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yorsgirl · 7 months ago

Text

Perhaps, in another realm

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: An elixir of life – you, destined solely for his consumption. Yet, in his pursuit, he forgot, he sipped away your essence, your breath of life.

Tropes: Dark romance, Historical fiction, Angst, fluff.

Warnings: implied nsfw, implied forced intimacy, forced marriage, baby-trapping, knife play, yandere themes, isolation, trauma, one-sided love implied, non-explicit violence, mild stockholm syndrome(to empathize with one's captor), misogyny, minor character death, healthily unhealthy relationship, Sukuna being a red-green flag, Sukuna has eyes for no one except his wife.

General Warnings: Heian Era, strict Japanese setting, usage of Japanese terms(glossary provided), True form!Sukuna, husband!Sukuna, wife!reader, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n.

Word Count: 3.7k

Glossary || Pictures

Ryomen Sukuna beholds secrets which he musn't.

Each dawn's awakening, he notes the sun's radiant dance on your irises. Marking the gentle arc of your lips, a telltale sign of mirth's embrace. By the garden's edge, he watches as the winds tousle and play with your hair curls.

With each flicker of your essence, he can't help but feel a pang of frustration at his own inability to guard his heart against the allure of your presence. Each time your unpredictability unfolds before him, he curses his own vulnerability for the arising tenderness within him.

It vexes him deeply.

Gnawing at the recesses of his, once assumed, dormant heart. Yet, now brought to life by unknown sensations – fuzzy and irksome.

An elixir of life – you. Meant to be solely consumed by him.

Your intricate curls destined to be twirled in his fingers alone. Singularly, he'd stand as the privileged observer, captivated by your brilliant elegance. Your figure draped in the resplendent folds of an opulent kimono, delicately bestowed upon you by his hands.

Thus, he embarked on the sole course he could comprehend – take you.

Splitting you away from the familiarity of a family, hearth and hamlet; for in his eyes, your fragile essence demands his safeguarding against this wicked, cruel realm.

Persuading you, that a life enfolded in his embrace had no reason for trepidation. Your purity, too immaculate to endure the harshness of existence.

Yet, persuasion faltered; your resolute heart held no inclination to remain in his grasp. Mounting a relentless siege, to break free from him and his distorted path.

"You crave peril as I assume, so be it," He conceded. "But know this: I'll be the sole peril haunting your very being."

Pressed beneath the weight of his body upon the bed, your resistance proves to be futile against his strength. Leaving you ensnared in a struggle where defiance falters in presence of his immense power.

"Isn't this what you desired? Didn't you yearn for peril?" He questions, his forefinger trailed across the delicate curve of your neck, assessing the rhythmic beat of your pulse point.

"Fear not, I shall burn the world down to literal ashes until none poses a threat to you, save for me, of course."

For danger, befalling upon you while his eyes held the witness and hands were the forebearer of pain – he'd allow. After all, he embodied peril, haunting humanity for centuries.

"My dearest," He began, twirling a blade before your defiant gaze. "I've wielded this to afflict your kin but fear not, it shall yield pure ecstacy for you."

Said so, he thrusted the timber end of the blade within your slick, delicate folds. Your screams shunned out over his malevolent laughter, fingers twisted the cotton sheets as he glided the blade in-and-out of you.

Blood dripped down his wounded hand, staining the white to red, yet his countenance held no response to pain. Gaze fixated upon your shuddering form, underneath him.

He was no stranger to the acts committed in bed. Knowledgeable of all ministrations and threads he needed to ensnared in order to make it pleasurable. Yet, you found no pleasure in this undoing.

The act of intimacy, which you envisioned to be filled with love while your lover would pepper kisses on your skin much akin to the gentle touch of spring's warmth.

That dream left shattered like shards of glass when your chastity was cruelly left to ruins under his harsh caress.

The night stretched on, your anguish unending as he remained vigilant, subjecting you to his torment.

When it ceased, he gingerly held your fragility while tears streamed down your eyes. He cradled your head in his palm, enfolding your trembling form against his chest as he murmured endearments into your parched ears.

You feebly hit on his chest, for you were seeking comfort from your captor – a sickening act.

He brought you pain and despair, yet here he was, bringing you solace in his arms. A sickening man, indeed, he was.

And with him, you were to stay.

You kneeled before the shrine deity.

Decked in a white shiromuku with traces of pink pattern embellishing the fabric, haori lowered just above your lips – grateful to the one who dressed you. Moisture laden lashes would've been a sight for sore eyes.

Beside you, your husband knelt. A black montsukini hakama draped around your self-proclaimed fiance and soon to be husband. Perhaps, you'd have seized the moment to admire him in such a lavish attire if he didn't commit the acts he did.

Abduction and coercion reigned heavy on your mind, the priest's chanting muffled over your loud thoughts. Your fear of the impending, palpable.

Later, you stood by his side, bedecked in jewels, unknown to you. Countless villagers and curses bowed before you but you were a foreigner to such deference.

It was his decree. For he was the King of curses and you – his consort, his queen.

Sukuna witnessed you gazing at the pond situated in his garden.

You gazed upon the lotus blooming at the heart of the pond, longingly. Reaching out for it, the trailing end of your garment splashed in the water – a futile attempt, too distant to grasp.

He stifled a snort on the brink of his lips as he descended into the garden, tethering on the stoned pads placed in between soil – approaching you.

"You desire that flower, wife?"

You rose swiftly, clutching the dampened hem of your attire. Refusing to meet his gaze, you brushed off the fabric, clearing away the soil.

"Apologies," You murmured. "I was just curious."

"That doesn't answer my question." He stated, an arch of his eyebrow at your frame. "Do you yearn for it?"

Standing before him, a hush lingered in the air, mere seconds passing. Fingers fidgeting, you nibbled on your inner cheek.

"Perhaps," you admitted, finally locking eyes with his feet once he takes a step forward. Bracing for the inevitable, you tightly shut your eyes.

You shouldn't have considered it. Entertaining the thought of plucking it behind his back, hoping he wouldn't notice, all the while unaware of his presence. You should have realized. Defiance in the past had met harsh retribution. This would be no exception.

"I beg–"

"Enough," He interjected.

You gritted your teeth, fists clenched tightly. This was worse. A single mistake, and you're sealed to a worse fate.

Yet, the vision never bore life.

He took your right hand, delicately clasping it within his own. Slowly, he pried open each finger, tenderly placing something within. Curiosity overrides your apprehension, and you cautiously open your eyes – finding the lotus nestled in your palm.

