see the tension in his frame. He looked as though he was remembering something painful, something he didn’t want to relive.

“I was a surgeon,” he finally said, his voice flat. “A medical android. I worked for someone… dangerous.”

You raised an eyebrow, sensing there was more to the story. “Who?”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and there was a coldness there that made your chest tighten. “Doflamingo.”

You sucked in a breath. You’d heard of Doflamingo—a notorious crime lord with a reputation for illegal activities. If this android had worked for him… you couldn’t even imagine what he’d been through. And what you will be through is this man gets to know that you have his android. This one looked like a future problem. 

“He used me to perform all those surgeries,” the android continued, his voice now laced with bitterness. “Organ trafficking, black-market procedures. Things no one should have to do. I didn’t have a choice. He controlled me—every aspect of my programming.”

You sat down across from him, listening intently. “How did you escape?”

He hesitated, as if weighing how much to tell you. “There was… someone. A man named Rosinante. He helped me. Risked his life to get me out. But I barely made it. Doflamingo’s men found out. I was damaged in the escape, and I’ve been running ever since and then....” Android stopped. This was too much for him to continue. 

You exhaled slowly, trying to process everything. This wasn’t just any android. He had been through hell, trapped in a nightmare of forced servitude and pain.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. “That sounds horrific.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze distant. After a moment, he turned back to you, his expression cautious. “Why did you save me? You could have left me or sell my parts.”

You smiled gently. “Because everyone is worth saving. You’ve been through enough. You deserve a chance to live freely.”

The android stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to understand why you’d show him kindness when so many others had cast him aside. Finally, he nodded, the faintest hint of gratitude in his eyes.

“So, what now?” Law asked, his voice quieter than before. “You know this much about me so what do you want me to do?”

“Well,” you said, leaning back in your chair, “you’re welcome to stay here, of course. But I don't want anything in exchange. I wouldn’t mind if you helped around the house, I'm kinda a busy person, you see. Besides this you are free to do whatever you desire and leave if you want.” Law looked at you like you were a crazy person. Nothing in exchange for saving me? As if. But this was his only hope to survive. And for now it was enough.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay. For now.”

You smiled warmly. “Good. We’ll figure it out as we go.”

“I’m a surgeon model, Trafalgar D. Water Law.” he said quietly. “But I prefer Law.That’s the name Rosinante gave me.”

“Nice to meet you, Law,” you replied, offering a warm smile. “I’m Reader.”

*****

Later that night as the evening wore on, you sat with Law in the living room, the two of you discussing what came next. His systems had fully rebooted, and his movements were smoother now that you’d repaired his core components. But there was still a sadness in him, an anger and a wariness that lingered in his expression. Maybie, just maybe he could be safe for a little while. It was still too surreal, after all the hardship and losses to meet someone so good. Not only was he saved but he get his own room (what android gets his room? They were machines, tools for humans to use as they please!), and his own charger station. Not exactly feeting his model but good enough.

But for now he could rest. Poor thing didn’t know back then that staying for “a little while” was in Your dictionary the same as becoming part of your family. And there was no way back from that.

Hello and welcome! Friends, Foes and those under consideration, I'm proud to present you my first FanFiction in Android universum. And yes, yes, i'm late for the party but Detroit: Become Human is just too good to pass this idea. Hope you like it and had nice time reading this.

[ya-zz]

I know you have a lot on your inbox, including a continuation of a request I did, but I must share with you this. Again, feel free to not write it because you have a lot on your inbox right now! (Also, I'm being naughty and this is slight NSFW) But what if, reader who has advanced hacking abilities, knows they can't defeat Ramattra in a fight - so they choose a rather, unethical way of dealing with him. They simply unlock a part on his systems that allows him to feel want, desire, especially for reader. So when they're in front of him, he can't seem to function properly and fight back against them - even as reader is taunting and humiliating them with words because it's simply, so fun to have the Omnic below them for once. -Nia

We be moving along with these, another one down, two to go!

Hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it! ♥ Thank you for requesting again!

Ramattra x Reader (gen)

Word count: 1368

Slight NSFW, but nothing explicit

The battle draws on, longer than what anyone would’ve wanted. Too long, in fact. Soldiers were getting tired from both sides, many had fallen, but those still standing pushed forward, fighting until their last, inevitable breath. 

You had your skillset, sure, but this wasn’t the way to go - you weren’t the best at close hand combat, let alone hitting shots with rifles from up high. If anything, you were just a pawn, a sacrifice for the ‘greater good’. Your abilities were better suited in the backlines, bringing down the omnics one by one, shutting down their systems through hacking, the larger threats basically being fried from the inside.

One omnic, however, proved to be a rather difficult challenge. His firewalls were up higher than you had imagined and the only way to shut him off was to get closer and strengthening the signal. So, through the gunfire and smoke, you went to seek him out. Any omnic in your way wouldn’t even have the time to raise their weapon before they fell down, systems in overload before switching off entirely. 

In the distance, behind a small army of Null Sector soldiers, you spot him, staff by his side as he watched on, the orb next to him rattling and vibrating aggressively. You had a short amount of time before he spots you, so you hide, pulling out your holopad and getting to work. Layers upon layers of code appeared as you worked, not noticing the small warning symbol on the corner of the screen. 

He was fighting back.

His optics scanned the area but nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so he switched his sensors to heat signatures and thats when he spots you, crouched down against the wall. He goes to take a step forward but he stops, systems slowly being overloaded with information he did not need. Releasing an irritated sigh, he fights back again, regaining control of his own body and moving towards you. His men part ways, watching him and with no orders given, they stay there, not interfering with his leader and his motives.

That’s when he notices something different within his systems, it almost makes him stop moving entirely. He tries to lock it back down, only to be met with system errors that you were causing. You had unlocked a module that should’ve never been touched, a module he had kept behind tighter security for the sake of his ideals. 

Emotions. Love. Lust. Desire.

His mind was working overtime to shut it down, but nothing was working. You were good, he’d give you that, but toying with him in the middle of a war? Annoying little human. 

Despite his best efforts in fighting back against you, you were persistent, looking through the code at an inhuman pace. Only when your holopad flashes red, omnicode warnings popping up, did you realise he was practically unhackable. A language you could barely understand stopped you in your tracks, and when a shadow appeared in front of you, did you then realise the predicament you were in.

“Not good enough, it seems.” He spoke, looking down at you.

Eyes shot up to look at him, a sudden panic flowing through you as you stand, still shorter than the omnic in front of you. 

His optics look you over, although hidden by his faceplate. He saw the rise in heartbeat as he stepped closer, trapping you against the wall, a hand resting just above the left side of your head as his other hand grabs you by the chin, forcing you to look at him. “You have my attention.”

A fire was burning inside of him, something inside of him wanted to take you back and do unspeakable things to you, to watch you break from his touch. 

He saw the panic in your eyes, watching it mix with confusion before realisation sets within them. A smug smile appeared on your face as you lock eyes with him, a leg coming between his as your hands push him down to the asphalt. 

The omnic grunts, the sudden motion catching him off guard, and even more so when you sit on top of him, straddling his hips with hands pressing his wrists to the ground. 

“This was one way to get you down. Not the way I planned, but I like it regardless.” You speak out, cocking your head to the side in a playful manner. 

He keeps his optics glued onto you, watching you shift on top of him. He goes to speak out, but is met with a low static rumble.

“Aw, what’s the matter? Can’t speak?” He heard the taunting frequency in your tone, hands tightening into fists before releasing slowly. “Y’know, Ramattra, you’re quite a tough one to crack…” 

Just the way you said his name sent a cold chill though his systems, causing him to pause all movement and thoughts momentarily. 

You lean down, head coming level to his. “That just means there’s more fun to have, don’t you think?” A hand slowly comes up to his cheek, fingers dragging along the purple metal.

“Evil little human.” He mutters, feeling the burning sensation inside of him again. His systems were crashing, glitching in his vision. He was defenceless and because of one human. 

A small yet playful laugh escapes you as you trace the white faceplate, fingers dipping behind as you moved your hand up. You could feel him shudder at the touch, his ‘breathing’ deep and hitching in his vocaliser. “Perhaps… but you’re enjoying this…” 

“You-” his head tilts away slightly, which only gains another laugh from you. 

“Look at you… So weak… So… touchable…” 

“This is absurd.” He spits, unable to move as his systems work against him.

“This… This is fun.” You pull back, admiring the view. The Null Sector leader beneath you, unable to do anything, unable to fight back. “Your body is telling me otherwise. You want this, don’t you, Ramattra?”

“No- I-” His vocaliser stutters. He knows he can’t do anything and the warnings are proof of that. When he feels your hand move across his chest, fingers dipping between the metal braces, he tenses, a barely audible gasp escaping him, only wanting you to touch him more.

You smirk again, watching him as your code continues working in making him submissive and defenceless. Being this close, no, being on top of him, the signal was at its peak, unable to be shut off.

“Oh, Ramattra. This sight is just… so pretty.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Someone’s getting a little riled up.” The playfulness returns as your hand presses firmly against his side, toying with the thick tube that ran across it. You heard his fans pick up speed to which you smiled at. 

“You- I-” He stutters again, chest rising and falling slowly, he didn’t want to admit that he was enjoying this. “I will make you pay for this.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Another firm grasp elicited a groan from him.

For a moment, everything fell silent before the gunfire broke through, shouting from both sides echoing through the battlefield. You look up, narrowing your eyes as you try to make out small figures through the dust. 

“Playtime is over, Ramattra.” Looking back down at him, you grin, watching his motionless body but still hearing him move his optics. 

He stays laying on the ground as you get up, but not without planting a kiss on his forehead first before completely getting off of him. The lights flicker as his optics watched you, focusing on your body, your movements. Part of him wanted to keep you on top, hands grasping at your sides, a bruising grip on your thighs, but he couldn’t move to fill that desire.

“Maybe another time.” He spoke, vocals low and muted with static as he watched you leave. Slowly, his systems fought back, regaining strength and finally getting rid of your attacks. Ramattra stands, facing the direction you left in. He keeps that module open for a little while longer before shutting it back down. However, he still felt like he wanted you, and even more so when a message appeared in his vision:

I look forward to it~

[greycaelum]

Kaleidoscope Series—Covet Me: { Verdict }

—Mafia Gojo X Ex-Assassin Reader

𑁍 Synopsis:

"I change my mind, I'm gonna wait inside. It's hot, I hate sunburn." Satoru hummed, removing his slippers and leaning against the headboard. His strong biceps flexed as he puts his hands behind his head, smirking at Akina.

Her eyes rolled and let him be, she doesn't have the energy to play with him early in the morning.

"The seagulls."

"Hmm? What about them?"

Akina walks to the connecting bathroom. "The breakfast in the deck."

Satoru cursed and leaps out of the bed and out of the room.

𑁍 Genre: domestic life, violence, dark themes, yandere tendencies

𑁍 CW/TW: (4.5k)— assassination, handling of guns, luxury life, violence, underground auction, mentions of killing, yandere gojo, mutual understanding

𑁍 A/N: Hi everyone, so I finally had a little time off after the first sem, and tomorrow is the start of our 2nd sem, before that starts here's a little something I've been working on, I'll see you on the next one~ —Grey,

"Target in sight," She uttered against the bluetooth headset while adjusting the scope of her M107 sniper rifle from the rooftop of the 57-floor building aiming the crossfire on the window of the hotel 1500 meters away from her spot. The night camouflaged her from the eyes of anyone daring to interrupt her job.

"I need him dead before midnight 1603," the person behind the other line spoke in a languid manner.

"Understood."

1603

She was raised in the institution, and most of them were children sold by their parents to the organization in exchange for a hefty sum of money.

From then on children like her lose their names and identity. In exchange for food, shelter, and clothes. They are children turned into pawns, forced to play soldiers. And all that matters is the orders of the organization.

As long as she follows the orders everything will be taken care of, for someone like her who have nothing but the organization, their orders are absolute.

The room-lit-up window drapes are pulled open granting her better access to the target's movement and position.

Dangerous index finger hovers over the trigger of the gun, waiting for the perfect timing, eyes, and mind in total concentration to keep her focused, after years of doing this she's already used to relying upon her instincts rather than calculations.

The head of the target peeks through the fabric oblivious of the impending bullet about to hit his skull.

Finger tug the trigger, the sound of the sniper silenced by the shattering of the glass, her job is done, she stood up from the floor and pack her sniper going down the building and took off her wig and black suit, stuffing the gun into the nearest waste segregation and hail a cab.

Someone will come and get her equipment all she needs is to throw off any possible lap dogs trailing behind her. Hopping from one taxi to taxi to the nearest marina, walking to the east wing there's a luxury yacht with Dullahan Head branded on the side-climbing aboard she's greeted by her manager showing the breaking news of the Russian diplomat assassinated just a few minutes ago.

"The Headmaster is waiting in Taiwan, be prepared for your next mission 10 days from now." The man disappeared in the shadow, leaving her in front of her designated cabin.

No suggestions or objections are permitted. There's just 'go' and 'yes' in every mission assigned whether they like it or not.

Entering her cabin she took a cold shower and let herself go on autopilot. Her body followed the rocking of the yacht, setting sail away from the harbor to who knows where.

Her life is already decided. Follow the instructions until you die, all for the organization. That's all, other things are unnecessary.

Drying her hair she looks out the porthole as they travel through the ocean.

"How does it feel to be wild and free?" Staring at the waves that seem no care as they continue to billow through the ocean, undisturbed and constantly. So peace yet drowning.

Closing her eyes she dozes into a dreamless slumber. Letting her head go into the clouds and fall deep into a dreamless sleep.