Your lips parted in astonishment as you gaze up at him, wonderstruck.

"Apologies should not leave your lips for trying to claim what is rightfully yours." He asserted, a ghost of an arc perched upon his lips.

"You desire something, you speak up," He waited, letting the words sink down. "Its upon me, how I'll bring it to fruition."

"You are to accompany master to dinner tonight," Uraume conveyed, head and eyes lowered in a humble bow.

The fusuma slid shut, signaling their departure, leaving you to your solitude once again.

Lately, companionship has been ceased from your existence. Confined to your chambers by Sukuna's decree that none other than he should share a moment with you. Save for his devoted servant and few maids he deemed worthy, who prepared you for the day.

Upon your bed, you rested, gazing into a void. Softly humming a melody, reminiscent of a distant song, echoing from the depths of your memory; harkening down the familial embrace in your ancestral village.

The day commenced to dusk, the sky donning a cloak of darkness – welcoming the night's silhouette.

Attended by chosen handmaidens, you were draped in a lavish kimono of crimson and ivory. Crushed red cherry paste graced your lips, a stroke of kohl ran along your lashlines.

You beheld your reflection, lovely; yet the joy eluded you. Unable to savor your captivating visage amidst your plight.

You were escorted to the dining hall by Uraume. As the doors parted, your captor, your husband, awaited you; seated on the head of the table. You took your place across him, evading his malevolent stare, your attention fixed solely on the delicacies presented by the servants.

"Afraid to meet my gaze, wife?" He inquired, his smirk palpable in his tone.

Still, you didn't meet his gaze, eyes fixed on your folded hands resting neatly on your lap. "I fear, I am not deserving to meet your eyes, your highness."

His sight danced upon your figure, measuring you as though you were his quarry. A chuckle escaped him as he poured the sake in his ochoko, indulging in a sip.

"Amusing, how you speak so when you are moons away from birthing my offspring, wife."

Your frame grew rigid, lips drawn tight whilst you glanced at your burgeoning womb.

Restraints couldn't bond you to him forever, he comprehended that moons past. Thus, he had to resort to unruly stratagems. Seeding you with his progeny – rendering you incapable of fleeing him.

If only, you acquiesced and remained by his side, as he craved, he wouldn't have acted thus. But your resolve left him with no alternative.

Not a matter to ponder his head upon, he would've planted his seed in you eventually. A kinship with you, his aspiration.

"I wouldn't leave you famished in such a state, wife. Begin eating." He declared, slicing a strip of meat with his chopsticks.

Eating, as if it were possible in such a condition. The satisfaction of a hearty meal has long deserted you. You didn't suspect the flavors of dishes perched before you. Furthermore, you lacked appetite.

You partook in meals solely to survive.

With adjoined palms, you offered a silent prayer to the almighty reigning above you. And so, you began.

Blood bathed the tatami mats of your chambers.

A severed head of a, newly appointed, handmaiden, laid near your feet. Her corpse, probably resulted into hundreds– no thousands of strips, indistinguishable.

Your stance remained rigid and motionless. Terror evident on your countenance, fragile fingertips shaking with shock and apprehension.

"Ah wife," Your husband's voice echoed in your ears. He approached you, stepping over the puddle of blood and sliced flesh.

"You weren't supposed to witness that– come," He gingerly caressed your skin, ushering you out of his chambers with a hand on your back.

"Uraume," He summoned his loyal servant, as on cue, they knelt before their master. "Have the maids tidy this mess."

With the subtle nod, Uraume pivoted around, carrying out their master's command alike a proclamation from thee almighty.

Snapping a life wasn't on his schedule today. He wished to spent it with you, hence summoning you back to your chambers.

Perhaps, a foolish handmaiden, attracted by his visage, made the decision to lure him with her appeal. Lowering her uniform to display her curve of of breast, singing praises of his brilliance to him.

Taken him to be resembling any ordinary man, giving into his desires by just any woman's revealed skin. Alas! He had no interest in any woman other than his wife.

An act of like that, only receives the treatment he'd bestow upon any mortal other than you.

Death.

"I must say, you look lovely, my queen." Twirling a strand of your hair, he pushed it behind your ear.

Upon the engawa of your husband's abode, you knelt, sight fixated on the swarm of fireflies illuminating the garden.

Sukuna held his stance beside you, lower two hands bearing his weight behind, the third perched upon his arched knee. He set the kiseru down with the fourth, his thumb and forefinger lifted your chin; coaxing your towards him.

"Intriguing, you are," He remarked, eyebrow arched.

"Such defiance you displayed upon our initial union, and now, you show indifference. Continuously subjecting me to such blank stares and compliance." A hint of exasperation lingered his tone.

"Isn't that what you wished for?" You retorted, a moment later.

Drawing you near, his lips brushed against yours, "Perhaps, I did do." He murmured, breath caressing your cheeks, prompting a flutter of your eyelids.

"But now, I yearn for something greater."

With that, he seized your lips in a fervent, fiery kiss. Only parting, a hair's breath away, to allow you to catch your breath.

He pivoted you gently, drawing you into his embrace. Two arms encircled your waist, one caressing your swollen belly. Third, Brushing aside your hair, you heard the tinkling of ornaments. Moments later, a chain adorned your neck, a crimson gemstone nestled between your collarbones.

"Ruby?"

"Rubies are ill-suited during pregnancy, its diamond" He corrected, whispering beside your ear, securing the clasp of the chain. "Unlike most, this one's tint sets it apart than rest."

"For what?" You questioned, assessing the gem like it were poison. Grasping it between your middle finger and thumb, the lantern lights reflected on its surface. Though small, you knew it amounted to more than your ancestral wealth.

"Do I need a reason to spoil my wife with jewels?"

A moment passed in silence, your gazed him through your peripheral vision, the next. "Perhaps not, its beautiul."

"Turn around," He commanded, you complied instinctively. Turning your body to face him.

His gaze met yours at first, second they drifted to the chain bedecked on your neck and on third, he glanced at both, at once.

The jewel's radiance evoked with you being it's wearer.

A grin cracked upon his lips, gingerly holding your cheek in his calloused hands in which you begrudgingly leaned in. With a mouth, summoned on his palm, he placed a chaste kiss on your skin.

"Just how Intriguing you are, wife."

Love for your son eluded you.

A splitting image of his father with the identical hair and carmine tinted eyes. You pondered if he'd grow up to be just like your husband.