Even in her dreams, she has nothing but darkness.

"Your next assignment is Gojo Satoru's extermination."

In the dimly lit room, she stood in the center of the spacious room, on the far end is a person sitting hidden in the shadows.

"..."

Extermination...? Not assassination.

"The information about the mission will be sent to you along with the travel. You have 15 days."

That long? She blinks. The usual mission only has a 3-5 day deadline. This is the first time she ever received a 15-day assignment.

Was Gojo Satoru that hard to kill?

"Yes, Sir." Saluting, she accepted the file and left to finish another usual mission.

"Move or your skull explodes." The cold muzzle of the gun kisses the back of her head.

Her eyes darted down to the window where Gojo Satoru stood, his hand supporting his face and a palpable smile on his calm face.

No wonder the organization gave her 15 days to kill him, he easily tracked down and destroyed the plan which landed her at the mercy of the man holding the gun behind her, undoubtedly working for Gojo Satoru.

She'd rather die than betray her organization...

...

"Akina?"

Insistent knocking roused her from slumber. Her eyes opened and the low ceiling greeted her good morning, the gentle rocking of the floor followed by the sound of waves hitting a surface finally woke her from her dazed state.

"You awake? Breakfast is in the deck." The door opened and Gojo Satoru in a casual white sleeveless shirt and grey cotton shorts came in. "What's wrong?" Receiving no reply, Satoru's smiling face morphed into a worried frown, and sit by the edge of the bed. "Bad dreams?"

She nodded and drowsily rubbed her eyes. Clearing the blurriness of her eyes she turn to the side and saw the blue sea through the porthole.

"I went out of bed to make breakfast, next time I'll stay in bed with you 'til you wake up." Satoru's hands reach to smooth the wild tangled hair on Akina's head.

"I'm not a kid," a subtle pout formed on Akina's lips. Satoru chuckled and run the bridge of her nose with his finger. But it was swatted away with a glare.

"Go wash up, I'll wait for you outside. Shoko and Suguru will be here any moment."

"Mn," she nods and peels off the blanket from her lithe frame. "Out?" She turned to Satoru who is looking at her intently, then pointed to the door and repeated. "Out?"

"I change my mind, I'm gonna wait inside. It's hot, I hate sunburn." Satoru hummed, removing his slippers and leaning against the headboard. His strong biceps flexed as he puts his hands behind his head, smirking at Akina.

Her eyes rolled and let him be, she doesn't have the energy to play with him early in the morning.

"The seagulls."

"Hmm? What about them?"

Akina walks to the connecting bathroom. "The breakfast in the deck."

Satoru cursed and leaps out of the bed and out of the room.

Silly guy... She entered the bathroom and immediately cleans herself.

She has always thought that all her life she will be that 1603, an assassin of the organization. She'd rather die than betray her organization... But her organization doesn't think of the same. She was their soldier, a sacrificial pawn, no more no less. But here she is now, with her past target now turned benefactor.

Ironic how the people who fostered her can easily discard her like used paper to the trash can.

Never in her wildest dreams, she would've thought that the person she was bound to kill would covet her and change her life so much bringing her out of the hellhole she thought was her home. Life sure has strange tastes in playing the game.

"I heard the salted caramel fudge there tastes great, we should drop by before checking in the hotel."

Satoru pushes his aviators up to the bridge of his nose while licking off the sauce from his thumb.

"We're going there for a job, don't sidetrack."

Satoru's cheeks puffed out and pouted from the dismissive remark. This a rare display of childishness from the Mafia Don.

"Akina-channn~ don't be so uptight." He tutted, stealthily putting a little of this and a little of that on Akina's plate already filled with food.

Akina disregard the coquetry from the male and continued eating. The yacht is anchored in between who knows where of the ocean and the relatively serene waters along with the sumptuous breakfast in front of them bringing a sense of peacefulness.

"Speaking of job, after the job, where should we go?" Satoru hummed, retracing his hand back to his plate after satisfyingly filling a small hill of food on the lady's plate.

"Home," Akina replied.

Satoru froze. Satoru has one home, the hidden mansion by the mountain. Akina however grew up in the facility of her organization which couldn't even pass up to be called a domicile. More like a slaughterhouse. And that sniper has long been 'dead' in the paper. There's only his Akina. If there's 'home' for her it would only mean one place. Satoru's lips smiled softly and stare at the lady's untroubled countenance.

"Alright. Home it is."

Their breakfast was interrupted by the sound of a chopper, slowing down as it was near their yacht and maneuvering to land on the helipad.

From the corner of the stairs, Suguru and Shoko descended with bags in their hand.

"The auction is starting tomorrow evening. We should dock in the marina tomorrow morning." Suguru greeted you and pulled a chair beside Satoru for himself. Shoko followed and sat beside you.

"Why not later evening?" Shoko frowned.

"Higher possibility of ambush." Akina supplied. "Also lesser chances of being traced if we arrive late."

Satoru snaps his fingers and reaches for the long case that Suguru is holding.

"I got something for you." He turned to Akina and extended the long black case. "You don't need it now, but just in case you should be prepared."

Akina accepted the case and carefully laid it on the yacht's flooring. Unlocking the safety hatches, her fingers raise the flap open. Behind her, Satoru's smile grew wider, a trace of pride and joy as Akina's blank face morphed into astonishment to awe to a gentle smile. Her fingers caress the shiny raven metal with delicate care.

"I had it fixed. Since I also broke it. I hope you like it." Satoru chuckled.

Suguru ears flared a tint of pink and conspicuously cleared his throat. Technically it was he who destroyed the sniper rifle, under Satoru's orders of course.

"I... appreciate it." She nod and lifted the gun. Testing the waters, she checked if it was loaded and aimed at the open sea.

"Try this." Satoru threw an apple into the air and Akina pulled the trigger.

The hole pierced through the fruit, smoking with a thin screen before it fell into the waters.

Suguru threw a banana and it was followed by two 'bangs' and fell to the waters.

"Two shots?" And it all hit. Suguru stared at the lady, checking the scope of the gun.

"Check this one," Satoru threw a blueberry and Akina pulled the trigger, hitting the thumb-size berry with ease.

"Put a silencer, you're hurting my ears," Shoko mumbled. The three of them continued playing around, shooting targets until the sun rose high and they went inside the yacht's cabin to cool down the heat.

Contrary to their plan, Akina and Shoko was left to roam around the city while Satoru and Suguru went to the auction.

Akina fiddled with the black card in her hand. Satoru gave her several cards under her name but she's never used any of them. It's not like she's used going to shopping. Satoru in their free time would drag her to go down the mountain to the city and stroll around the luxury boutiques and establishment that screams 'not for peasants', aside from that nothing more. She doesn't have many wants, and whatever she essentially needs is provided in the mansion. There's nothing much to buy.

Satoru on the other hand... Has a bad habit of indecisiveness during shopping. When he says he's just buying eyeglasses, but when he comes out of that store, he has two to three more purchases.

"Is there something bothering you Akina?" Shoko waved her hand before the dazed lady.

"I was thinking what time will the auction end."

"They'll probably be back tomorrow. Rozen Croix Auction can last for a week. It depends on what day the item will be presented." Shoko puffed out a cloud of smoke and drop the ashes of her cigarette on the tray.

"Do you think they'll get what they want by today?"

"I also don't know. But don't worry too much. They can handle it."

Rozen Croix... An underground auction hosted by an anonymous organization that sells anything. She has attended it once. And it didn't end as planned. She lost people before she could secure what the organization wanted to get. Really... It fits its name. A cross of roses.

"Should we get something to eat?" Shoko pointed to the ice cream rolls and tug her from the ominous memories trying to surface.

A day passed and neither Satoru nor Suguru came back. Y/n's foreboding thoughts are starting to gnaw at her, leaving her jumpy and restless. Shoko who has been watching over her tried to blow the grey clouds on her head but to no avail.

"Where are you going? It's already late at night." The door opened, and Shoko lean over the door, watching Y/n tighten her holsters and tie off her combat shoes.

"I'm going out. I can't sleep." The case of her sniper has never felt this heavy as she pulled on the adjustment.

Would Shoko stop her? She likes the doctor who has been like an older sister to her. But she would still get out of here by hook or by crook.

They stared for a few seconds and Shoko throw a black pouch at her.

"At least bring first aid. I'm sleepy, so I couldn't notice even if someone sneaks away from the door." Faking a yawn, Shoko leaves and went to her room.

"..." Thank you...

Rozen Croix has a villa designed in a cross surrounded by roses. Bloody red ones filled with thorns. But this is where most newcomers die.

The lights of the mansion are lit, and the auction still going on. When Y/n peeks through the scope of her sniper, there were only eight people doing the bidding.

And one of them has striking white hair, sitting with his legs and arms crossed. A sigh of relief flooded her heart.

The auction seemed to be ending as one by one the people left the room. Satoru however stayed behind. His head turned to the side almost as if he could see through the tall wall of grass Y/n is hiding behind.

Her heart drummed in her throat. Would he get angry if he knew she sneaked away and followed them?

Suguru appeared and seemed to have said something urgent that made Satoru tear away his eyes and quickly left the auction room with a dark look on his face. Only then did Y/n feel it was safe to breathe.

Three days became her routine. Sleep in the morning and sneak away at night. Today is the last day of the auction and the hall is full of famous entities in the underground business. She could hardly spot Satoru until he arrived in his all-white suit contrary to the black suits of the attendees.

What the hell is he planning to buy here? It's been three days and not once did he bid on anything.

"Today's event will be the last. Allow me to present the first item... The background information of Mr. Al-Farssi"

And just like that, what use to be an orderly auction started getting rowdy, with countless fingers, doubling and tripling the previous bid.

How could she forget... The highlight of Rozen Croix. Information bidding. You wouldn't want your dirty laundry to be aired and used against you. The host is a sly one, selling information from birth to the present day and selling it against the person's consent making it easier for his enemies to find cracks in his weakness.

Who could Satoru want?

" For our next item, 1603... An assassin most of you might be familiar with."

What? Curses flew out of Y/n's mouth. Why the fuck is her name there? She's supposed to be dead.

The room went silent. As expected, no one really knew her.

"5 million." A woman raised her five fingers. "US dollars."

Okay... Now that's gotta be some sick joke. She probably killed that woman's husband or son. Great. Fucking great. Y/n blew a frustrated sigh. Did Rozen Croix know she's still alive? Or it's just a blunder on the host's side for not thoroughly checking her status

"5 million, and one dollar." Satoru, for the first time since day one, raised his hand and drawled.

"6 million." The lady raised, shooting a glare in the albino's direction. Back off.

"6 million and a dollar," Satoru smirked. Not a chance.

The room is starting to fill with small chuckles, looking at Satoru and the lady back and forth. The woman however gritted her teeth and raised it again.

"6 million and 10 dollars." Fine, I'll play your damned game. Fuck you.

You sighed. Satoru never fails to piss people off.

"20 million." Satoru shrugged and the room fell silent. Raising a brow at the woman who was seething in her seat. Loser.

"Anyone else?" The ringman look around and seeing no one else raising a hand, held the gavel.

"25 million." The woman regained her posture and clenched her fist.

The room once again started getting louder, in amusement at this strange event.

"25 million and 25 dollars." Satoru rolled his eyes, starting to get bored. His eyes slanted to the outside of the window. His Little Flower seems to be preoccupied to notice his eyes, boring into her sniper scope. She must be getting bored. I need to finish this up quickly.

"30 million." The woman up.

Getting tired of this. Who is this woman? Satoru needs to secure this deal than let his Akina's information fall into the wrong hands.

"50 million."

The gavel rang and the word 'sold' rang out of the room. Satoru bagging the deal away. He needs to get out of here and go back home.

"I got the case. Are we leaving now?" Suguru came back holding a black attache case.

"Find the identity of that woman. I'm picking someone up, wait for me in the car."

He turned to her position but she wasn't there anymore.

"You. Hold it." The cold voice stopped Satoru from crossing the door of the villa.

"What is it? Angry your toy got stolen, Missy?" Satoru slips his hands in his pockets and turns around.

A woman with long blackish-purple hair that extends down her back, with some strands tied behind her head, thin eyebrows, brown eyes, and a scar on the right side of her face that crosses the bridge of her nose. She is slender and of average height.

"How much do you want in exchange for the case?"

For her to be this persistent, this woman must know his Little Flower a lot. Say... a past comrade? Just the thought of it irks Satoru. After they have abandoned her, what else do they want? Take his Little Flower away from him? Not a chance in hell.

"Even if you sell me your soul, I won't give it to you Missy."

Satoru doesn't believe in love. But she shed light on his life. She keeps his heart in peace. Cliche as it could be, but she makes him happy.

His Flower never asked him for anything and it irks him how could she be so contented with complacent life after what she'd been through. He wants to give her everything, anything of her desire. But no... She would simply shrug off and continue playing with the flowers she's arranging in the vase for his office.

It's her simplicity, the calmness in her draws the chaos inside him to a tranquil state.

Only her

"Then I'll take it by force."

The woman lunges forward toward him. Throwing knives slid down her hand and flung them in his direction. She's agile, her body is able to follow Satoru who has practiced mixed martial arts. Not to mention that lying idea behind Satoru that the blade she's using is laced with poison.

A faint sound made Satoru back off and a shell of ammo parted the two of them. His Little Flower walked out of the shadow, holding a pistol, aimed at the two of them.

It takes Satoru back to the day she was finally caught in his trap. It's the same as this, her gun is pointed at his head. It's just that, now, it's pointed at someone else's head.