At days, you couldn't muster the courage to cast your eyes upon him. His mere presence: a testament to your plight, evidence that you were no longer the woman you once were and evidence to your compliance to Sukuna's desires.

Even then, you never shied away from your duties as a mother.

Perhaps, some love existed, for he wielded your flesh and blood too.

You were rendered from ever escaping. Though half-heartedly, you didn't wish to leave your child with Sukuna even though you despised both of their existence.

In this era, nurturing a child as a sole woman was beyond grasp. For all held the thought, as a woman your sole duty was to remain by your husband's side and bear his offspring.

You couldn't return to your home either. Your father, though loved you, would never let you set foot in his abode ever again.

Reasons: You were abducted by a man, your chastity stripped off of you. You were no longer pure in any sense.

He wouldn't tarnish his family name and reputation for just a daughter.

Moreover, your matrimony with the wicked, king of curses had reached rivers far; binding you to his side forever.

Peril loomed at every turn, dangling your life by a single thread. Easily snapped by even the weakest of men. Sukuna's adversaries would leave no stone unturned to reach him, venturing as far to lay down the life of his innocent wife. Someone absolved of his transgressions.

Reluctantly, you accepted that remaining by his side was the wisest decision.

You cradled your son in your embrace, rocking him back and forth as you hummed a lullaby to put him to sleep.

Once his snores serenaded the room, you tenderly placed him upon his cot, adjacent to your own resting place. Gentle pats graced his chest, once you noted him stirring in the embrace of slumber.

"Come to bed," Your husband's voice echoed in your ears. Compliance swiped in your being, a swift rotation of your heels after you had checked your son to be far from awakening. You parted the curtains and perched upon the bed – lying beside your husband.

His arms encircled around your waist, drawing you to his chest, he inhaled your scent.

Your body tensed when his lips brushed against your nape. You dreaded the inevitable.

Six moons had passed, since he last embraced you intimately. The last two, post your son's arrival, were a blur of exhaustion. From tending to your physical strain and catering to your son's ceaseless crave of attention.

Tonight, all you longed for was to surrender yourself to slumber, wrapped in embrace of gentle linens. Alas, it seemed that wish would remain unfulfilled.

You were keenly aware of his intentions tonight – for he was but a man. Thus, you braced yourself.

You waited in anticipation, for him to act on his desires. Yet, it did not come to pass.

You cracked your eyelids open, stealing a glance at him. His carmine eyes met yours in a resolute stare, holding it with unwavering poise.

"Retire to sleep," he finally remarked, tenderly brushing aside the tendrils from your weary visage.

A year prior, during the early nights of your newly forged union, you would have taken a moment to contemplate his actions, perhaps even staying awake the entire night to discern his intentions.

Now, whether out of trust or simply exhaustion from the demands of motherhood – you found yourself slipping into a dreamless slumber without further ado.

The haunting nightmare of humanity, he was; yet, you found solace in falling asleep in his embrace.

His son has taken just after you.

Verily, his offspring could be likened unto a veritable likeness of himself in countenance, yet in comportment and carriage, he bespoke tales of you.

Awaking to the crack of dawn, shedding tears should companionship elude him. Taking solace in the embrace of the verdant garden, to which you oft escorted him. Even directing reproachful glances towards him, his father, whilst cradled lovingly in his paternal arms.

Beneath your eyes lay heavy shadows, hollows etched upon your cheeks, and a perpetual frown graced your lips, save for moments spent conversing with your offspring.

Sukuna escorted his sobbing kin from their chambers, affording you the much-needed respite that has eluded you of late; his offspring casted a disdainful gaze upon him.

"What? Speak up if you wish to," He queried, a playful lilt adorning his speech.

He tenderly traced his son's tender cheek with his claw, wary of leaving any mark upon his cherubic visage. His son seized his finger in both tiny hands, elevating it as though clutching a covert weapon – scrutinizing the nail and the ridges with keen interest.

His little one beamed, a gesture akin to the gentle breeze of summer, bestowed upon him by the heavens above. A giggle swift past his lips – a laughter, he assumed angel's melody wouldn't sound better.

His smile was yours – Sukuna realized. Perhaps, he hadn't completely taken after him in physical features.

Rocking his form back and forth on his arms, a tender smile danced upon his lips.

"Lower the tone, child. Your mother rests inside."

Sukuna couldn't help but contemplate alternative scenarios.

He sipped his sake, his gaze fixed upon your figure, leaning against the amado – your eyes lingering on the cherry blossom trees outside, in the garden.

The fragrance of spring permeated the air, imbuing a soothing atmosphere, starkly contrasting with the terror he instilled upon the village beyond the river.

At moments such as these, he can't help but ponder on the possibility of attaining a kinship with you, without resorting to unruly methods.

His thoughts rewind to the clash conversation he shared with you, mere moments past.

In your gaze, defiance ablazed, aimed straight at him.

"What's your intent? To end my life? Proceed, now. Who held you back? Proceed. Perhaps, I'd choose that fate over spending another day with you."

"Make no mistake," You pressed on. "My sentiment for you isn't love, don't deceive yourself. What festers within me is pure, unadulterated hate."

How could he let slip from memory? A curse he was, brutal and unyielding. Unwelcomed, marked with shame – The disgraceful one. How could he fail to recall? Love's realm, forever beyond the reach of his reach.

He seized you, by means unorthodox yet deemed vital. Yet, he finds himself lost in contemplation.

What if he had treaded a different path?

Would a love aglow your heart if he had courted you in a proper manner? Would you accept him in your life – a husband, a companion, a lover? Would you had willingly become his?

For your presence brought his heart back to life; in doing so, the life and light was lost from your eyes.

Scorned by the desire to claim you as his, the thought of your own desires, feelings was pushed to the desolate corners of his mind.

In another realm, he assumes– in another realm, he might have treated you properly from the very beginning.

In another realm, you wouldn't have to have a lingering threat struck on your mind. You wouldn't fear him.

In a realm beyond, you'd stand beside him by choice, not coercion. A realm where he'd navigate every step flawlessly. A realm where, instead of vowing to set the world ablaze for you, he'd pledge to journey with you until the world's end.

Perhaps, in another realm, you'd fall in love with him like he did for you in this.

A/N: uhm uhm uhm, just typed down an idea which I had for days + I used a new format of literal english (idk how it turned out, I am so sorry if it's cringe 😭) + I fucking don't know how to end stories so bear with me.

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thegnomelord · 11 months ago

Note

this isn’t a request but you’re the only writer i know who writes the monster!au so

dragon!reader and dragon!price are haunting my thoughts. dragons usually have to hold themselves back when sparring because they’re so much stronger than other monsters but with price & reader they don’t need to, to the point where the other members of the 141 are kinda wondering if they need to intervene.

what they do or don’t know is this is you and price courting, testing each other’s strength to assess whether you’re suitable mates. once you have decided you’re suitable it continues in the bedroom, fighting for dominance and testing each other’s stamina as price rides you or you pin price down and see if he can take all the strength behind your thrusts.

OH god I LOVE the way you think! I know @rodolfoparras also did a dragon price some time ago but I'm happy to let my monsterfucker out lol :D I'll consider this a spitball thingy but GOD DAMN did my hyperfixation hyperfixate on this :Ddd kinda rushed at the end but it's 3AM :/

CW:NSFW

What about if dragons measure not just raw strength, but all other aspects as well? They're prideful by nature and with so little of them remaining no self-respecting dragon will settle for a witless brute or a powerless scribe.

Price had lost hope in finding a mate centuries ago because he's even pickier than most of his kin; in his view, a proper one needs to be strong enough to completely pin him down, needs to be smart enough to see the insults in his honeyed words and give back as good as he does, needs to be clever enough to lead men as good as he does.

A proper mate needs to keep up with him on all levels.

And for a dragon of his age, that's an unachievable set of criteria. Oh sure, many of the dragons he's met over the years have tried to match him, but all fell short, leaving him lonely and unsatisfied.

Then he met you, a fellow Captain, a fellow dragon. Though only a few centuries younger than him, you're a wyrmling in his eyes, your scales like shining metal compared to his muddled gemstones. An arrogant wyrmling if the way you peacock for him the first time you enter the training room has anything to say about it— your wings spreading out and muscles rippling, back straightening out to make you taller, scales glinting in the artificial light; little details that anyone else can brush off as a simple stretch but to a dragon it screams of your interest in him.

His slitted eyes roam across your body, both equal parts disdain and curiosity. "Got somethin' ta say there boy?" His words are rough like sandpaper.

"No, no." You hum as you get into the ring, every little movement purposely done to showcase your hard earned musculature. "Just that you should skip out on this fight. Wouldn't want you to throw your back out old man."

"Old man huh?" His eyes blaze with the same fire at the end of his cigar, your words igniting something in his chest that had long been extinguished. "I'll show you old."

And suddenly he's in the ring, both of you trading blow for blow with the same savagery your progenitors had frightened mankind with for millennia, your claws leaving deep grooves in the concrete when you miss his side, his tail smashing a portion of the ground into dust when you avoid it, the ground between you cracking when you try to push the other away, loose scales and dust and debris littering the ground as you and Price wrestle on the ground.

Both of your teams watch from the sidelines, your team calming the other members of TF141 that this is just how dragons are, pointedly ignoring your victorious snarl when you pin Price down to the ground, your clawed hand harshly pushing his face into the concrete to the point you might break his nose as you bite the back of his neck, forcing him to submit. "I win,"

"Not fer long." He snarls back just as deep, feeling alive for the first time in who knows how long. "Best two out of three." And with that he jerks, remaining wing slamming into your side and knocking you off balance long enough for him to fling you into the wall opposite of him.

You don't know how many rounds you go before you're forced to stop by a very pissed off Laswell, who also pointedly ignores the obvious bulges in what remains of both of your pants, giving both of you a stern talking to about wrecking the damn training room.

You're ready to leave after being chastised like a child but Price is quicker, passing you with a "Good fight back there." rumbling in his throat, the soft scales of his wing brushing along your jaw. Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull when you meet his gaze, and Price has a good poker face but the smoldering look in his eyes and the low grumble in his chest makes it's obvious you've peaked his curiosity.

But that's just the start, the hard part is keeping it. While regular dragons may spend time with a potential mate conversing on scholarly subjects or having philosophical debates, you and him have a more practical way of assessing the other's intellect — Battle plans.

To your teams it sounds like a harsh argument, ideas thrown around and sharp insults tacked on top, their heads ping ponging between you and Price as you look over maps, trying to one up the other. Eventually your teammates leave you to settle this on your own.

"And I'm telling you, old man," You growl, both of you so close there's barely any space between you as you point at the map. "We can push a smaller team through the forest while we lead the frontal assault, our wip's not going to have anywhere to go then." You huff, holding your head up high to make it obvious you're proud of your idea.

Price gives you the stink eye, before he scans the map again, humming to himself. After a few seconds he lets out a scoff. "We don't have enough men for that." He says, but the sharp edge in his tone is dulled. "But—" His tail moves to brush against your own, your rough scales brushing against his smoother ones. "—It has some merit."

Price doesn't draw attention to the way your tails intertwine, wrapping together like two snakes, and neither do you. But the short purr that bubbles out of your chest says everything he needs to know, growing louder when he answers with his own, your shoulders brushing together. "Aight, back to work." He cuts your purrs short, but you can't hide the pleased look on your face as your tails remain coiled together.

Then comes the actual courting dance.

One late evening spent looking over documents in the privacy of his office, your tails once again coiled beneath the desk after successfully having proved your wit to him again, absentmindedly telling embarrassing stories of your respective teams. . . Price has a revelation. You might be it. "Hey lad."

You look up, your full attention on him. "Yeah?"

With a mumbled grunt too quiet for you to hear Price slides a hand beneath his shirt and pulls a large green scale from the meat of his shoulder blade, the wound healing before it can even bleed.

Instinctively you know what this means, for knowing how a prospective mate treats an extension of you will show how they'll treat you. But you still speak up, needing proof for your own mind that you're not insane and haven't been burning the wrong tree. "What?"

Price glares at you, "Don't play dumb," He says as he slides the large scale across the table to you. "It doesn't suit you." There's an underlayer of heat in his words, blue slitted eyes looking you over in a much more appreciative light.

You can't control the big grin that spreads across your face, "Oh, then what does suit me?" You ask as you follow his lead, yanking out one of your larger scales from your own back and sliding it to him. It makes the difference between you two obvious, his green scale muddled with age compared to your shiny one.

"Arrogant muppet." The gentle way he picks up your scale clashes with his harsh words, cradling it in his hand like it'll crack at the slightest of touches, his face reflected in the surface.

You grin, "Just confident." You feel his sharp eyes judge every minute twitch of your fingers as you pick up his scale. Price's poker face hides the way his heart melts at the loving way you brush a thumb across the surface, how it throbs when you don't immediately attempt to make it shine like some whelps once did, accepting him for how he is by putting it in your breast pocket.