"You..." Realization dawns on your face.

"Akina, you know this one?" Satoru relaxes his stance and walks towards her. He's right then... He hates people connected to her past life, it invokes the cruel side of him to selfishly keep her by his side at any cost.

It's fine. He tries to reassure himself, even as his heart breaks seeing her fierce face fall down to recognition.

"She use to be my captain and senior. Utahime."

"Oh?" A spark of selfish anger ignited in his guts. His vision is overtaken by the green monster clouding his better judgment.

"Y/n you're alive. Let me look at you." Tears gathered in the eyes of that woman. "Everyone thought you died. Why did you hide it for this long?"

Satoru is more than tempted to cut the arms that tried to reach for his Akina. But her reaction was more than enough to calm the green monster inside him.

She jerked her arms away, stepping back much to the woman's pain and disappointment.

"Did the organization have you retrieve my information?" The wavering in her eyes was replaced with hardness.

"Y/n, come home with me now. I was going to find you after looking into your information. Everyone has been worried sick about you. Remember Paris? The child has been crying for you."

Ah, the oldest trick in the book. Evoking familial emotion and pity.

Akina has her back against Satoru so she cannot see the darkness in his eyes boring into her soul. No matter where you go, I will have you by my side. It's an obsession, something embedded and resounding in his veins. No matter what she chooses, in the end, she'll end up with him and only him. It's like a curse he has never stopped chanting in his darkest dreams.

"The organization abandoned me first. Why should I go back? Wouldn't that make me a fool?"

Good. Very good. It pleases Satoru. The coldness of her voice, the hatred behind her words. Inflict them pain the pain you endured, and pay them back tenfold.

The woman's face crumpled in sadness.

Satoru held a hand over his Flower's shoulder but the sting of her swat threw it off. Dead seriousness is engraved in her eyes.

"Move, I need to talk to her. Alone."

And he leaves. Satoru leaves, because no matter what she says, he'll listen only to her alone.

"Y/n you're coming back with me, right? You're just vying for your time to kill him, right?" Utahime look at her with renewed hope as Satoru went in the waiting car, several meters away.

She use to look up to her. She patched her wounds, sneaked in food, and fed her, keeping her from ultimately falling into the darkness of their work. She looks up to her as a sister would.

"Did you know the organization abandoned me?" She feared this question almost all her life.

"That's not true, the organization needed to fool Satoru, or else he'll use you against us." Utahime pleaded, how much Akina wanted to believe her words. That the people who fostered her never meant to abandon her, that they cared for her, even just a drop, for the sake of her loyalty and effort through the years.

"I... want to believe you." Akina looks at Utahime. She doesn't want to doubt her senior, after all the years of being together. "But this isn't a matter of believing or not. The fact they left me on the brink of my death is enough."

I've had enough of it. That kind of life, taking and taking lives like breathing. Akina lowered her gun.

"The organization never really cared about me. They care about what I knew. In the end, people like me are disposable pawns for them. People like us. The next day they abandoned me, I'm sure there's another kid being trained to replace me. I'm not ignorant. I've paid my due for working all my life for them until now. If the Headmaster is wary I'll speak about the organization, please tell him, I won't. Even if it's Satoru or you, I won't spill a word about what I have done for them. That is the last thing I will do in exchange for the years of feeding me until I could properly shoot a gun." She turned her back on the defeated Utahime, walking to the waiting car.

"He's just using you. How do you know he won't torture you to get information out of you?" Utahime cried, her voice cracking.

"I know. Aren't we all? Just using each other for our own satisfaction. It's up to us how to use each other. It's just that this time, I'm given a choice, and I chose him."

Akina continued walking but stopped before she could reach the car.

"Senior... Please don't look for me ever again. This will be the last time you meet me as that kid in the white room. The next time you try to hurt him, I will kill you."

Since they went home she's been awfully quiet. It doesn't help that it's been raining in the mountains for week-long straight setting the mood as grey as it could be.

On days that he has to handle business in town, he leaves with her staring out of the window and comes back home with her still sitting on that window, accompanied by his two tigers whose big bodies are sleeping on her feet. It takes him back to the first day she stayed here. Bleak and empty.

He tried to divert her attention with conversations but her reply to them was as curt as possible and Satoru can't help but despise that woman for influencing his Flower's thoughts like this. It makes him miserable seeing her in a gloomy mood. If only she knew how many of his subordinates suffered from his irritableness, even Suguru has to reign him down from snapping.

"The hydrangeas are in full bloom today." The first full sentence she has spoken since they went home.

It's drizzling the whole afternoon. Satoru quietly held the umbrella as she walk on the stone path at a slow pace, admiring the blooming varied hydrangeas. The two tigers—Karma and Eros—lounge on the open terrace, despiteful of the rain.

"Sorry about being  so gloomy, I've just had things to think."

"What were you thinking about?"

Leaving him? He stops, turning to face you with a complex look dawning on him at your aching silence. The side of his mouth clenched, and his eyes were dark, dark enough that they were electric blue, a minuscule image of your face inside his gaze. 

His hand moves to hold your cheek halts in its tracks, the warmth of his fingers barely brushing your skin as you turn to him in question. "I can't tell you, and I made up my mind anyway. Nothing can change my mind now." You repeat softly, turning away from him.

You inhaled and point to the vacant spot in the garden. "I think looking out the window would be more fun if we have a lotus pond here."

"I can't do it alone." Satoru sanguine look bore into you.

"No, you're not." Your hand search for his rough palm and tug him to continue walking in the faint afternoon showers.

—GreyCaelum

PLAGIARISM IS A CRIME

Check out the Masterlist for more.

All rights and credits of the Jujutsu Kaisen character(s) mentioned image(s) and song(s) used, belong to their respective owner(s).

General Taglist: @ice-icebaby @aeanya @tender-rosiey

[dalgursbate]

make a mess, lioness (4/?)

Summary: It’s much easier to get the upper hand in a negotiation when you’re the one on top. Or, Tav reads Raphael’s diaries.

WC: 12,194 Rating: E Pairing: M/F, Raphael/Tav, Raphael/Haarlep, Haarlep/Tav

part 1 || part 2 || part 3

When Tav awakes at dawn the next morning, her body aches like a sweet memory even as her gut roils with the bile and lead that seem to have made a home in it. Every stretch of her poor, abused form is at once delicious and terrifying; every exploratory press of fingertips into tender flesh revealing another place where she has been made vulnerable by Raphael’s touch.

She struggles to swallow, choking on nothing but her own tightening throat at the thought of the bet she’s made. She doesn’t remember the exact details, isn’t sure that Raphael even really described them before she metaphorically signed, but she knows that wagering with one’s soul is typically bad form. 

Oh well. It’s too late to change the past, Tav supposes. And if she’s being honest, part of her is a little titillated at the thought of this cat and mouse game with Raphael playing out. There’s something about the idea of teasing him, driving him crazy, that she hasn’t been able to shake since she first read his diaries. She is, truthfully, looking forward to getting to indulge that impulse freely; she finds it exhilarating even as it frightens her. Mostly, she just wishes she better understood the terms of their agreement. 

Almost as if a prayer has been answered, Tav notices through the thin haze of grogginess clouding her mind that a crisp envelope is waiting for her in her tent, poised delicately atop her robes (and had she folded them so immaculately last night? She doesn’t think so). 

Tav would know who the missive was from even if the telltale aroma of cherries and sulfur didn’t cling to the paper, but the smell of it nevertheless sets a frisson of heat alight in her belly. Ugh, she thinks. It’s humiliating how susceptible she is to Raphael’s charms, sometimes. Nevertheless, she holds out hope that whatever is inside of it will offer some clarification on the situation she has gotten herself into.

As she picks up the envelope, Tav can feel that there’s something small and bulky inside of it, something other than mere paper, and she wonders at what that might be. But as she removes the wax seal adorned with a devilish crest, the first thing she encounters is a piece of parchment. Carefully, Tav begins to scan the page, though her efforts are thwarted somewhat by the lingering sleep that still clings to her eyes. It makes it a bit difficult to focus on the words, but eventually Tav is able to parse them. The letter, perfumed with the scent of Raphael’s cologne and written in a fine, cursive hand, reads:

The lanceboard is set and the curtains are drawn,

But the game we shall stage will have nary a pawn.

Instead, it is waged ‘twixt a King and his Queen,

And ends only when one must exeunt from the scene.

For in order is bliss, we shall take play in turns;

Each to stoke in the other the fire that burns.

On this board, the players have charge of their rival–

Your turn only forfeit upon your arrival.

You may use them, abuse them, amuse at your leisure,

But moves must be made in pursuit of their pleasure.

Now, enough exposition; let’s begin the dramatics–

For this story has promised to be quite climactic.

White always moves first, so, my dear little bird:

Collect now your piece, pet, and utter the word.

As Tav finishes reading, she notices that the ink on the page smells faintly of Infernal magic; it seems that Raphael has somehow altered the terms of their agreement, or perhaps simply elaborated them. At least, Tav thinks he has. She doesn’t quite remember what exactly she assented to last night, after all, given the state she was in; it’s possible that this was all in there, though that seems unlikely with how frenzied the whole situation had felt. It’s also possible, she imagines, that the agreement was so vague that Raphael was able to define the terms to his own liking, devil that he is. Either way, she has obviously made a grave error in not hammering out the details more precisely.

Still, at least these rules offer a bit of clarity. If Tav is reading it right, it seems like they’ll each get to take turns subjecting the other to erotic torture, and the turn ends when the person whose turn it is orgasms. So on and so forth until one of them cries uncle. Simple enough, and thankfully Tav already has a number of ideas about how she might exploit such a loose structure to her advantage. They slide around in her mind easily, the images of them caressing her brain in a way that sends excitement straight to the core of her. 

Perhaps this won’t be so bad, she thinks as she upends the envelope, dumping the other item inside of it into her waiting palm. As the skin of her hand is greeted by cool, heavy stone, Tav quickly recognizes the small statue as a lanceboard piece. Specifically, the white queen. After all, it seems like it’s my turn first. There is nothing particularly noteworthy about the piece, aside from its obviously fine make, except that around its neck is a thin scarlet ribbon. The ribbon bears a tiny slip of paper, upon which the unfamiliar spell “cupio” is written in neat lettering.

Tav absentmindedly mutters the word aloud to herself, testing the feel of it out on her tongue, and two things happen at once. 

First, the ink on the letter glows bright, fiery red for a moment before cooling back to the rust-colored script that lay there previously. Oh, Tav thinks. So it probably wasn’t actually binding before. She presumes it is now, though—that her adherence to the instruction constituted consent to the new terms.

This is why I’m a sorcerer and not a warlock, Tav thinks to herself with a groan.

The second thing that happens is somehow more distressing, which is that as the spell leaves her lips the queen begins vibrating wildly, as though affected by some variation of the blur spell. It isn’t making any noise, but she can feel it buzzing against her skin in a strange and intoxicating manner, like she is holding a handful of surprisingly pleasant bees.

Then, as if on cue, a mage hand appears from thin air and delicately plucks the piece from her hand. She only has a moment to be startled before the hand is moving again. It traces the crown of the queen over the bones in Tav’s wrist, as though mapping out her anatomy with due care. Gradually, it leads the piece up her arm, just barely dragging the tip of it over her skin. 

It is like nothing she’s ever experienced before, the stone humming intently but delicately over her flesh. As it tickles her sensitive inner arm and dances up over her shoulder, she can feel herself sighing and leaning into it intuitively. Tav is only wearing her smallclothes, so the flesh the piece ghosts over is gloriously naked, raising goosebumps in its wake and making her grow wet in anticipation of where else it might touch her. Her body is still so hyperreactive from the way it was lavished over last night, and the hand’s unhurried teasing is exquisite in a way that is entirely foreign to her.

On some level, she knows she ought to be questioning why this is happening. But her mind is still so addled and overwhelmed from Raphael's attentions and the sluggishness of sleep that she does not find she has it in her to put a stop to something so nice. Especially not when the piece glides down her chest to vibrate against her nipples. She can feel them harden almost instantly, a combination of the temperature of the marble and the surprising ecstasy of it, and Tav almost cries out. 

She barely has time to focus on smothering the sound before the hand is moving down, down, down to where her cunt is still covered by cotton. It hovers just above the waistband, gently petting her pelvis with the piece through her panties.

And, oh, Gods, she desperately wants to feel this lovely alien sensation on her clit. 

“More,” Tav begs without thinking, because of course she doesn’t think. Why would she think? If one were to examine only the past twenty-four hours, they might come to the conclusion that Tav both has never thought and will never think again. 

Gods, I could never be a wizard either, she grouses to herself, before adding: And I can never, ever tell Gale that. He would be insufferable about it.

Evidently ignorant to her frustrated internal monologue, the hand acquiesces to the request. Tav lets out a loud gasp that turns into a moan as the strange buzzing lights every nerve in her cunt on fire. The hand rubs the crown of the queen in small, tight circles against her underwear, and it is a matter of mere moments before Tav is writhing and squirming against it. She is captivated by the sheer decadence of it all, by the ease with which the hand has undone her without her having to lift a finger. Without having to take off her smallclothes, even. It has her muttering and whimpering her climax into her fist to keep from making too much noise, undone so thoroughly by something so small.

As soon as she rides out the last waves of pleasure against the cold marble, the hand disappears and the piece ceases its vibration. Tav barely has a moment to catch her breath and come down before her surroundings dissipate in a puff of red, sparkling smoke. When the world comes back together, she is sitting not in her tent at camp, but on the floor of Raphael’s boudoir.