God, he doesn't even know how much he'd fantasized about something like this when he was still young, vestiges of a purr escaping his throat at the tender way you treat his scale. "Right." He shakes his head and places your scale in his own breast pocket, handing you another stack of papers. "Get back to work."

You grin and do as he says, wings twitching as a sign of joy, your tail squeezing down on his and receiving a squeeze in kind.

Price feels like a horny teen when he lays awake in bed late at night with your scale held between his claws. He feels stupid for feeling so giddy at the thought of having a mate, a proper mate, yet his body thinks differently. Just holding it in his hand is enough to make him grow hot, your scent still clings to the scale and Price finds himself holding it close to his nose to familiarize himself with it and Hell his body loves it, cocks growing hard in record time and his thighs wet with slick. The poor thing doesn't even know what to relieve first, his free hand constantly going between stroking his cocks and fingering himself, mind craving the heat of another dragon that he'd been deprived of.

What Price doesn't know is that you're in the same boat, biting your arm to silence yourself as you imagine it's Price you're breeding instead of a pillow, splintering the headboard from how hard you're gripping it in an attempt to not damage the scale.

Then shit hits the fan when during a routine mission you two are ambushed, and while two dragons are no easy prey for mankind, humans have long since gone from using rocks and sticks. You catch sight of a sniper's scope glint seconds before the bullet targets Price, and in only a few seconds to think you throw yourself in the way, Price's scale in your breast pocket puts enough resistance to make you survive the bullet, but you feel it crack, and that. . . that sets you off.

Price doesn't even have the time to lift his gun before you're tearing through the battlefield like a man possessed, anger burning like a volcano in your chest for trying to hurt him, elemental breath and draconic strength unleashed to it's fullest potential.

And Price? Price watches the show with that same heat burning in his belly, forced to bite his lip to silence the pleased purrs as he rubs his thighs together while you tear flesh from bone, mate flashing in his mind. Look how he protects you His mind purrs, Good mate. Perfect mate.

"I'm sorry." You whimper when you've finally calmed down, the battlefield nothing but a ruined crater and the shards of his scale held tenderly in your cupped hands. "I failed, I-"

"Come here." Price cuts you off quickly and pulls you down into a harsh and desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue and need. He parts just a fraction of an inch, "You passed." He growls and only then do you notice the sharp arousal in his scent, your animalistic hindbrain jumping for joy as you kiss back because holy shit he considers you worthy.

And now that he's found his mate? You best believe his body is going to make up for all the centuries he'd spent alone.

It doesn't even take a week for him to enter heat, waking in a daze with his twin cocks hard and his thighs glistening with slick, your scent lingering in the sheets and your side of the bed still warm. The walls almost shake from how deeply he growls when he registers that you're not next to him, just enough sense in his head to throw on a towel around his waist before angerly stomping through the halls to find you, sniffing you out like a bloodhoud.

"Bloody muppet." Price growls as he yanks you by the horns back to his room, the scent of his arousal so potent you're struck dumb, letting yourself be pushed down. Price's claws slice through your clothes, his hole so slick and eager for you he doesn't even need to stretch, just jumps onto your lap and in one fluid motion takes one of your cocks to the root. "Fuckin' finally." Price hisses, instantly setting a harsh pace of bouncing on your cock that would have had a lesser race end up with a crushed pelvis.

You grip his hips for dear life, surging up to mark his neck and shoulders with bites as he does the same, his ass clapping against your thighs. "Mate." Price moans, hole clenching around you, his cocks leaking against your stomach. "My mate." He grips your hair and pulls you into a bruising kiss, "Going to last long for me yeah?" He asks, a bit of mockery on his flushed face as he feels you cum inside him, riding you through your orgasm as the sudden onslaught of sensations frazzles the intelligent parts of your brain. "Not going to disappoint me now are you?"

Good thing dragons have really short refractory periods.

"Not a chance." You snarl and flip him over suddenly, rumbling purrs escaping your chest from the surprised sound he makes. You attempt to pin him down and he squirms out of your hold, another bout of wrestling breaking out between you that has you two tumbling off the bed and onto the ground.

"That so whelp?" Price breathes out when you manage to pin him down, your strong hand keeping his face flush with the floor. "Do you really think you can keep up?" A pleased thrill runs down his spine from the sensation of your weight bearing down on him, his knees automatically locking up to hike his ass up, tail flipping up to display his slick hole for you.

"Do you?" You counter, one hand on his head, the other pressing both of your dicks together, your two tips pressing against his ass. "You're so wet and desperate, should have just pinned you down the moment I saw you instead of courting you." With one sharp thrust you push in, a pained and elated moan tearing out of his throat at the sensation of your twin cocks spreading him wider than any toy ever could, scratching that itch he'd had for who knows how long.

The stretch and burn and pleasure muddles his mind, reduces him to low animalistic snarls and growls as he does his best to push his hips into yours. "Hurry the fuck up." Price orders, whole body shaking from the way you set a harsh pace, bashing on his prostate, your balls slapping against his own, each hard thrust pushing and pulling his face across the floor. "I'll- fuck- fall asleep."

"You sure about that?" You push your weight further on him, forcing his wing to spread out, your own partially wrapping around him, "Seems to me like-" A bit of elemental breath leaves your throat when one particularly strong thrust has his hole clamping down on you, his back arching to push his hips as close to yours as one of his cocks spews cum on the floor, "-like you're not in a place to order me around."

"You- ah-fuck-ah- wanker." His insult would be a lot more hurtful if he didn't whine like a bitch in heat, both of you devolving into primitive snarls and growls with the only thought on both of your minds being the need to fill Price with as much of your cum as you physically can.

#Spittballs with Gnome #Idk how this happened #my hyperfixation got wayyy out of hand #n my monsterfucking got out of hand #cod mw2 #gnome correspondence #x reader #trinkets from the hoard #male reader #top male reader #captain john price #john price x male reader #john price x reader #top dom reader #cod modern warfare #cod smut #cod x male reader

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angellesword · 5 months ago

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BAGGAGE | JJK (04)

Summary: Drowning in debt and blood, Jeon Jungkook knows he's better off alone, lest he brings people down with him.

But one drunken night changes everything.

In a blink of an eye, Jungkook found himself drowning not only in debt and blood, but also in dirty diapers and judgmental stares from you, a.k.a his long-lost love and the guardian of the son he didn't even know existed.

Genre and warnings: best friends to lovers, co-parenting, idiots in love, mutual pining, angst, fluff, implied smut, kissing, minor character death, slight getting back together, oc cusses excessively, dubcon, pregnancy kink, child cussing, reckless driving, suicide justification, glorifying suicide, semi-drunk Jungkook makes sexual moves on a sober oc.

Pairing: dad!Jungkook x adoptive mom!Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

←Previous Chapter (03) | Next Chapter (05) →

***

Present; 2023

Not long after you and Soobin finished your meal at ADA, you finally received the call you had been anticipating since last night:

A call from Jungkook.

“Hello?” Your breathing hitched as you waited for the person on the other line to speak. Unfortunately, what welcomed you was an unfamiliar voice telling you she was from the General Hospital.

Your heart dropped. You stuttered when you asked the person on the other line about what had happened.

The hospital staff explained, “Mr. Jeon is alive but has been stabbed. Your number is the only one saved on his cellphone. Will you mind coming over or telling us who we can contact—”

“No. I’m coming.” You cut off. You couldn’t remember what you said to the nurse after that. Your mind was floating as you grabbed your keys, eyes darting on Soobin, who was watching TV in the living room.

“Ma?” Soobin blinked; a groan escaped his lips when you carried him. You were inside the car with him in the blink of an eye.

“Sorry, darling. We’ll go out again, okay? Hold on tight.”

You drove your car to the hospital at a very high speed. Soobin didn’t cry, but the poor boy looked shaken and about to vomit. You could only tighten your hold on your son and murmur an apology as you ran to the hospital desk. You didn’t know how to explain the situation to Soobin, as your attention was solely directed at Jungkook.

“I’m looking for Jungkook Jeon. How is he?” You were breathless when you talked to the nurse.

“Good day, Mam. Per the hospital’s protocol, I need your name first. Please state your relationship with the patient as well.” The nurse was calm and collected. Her eyes were trained on the monitor before her.

You stated your name but trailed off after. You wanted to say you were Jungkook’s friend, but were you and Jungkook even considered that? Besides, hospitals would prioritize the patient’s next of kin over friends.

To your surprise, the nurse nodded at you, “You’re listed as Mr. Jeon’s emergency contact. He needs surgery as soon as possible. We will need your consent.”

You could be accused of being dumbfounded, but you didn’t have time to assess your reactions. You signed all relevant forms and requested the hospital to give Jungkook VIP treatment.

No one knew what happened to the Jungkook. He was simply lucky to be able to call for help before he passed out. Jungkook suffered multiple stab wounds. Lee Sung clearly didn’t hold back when he pierced and slashed the knife into the Jungkook’s body. As a result, the surgery took some time to finish.

Jungkook was unconscious on the operating table, his body taking all the trauma while his mind drifted to a place and time where everything was still right:

Nine Years Ago; 2014

To say Jungkook was obsessed with your stomach would be an understatement. Don’t get it wrong. He was obsessed with every part of your body: hips, chest, hands—you name it, and Jungkook would read you his essay about it.

But lately, all the Jungkook could think about was your stomach.

“Can I fucking help you?” You growled, unable to take the intensity of Jungkook’s ogling anymore.

Jungkook didn’t bat an eyelash, though. His gaze only deepened, a sigh leaving his lips. “Say, how many calories do you consume daily?”

“Hah!?” You looked down at your stomach, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. “What shit are you up to, bastard!? Do you think my stomach is big!?”

First of all, you didn’t think there was anything wrong with a big stomach, or a flat stomach, for that matter. However, something about Jungkook’s words hit your nerve.

A bastard like Jungkook wouldn’t say things out of the blue. Usually, it entailed trouble.

“No.” Jungkook shook his head, still looking pensive while staring at the middle part of your body. “I’m just curious.”

“Keep your curiosity to yourself, then. I don’t know. I don’t count my calorie intake. I have more important things to do than that.” You were in the middle of writing your thesis paper. Frankly, your time was constrained. All you did these days was attend classes, meet with your thesis adviser, and write your paper.

You couldn’t be bothered to sleep anymore. Now that Jungkook kept hinting something was wrong with your stomach, you couldn’t help but add an extra hour of jogging.

“Hey, sweetheart~” You bumped into Jungkook one morning. You lived on campus, but Jungkook would be moving out soon. He recently informed you he’d be taking some time off college. During this time, you had no idea that his decision to take some time off studying would be permanent. Jungkook wasn’t just taking a break—he was dropping out.

“Why are you out here so early? I thought you were taking a break this semester. No more 7am classes for you, eh?” You taunted. Seeing your best friend up so early in the morning was rare. Jungkook even called you crazy before for running around the university’s field at five in the morning.

“Jimin-hyung and I had breakfast. I’m on my way to your dorm, actually. I got you something to eat,” by something to eat, Jungkook meant different kinds of high-calorie food—courtesy of Jimin’s recommendations.

“Here,” Jungkook gave you the food he got. He sighed after, “How many minutes have you been exercising?”

Here he goes again. Your fist clenched when Jungkook glanced at your stomach. What the fuck was wrong with this bastard!?

“Jungkook-shit!” You snarled, ‘Jungkook-shit’ was your favorite insult--a variation of your usual ‘Jungkook-ssi.’ You confirmed your guess by checking the logo where Jungkook got your breakfast: Healthy option. “I’ll squeeze in another hour of running tomorrow, okay! You don’t have to be a bastard about it!”

Your face was red, your nose flaring.

“That’s not—”

“Whatever! I’m fucking leaving.”

Jungkook was too slow to catch up to an angry version of you, so he let it go and simply shrugged his shoulders.

Unfortunately, Jungkook was still an asshole about your weight the next time you two met. You were supposed to have lunch together but walked out when Jungkook commented about your clothes.

“You are wearing a cropped top.” Jungkook’s eyes shrunk, voice laced with disappointment.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It shows your stomach. I—”

“You know what? Fuck you.” You couldn’t help but bare your teeth. You had been friends with Jungkook-shit for as long as you could remember. You loved him to death but wouldn’t take his dumbassery lying down. Comments about one’s body were never okay.

“I’m sick of you side-eyeing my stomach. I don’t think I wanna be friends with an ass like you anymore. Goodbye. I’m leaving!”

You left and never once showed your face to Jungkook again. Thinking about your fragile friendship hurt, so you drowned yourself in school stuff instead.

You rarely left your dorm, spending almost all your time writing your paper and ignoring Jungkook’s phone calls.