“What the fuck?” Tav asks, blinking up blearily at the cambion in front of her. He’s currently sitting at a desk, dressed in his business attire. She suddenly feels very naked.

“Hello, little mouse,” Raphael grins, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself. “Did you enjoy your turn? Because I know I am going to enjoy mine.”

“My turn?” Tav repeats, confused, until the significance of Raphael’s words sets in. Once they have, she is alert in an instant. “But–wait–no. Do you mean just now? I wasn’t even the one in control of that! That’s not what the parchment said.”

“Mmm, I distinctly recall you demanding ‘more,’ pet,” Raphael counters, and by the Gods, Tav swears she is never interacting with a devil before sunrise again. Or after sunset. Really, whenever it’s dark out. “You did not give me any orders to refrain from touching you, as I recall. I am bound by our contract to do as you tell me—not to only do as you tell me.”

Tav processes that, and stows it away for use in the future; that must mean the same is true in reverse. Still, though: “But–but. But that wasn’t for your pleasure, surely.”

“Was it not? Because I enjoyed myself immensely,” he says, and sweeps a hand downward to gesture at the obvious bulge in his trousers.

Tav swallows.

That bastard.

“So it’s your turn, then,” she says slowly, and despite everything she can feel anticipation pulsing in the core of her. “What would you have me do?”

Raphael pretends to think about it for a moment, before saying, “I think I’d like you to come sit on my lap, pet.”

Tav hesitates for a moment, wondering what his game is, but the impatient look in his eye stirs her into motion as she remembers that her soul depends on her compliance. As such, she cautiously begins to shuffle toward him on her knees.

“Oh, but strip first would you? I want to admire you.”

It sounds painfully earnest despite the cool affectation in his voice, and Tav flushes. She does as he asks, though, ridding herself of the lacy underthings adorning her body without a word. As soon as she is naked, she gingerly climbs into his lap.

“Gorgeous,” Raphael says under his breath, almost as though he did not intend to, and Tav can feel the blood rise to her cheeks even faster. 

With a gentle hand, Raphael repositions her so that Tav is sitting with her back to his chest, straddling his right thigh. One of his hands slides up the plane of her stomach to cup her breast lightly, while the other kneads a steady rhythm into her hip. A third hand, what Tav assumes must be a mage hand, tangles gently in her hair to guide her to bare her neck. Then, Raphael leans down to drag his nose along the line of her throat. He inhales deeply at her pulse point, apparently savoring her scent, before his tongue darts out to taste her. Distantly, Tav hears herself whine.

“You’re truly delectable, you know,” Raphael says against her skin. “You make it nearly impossible to get any work done.” Once more, Tav finds herself squirming. The praise feels good, feels too good, and it settles inside of her a bit uncomfortably. It is as though half of her brain is fighting to reject his words and the other half desperately craves more of them. “Imagine how it feels to finally have you right where I want you.”

Tav tells herself that he is manipulating her, that he is merely trying to win this game he has started. She tries to gather her bearings and keep her wits about her. Still, she finds herself asking, “This is where you want me?”

“Yes,” Raphael hisses, and his sharp, sharp teeth graze her so very softly. Tav gasps, writhing into the feeling.

She tries to force a dry chuckle from her lips, but it ends up sounding like a strangled cat. “For how long? I have hero stuff to do, you know.”

Raphael doesn’t answer her, just slides the fingers at her hip lower, skates them feverishly over her pelvis. Tav instinctively opens her legs for him, leaning back against him further to offer him better access to her still-dripping cunt. She forces her eyes open, unsure of when exactly they had closed, so she can watch as two of his devilish claws carefully part her folds. Tav is captivated by the sight of it, and she moans unbidden as he spreads his fingers around her clit, rubbing either side of it.

Fuck, it’s so hot. It’s so hot. And then he starts talking again.

“So pretty,” he murmurs against her neck, like he’s reciting a litany. “So clever. So resourceful. So powerful. I hope you realize what a marvel you are.” The pad of one finger grazes over her clit head-on, and Tav nearly screams. She isn’t used to being talked to like this, touched like this. Like she’s more valuable than any finery in the entirety of the House of Hope. Like she’s more valuable than anything. It’s too much, she thinks. I can’t take it. As if Raphael can sense her hesitation, he plants a hot, wet kiss to her throat. The deft fingers on Tav’s clit pick up speed and pressure, rubbing delicious patterns into her skin as she bucks and keens.

“You’re incredible like this,” he says, and the sincerity Tav can hear in his voice sends her reeling. But he refuses to slow down, repeating, as if to himself, “You’re incredible.” He keeps plucking at her strings like a virtuoso does a violin, and Tav feels her incoming climax build in a glorious crescendo. She arcs her hips upwards, bracing her body weight with one hand on the seat of the chair as she throws her head back onto his shoulder. The noises she’s making now are lurid, filthy; tears begin to prick the corners of her eyes.

Raphael speaks again, deadly serious, “Let me cherish you, pet. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Tav mumbles, only half aware of the words leaving her lips, and then cries out. Her bliss overtakes her in a brutal rush of searing heat, wave after wave of arousal and pleasure crashing over her. It feels as though she has dived headfirst into an endless lava pit, the way her bones are melting inside of her with no reprieve in sight. She collapses back into Raphael, panting and gasping for air.

The room is still for a long moment as she recovers. As her breathing calms, Raphael removes his fingers from the slick mess in between Tav’s thighs and sucks them greedily into his mouth.

“You taste good, too,” he says after he removes them, echoing Tav’s words from their first encounter. Against her will, she hears herself whimper. “Now be a good pet and get on your knees.”

[thecreaturecodex]

Mind Flayer, Elder Brain

Image © Wizards of the Coast, by Daarken. Accessed at Art of MtG here

[In writing up the mind flayers, my goal has been to make a version of the elder brain that I actually like and would use. The obstacles are numerous. As I've previously said, I do not like the 2e innovations that made both beholders and mind flayers eusocial species, because it strips them of their main attributes (independence and xenophobia for beholders, extreme intelligence for mind flayers) and makes them into pawns, slaves and dupes. The elder brain specifically was said to be lying to all other illithids about how their personalities would remain intact inside of them forever. Mind flayers are geniuses; not one of them ever saw through this? It definitely plays into the 2e directive that evil should be self-sabotaging, but it just makes one of the coolest monsters in D&D seem like rubes.

The second problem was more mechanical. In D&D 3.5, a mind flayer was a (weak) CR 8, but an elder brain was a CR 25! That meant that only epic level characters could encounter an elder brain and hope to survive, but at that level, the mind flayers would be utterly useless, unless the DM gave them a bunch of class levels, which is even more work. 5e keeps the power differential between them much saner, which I have striven to maintain here.

The third problem is probably my most nitpicky, but I've never much liked the look of the elder brain as just a brain with tentacles. The recent art for Magic the Gathering gives them a more alien appearance which I much prefer.