But Jungkook-shit was persistent; one evening, he came knocking on your dorm.

“Hey! Open the door! I need to see you!”

As much as you wanted to ignore him, you knew you couldn’t. Students were studying next door, so you opened the door with great reluctance.

“What—”

Jungkook crashed against your chest.

“—the fuck.” You almost lost your footing. Thankfully, you were able to grab the door frame to steady yourself. You snarled and wrapped your arms around Jungkook’s tiny waist.

“Bastard! Why are you here!? You reek of alcohol! Are you drunk!?”

Your jaw slackened; you weren’t sure if it was because you didn’t want to deal with a drunken bastard or if you were bitter since you couldn’t drink along with this drunken bastard.

You hadn’t had alcohol in a long time. Damn school.

“Hi, sweetheart~” Jungkook raised his head slightly, batting his eyelashes seductively at you.

You gulped thickly. Your grip on Jungkook’s waist tightened. “Don’t ‘hi sweetheart’ me. You’re drunk. You need to go home.”

“But!!!” Jungkook snickered. “I’m not drunk. I only had one glass of whiskey. Jimin-hyung insisted I drink. You know I can’t say no to him. He’s my favorite person.”

You ignored the stone crushing your heart. You brushed Jungkook’s fringe like you were brushing your hurt away. “Your face is sweaty. Did you run here?”

Because you weren’t heartless, you let Jungkook in and even helped him to your bed. You originally wanted your best friend to lie down first as you prepared some soup. However, Jungkook pulled you to bed with him.

“Oi, bastard! Let go!” You wrestled with him, but you couldn’t get away from his suffocating embrace.

Jungkook wrapped his legs around your body. He also buried his face in your neck.

“Stay here. I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts,” Jungkook let out a whiny sob. “Please stay for a while, alright? I just want to tell you how my day went.”

Jungkook had never been this clingy and vulnerable before. He was only like this when drunk.

But he really wasn’t drunk, at least not with alcohol or drugs. It was on something else--something good--a spark of joy.

You couldn’t help but coo.

“Okay,” you betrayed yourself. “Fine. You can talk. Tell me why you’re like this. Did something happen?”

“Yes. Something happened.” Jungkook’s eyelashes fluttered. “Jimin-hyung and I drank to celebrate. We are starting a business to help people! Me and Jimin—”

Jungkook abruptly stopped talking. He looked deep in thought. After a few seconds, he shook his head and smiled, “I will make those kids proud.”

Your heart swelled with joy upon hearing that. Jungkook never talked about himself, rarely using the word ‘I’ to express his feelings, but today, he really proclaimed a promise using that pronoun.

For the first time, Jungkook looked alive.

“What kids are you talking about, Jungkook-shit?” You asked as softly as you could, hoping your best friend would spill more.

But Jungkook sometimes had selective hearing, not to mention he was a bit tipsy. He only heard the word ‘kid’ from you.

He giggled; his hand roamed your body. “Kids,” Jungkook’s tone was sultry. You could feel his hot breath on your neck.

“I want to have kids,” Jungkook announced as his hand made its way to cup under your clothes—he was caressing your stomach.

You inhaled sharply.

“I want you to carry my baby.” Jungkook’s lips puckered, “I want to put a baby in your tummy. Why hasn’t your stomach grown yet?”

Oh. You thought. Heat crawled up to your face as the sudden realization hit you like a ton of bricks:

Jungkook looking at your stomach... Jungkook asking about your calorie intake... Jungkook saw your flat stomach when you wore that cropped top...

What the fuck.

“I want to see your stomach grow like a balloon.” Jungkook stroked your tummy, his hand moving up to flick at your nipples. “These too. Wanna see them grow heavy with milk. Our baby and I can share—”

“Shut up!” you couldn’t take such lewd words from a shitty mackerel. He pushed Jungkook’s chest. “You...you don’t even like kids! You are just--!!”

You didn’t know what to say. You tried to ignore the warmth spreading to your belly down to your groin. Jungkook had always been good at dirty talking. You knew because it was mainly directed at you.

You and Jungkook were best friends who helped each other in many ways, including pleasuring each other’s bodies.

You had never done more than oral sex, though. You were easily flustered and oh so very easy to please. With a few touches here and there, coupled with dirty talk, you would be coming all over Jungkook’s mouth and hands.

“Why’re you pushing me away? Come, let me hug you.” Jungkook pulled you to his chest. “You want it, don’t you? Don’t you dare lie. I saw your face. You want to have my baby too.”

You shivered, your breathing labored. You didn’t consider yourself weak, but when it came to Jungkook? You couldn’t say the same thing.

“Admit it. You want me too. Wan me to fill you up with my cum, yeah?”

Of fucking course you do. You swallowed hard, gripping your best friend’s shirt as you whispered, “I fucking do. But not now. I want you 100% sober, Kook. See if you can repeat those words tomorrow.”

Jungkook licked his lower lip and hummed, “Mn, I always want you.”

Present; 2023

Jungkook peeled his eyes open.

Everything hurt. It was hard to move. It didn’t help that all his eyes landed were white. It hurt his eyes.

Right. Before all this white was black—his world turned into darkness when Lee Sung drove that knife to his stomach.

Jungkook blinked. The words stomach triggered memories from the past, a memory that disguised itself into a long dream.

Before Jungkook woke up, he dreamed about you and his selfish desire for you to carry his child.

Jungkook’s shoulders slumped; an overwhelming sense of sorrow settled at the pit of his stomach. But he was startled to see a small child staring blankly at him.

He tilted his head to the side. Huh? Why was there a kid in his hospital room?

“Hey, kid,” Jungkook held back his flinch for the sake of his aching stomach wound. The boy gave Jungkook the creeps; his irises were pitch black, and he wouldn’t stop staring dumbly at him.

“Where are your parents? Did your daddy accidentally lose you?” Dads are the worst.

Jungkook had to hold another flinch when the kid answered his question with a cutthroat gesture: his little fingers were slitting through his neck, causing Jungkook to furrow his brow. Seriously, what was wrong with this kid?

“What’s your name? How old are you?” Jungkook enquired. Could this kid have lost his way and accidentally entered his hospital room? And speaking of room, Jungkook felt his fingers turning colder.

Who in the right mind would confine him in a VIP room!? Didn’t the hospital check his identity first? Didn’t they know Jungkook couldn’t afford this kind of service!?

“Name Soobin, twee yess och.”