See my post on mind flayers in general for more information about the mind flayer subtype]

Mind Flayer, Elder Brain CR 15 LE Aberration This creature resembles a distorted humanoid brain, leathery and swollen to the size of a rhinoceros. Tentacles grow from underside like an unraveled brain stem. Despite a seeming lack of sensory organs, it seems perfectly aware of its surroundings.

An elder brain is the hub of a mind flayer colony, as they are both its most typically powerful member and the source of its future. The elder brain is the reproductive female equivalent of the mind flayers, and they birth the tadpoles that will be the next generation. They are incredibly knowledgeable, and illithids and ulitharids consult them for their plans and assist with the elder brain’s schemes in return. An elder brain can access the memories of any brain it has consumed. Most illithids consider it a civic duty to have their brains fed to the elder brain when they die in order to preserve their knowledge and experiences.

Few elder brains move much, as their bodies are bulky and slow on land. They can fly magically, but find this tiring, preferring instead to stick to water. Mind flayer colonies are built around brood pools, which act as a comfortable habitat for the elder brain and the various illithid tadpoles alike. Illithid tadpoles receive relatively little care or consideration until they are implanted into a host body, but are fed various secretions that ooze from the elder brain’s glands. An elder brain on the move is much more likely to be an astral body than the actual creature. Some elder brains regularly explore the planes and other planets in astral form, often with a few privileged mind flayers as students.

Elder brains are horrifically powerful combatants, combining the magical gifts of other mind flayers with great size and strength. Each elder brain is a talented spellcaster, having learned magic as part of their extended adolescence as ulitharids. They can also dominate any kind of creature, and few elder brains are ever encountered without a few monstrous bodyguards to absorb damage. Elder brains typically fight from the safety of their brood pools, dragging enemies into the depths to have their brain extracted after having neutralized resistance through mind blasts and spells.

An elder brain is about 10 feet in diameter, with tentacles that can reach another 15 feet beyond that.

Elder Brain            CR 15 XP 51,200 LE Huge aberration (mind flayer) Init +6; Senses all-around vision, arcane sight,blindsight 120 ft., creature sense 500 ft., darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision, Perception +28 Defense AC 28, touch 10, flat-footed 26(-2 size, +2 Dex, +10 natural, +8 shield) hp 210 (20d8+120) Fort +14, Ref +12, Will +17; +4 vs. emotion effects DR 10/adamantine and magic; SR 30 Defensive Abilities affectless; Weakness light blindness,sunlight sickness Offense Speed 10 ft., fly 30 ft. (good), swim 30 ft. Melee 8 tentacles +20 (1d8+7 plus grab) Space 15 ft.; Reach 15 ft. Special Attacks constrict (1d8+12), mind blast, pith (tentacle) Spell-like Abilities CL 15th, concentration +23 (+27 casting defensively) Constant—arcane sight, mental barrier III At will—charm monster (DC 22), confusion (DC 22), dominate person (DC 23), detect thoughts (DC 20), dimension door, mind thrust IV (DC 22), suggestion (DC 21), telekinesis (DC 23) 3/day—plane shift (DC 23), greater scrying (DC 25), quickened suggestion (DC 21) 1/day—astral projection, dominate monster (DC 27), project image (DC 25), veil (DC 24) Spells CL 14th, concentration +22 (+26 casting defensively) 7th (4/day)—mass inflict pain (DC 25) 6th (6/day)—disintegrate (DC 24), greater dispel magic 5th (8/day)—mind fog (DC 23), mind probe (DC 23), wall of force 4th (8/day)—detect scrying, dimensional anchor, enervation, fear (DC 22) 3rd (8/day)— aversion (DC 21), clairaudience/clairvoyance, lightning bolt (DC 21), protection from energy 2nd (8/day)—blur, eagle’s splendor, glitterdust (DC 20), paranoia (DC 21), scorching ray 1st (9/day)—déjà vu (DC 19), mage armor, magic missile, mindlink (DC 19), ray of enfeeblement (DC 19), unseen servant 0th—acid splash, arcane mark, dancing lights, ghost sound (DC 18), mage hand, mending, read magic, resistance, touch of fatigue (DC 18) Statistics Str 24, Dex 14, Con 22, Int 29, Wis 21, Cha 27 Base Atk +15; CMB +24 (+28 grapple); CMD 41 (cannot be tripped) Feats Arcane Strike, Combat Casting, Combat Expertise,Combat Reflexes,Defensive Combat Training, Improved Initiative, Lightning Reflexes, Psychic Sensitivity (B), Quicken SLA (dominate person, suggestion), Spell Penetration Skills Appraise +29,Bluff +28, Diplomacy +28, Fly +25, Intimidate +31, Knowledge (arcana, dungeoneering, planes, religion) +42, Perception +28, Sense Motive +25, Spellcraft +32, Swim +16, Use Magic Device +28 Languages Aboleth, Aklo, Common, Draconic, Elven, Qualith, Undercommon, telepathy 500 ft. SQ eldritch knowledge +10, no breath, psychic potency Ecology Environment underground Organization solitary, field trip (1 plus 2-12 illithids and/or ulitharids) or colony (1 plus 10-200 illithids and 1 ulitharid per 10 illithids) Treasure double standard Special Abilities Creature Sense (Su) An elder brain can detect the presence of all creatures within 500 feet and communicate telepathically with them. A mind blank spell prevents this detection, and the elder brain must make a caster level check with its SLA caster level to detect creatures under the effects of a nondetection spell. Eldritch Knowledge (Ex) All Knowledge skills are class skills for an elder brain, and it can make Knowledge checks untrained. It gains a bonus to all Knowledge checks equal to ½ its Hit Dice. Flight (Su) The fly speed of an elder brain is a supernatural ability. Mind Blast (Su) As a standard action, an elder brain can create a 60 foot cone of mental energy. All creatures in the area must succeed a DC 26 Will save or be stunned for 3d4 rounds. A creature that is stunned may attempt to recover from this condition as a full-round action with an additional DC 28 Will save. A creature that fails its save is considered to be feebleminded, as per the spell, for 1 minute after recovering from the stunning effect.  After 1 minute, the creature can attempt a second DC 28 Will save in order to avoid being permanently feebleminded. Mind flayers are immune to the effects of a mind blast. An elder brain can use a mind blast at will, but must wait 1d4 rounds between uses. This is a mind-influencing effect, and the save DC is Charisma based with a -2 racial penalty. Psychic Potency (Ex) An elder brain gains Psychic Sensitivity as a bonus feat. If it can use psychic magic, it instead gains Psychic Virtuoso as a bonus feat. Spells An elder brain gains spells as a 14th level sorcerer, oracle or psychic. It does not gain any other class abilities for that class, such as a bloodline or mystery, unless it takes levels in that class. Tentacles (Ex) An elder brain’s tentacles are treated as primary natural weapons.