You know what else Jungkook couldn’t afford? Listening to Soobin talk.

“Did you say three?” Jungkook pressed his lips into a thin line as he crossed his arms, “Huh. You’re three, and you still talk gibberish?”

The boy seemed to recognize the taunt painting Jungkook’s voice. He folded his little arms across his chest, his lips protruding into a sulky pout: “Am not dumb.”

For some reason, Jungkook’s heart softened at the look of this kid. He was so adorable that Jungkook couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh—even when it hurt his stomach. “You even know the word dumb, huh?”

The child couldn’t speak straight but could read one’s expression. When he saw the mirth in Jungkook’s eyes, he thought it was an invitation for him to flex the words he knew.

“Stupid.” The kid uttered. “Fuck.”

“Hey! You can pronounce those words perfectly. Attaboy~.” Jungkook’s eyes glistened in awe, making the kid happy. Soobin slightly tucked his chin and relished the praise of a stranger. However, the feeling of triumph didn’t last long, as Jungkook quickly realized his mistake.

“I mean...no! Bad boy. Don’t say those words. Your mom is going to be mad at you.”

Soobin was similar to Jungkook. He could twist his expression in a second, too. His twinkling eyes immediately went back to being impassive.

Jungkook’s lips partly opened in shock. He narrowed his eyes at the kid, “What? Don’t tell me your mom is dead, too?”

Soobin made that cutthroat gesture earlier. Jungkook just assumed it meant his father died. The kid probably didn’t know what that action symbolized. Soobin didn’t seem to like what Jungkook had said, though. He creased his forehead, ready to throw his fist at Jungkook when the door suddenly flew open.

Soobin’s attention switched to that. His eyes glowed, “Ma!” And then he scurried toward the newcomer.

Jungkook followed Soobin’s movement, his eyes glowing when he saw the person who opened the door.

Soobin’s ‘ma’ was--

“Soobin,” --you. You opened your arms wide, ready to catch the small boy in your arms. Soobin jumped right in, squeezing your shoulders into an embrace.

“Ma! Not dead!” Soobin rubbed his cheek against your cheek, causing your lips to pucker. Soobin was squeezing too hard.

“Soobin,” You chuckled awkwardly as goosebumps pricked at your skin. Someone was ogling at you. You had been accustomed to this feeling since you were subjected to it nine years ago.

You looked at Jungkook’s bed, breath taken away from your lungs upon seeing your ex-best friend awake.

“You’re awake.” You made your way to Jungkook’s bed. You were about to press the nurse call button when a cold hand grasped your wrist.

“Don’t call anyone. I’m fine.” Jungkook said with a nasal voice.

“Okay.” You conceded. You wanted to say many things but didn’t know where to start. Jungkook had already met Soobin while you weren’t around. You never meant for this to happen. The nurse said Jungkook was supposed to wake up sometime later, but he woke up earlier than expected.

It wasn’t a bad thing, no—not really. Your heart was actually calmer now that Jungkook had opened his eyes. Gone was the feeling of standing on a precipice with the fear of falling down. You had retreated to a safer distance now that Jungkook was awake.

“How are you feeling?” You licked your lower lip, “The nurse called me. She said you’ve been stabbed. What happened?”

Jungkook was bombarded with questions. He didn’t know what to say, but it’s not like he didn’t see this coming. It was his fault. He was the one who saved your number on his phone the night you met. He was weak then. He allowed himself to hope that fate would make a move even if he didn’t.

He was also the one who never changed his emergency contact, even after everything that transpired. You left, but Jungkook never moved on.

Jungkook cleared his throat, eyes darting on the kid in your arms. An uncomfortable feeling settled at the pit of his stomach.

“Is…” Jungkook swallowed, “Is he your kid?”

You avoided the other man’s gaze. You looked like you wanted to avoid the question, so you did that.

“I asked you a question first.”

You had this face that said, ‘You won’t get a response from me if you don’t tell me things first.’ Jungkook usually teased you until you relented, but he felt that was not the case anymore.

“And I already told you I’m fine.” Jungkook didn’t want to make a big deal out of the situation. It was already bad enough.

But you begged to differ.

“And I asked you what happened. You can’t get stabbed and just ignore it, Jungkook.”

The image of Lee Sung’s mocking grin made Jungkook shiver. He really didn’t want to think about that bastard today—or ever.

Jungkook gave a dismissive wave, “I’m fine, aren’t I? No point in dwelling in the past.”

“Then I guess you won’t know who this kid is to me.”

Jungkook’s head snapped to meet your fiery gaze.

“Fine.” He scoffed. “I did it to myself, alright? I’m the culprit. What are you gonna do about it?”

The idea was to tease you back until you stopped with your query. Jungkook had no intention of divulging the truth as it was too humiliating. Pride was the only thing he had in this lifetime.

But to Jungkook’s disappointment, his response only ignited your anger and curiosity. You snapped at him, “Oi, Jungkook. Are you kidding me?”

Something about your expression riled up Jungkook. Yes, that’s it. That’s the face I want to see. Show me you care, but don’t you dare come closer. I’m not letting you in.

“You and I both know I don’t joke about this thing.” Jungkook blinked at you innocently. “I’ve wanted to die for a long time.”

“Fuck you.” you spat. Soobin’s ears perked up. He raised his hands and repeated your words:

“Fuck you.”

“Soobin, cover your fucking ears!” You snapped, a fraction of your anger directed at the small child in your arms. Soobin was not a pushover, unlike Jungkook. He recognized the thunder in your voice. Soobin immediately covered his ears.

You directed your fury back to Jungkook again. Your eyes and tone were both sharp. “You haven’t changed after all these years, huh? You’re still nothing but a fucking coward.”

Jungkook’s eyes darkened, yet he didn’t speak. It prompted you to voice out your pain.

“You’re still a coward who can’t face his problems, only relying on suicide to ease your fucking pain. Guess what, Jungkook-shit. Trying to kill yourself doesn’t end the pain!” It only exemplifies it, passing the hurt to those left behind.

Jungkook’s breathing quickened. He looked at you with wide eyes; his thoughts earlier of not letting you in felt like a resounding slap now.

That’s not true. Jungkook screamed in his head. You didn’t understand him. No one did.

Suddenly, it wasn’t about what Lee Sung did to him or his lies to shut you up. It moved around Jungkook’s suppressed feelings.

It was unfair, wasn’t it? Everyone thought suicide was the easy way out. But honestly, it was Jungkook’s last resort. He had tried everything before: sleep it off, think happy thoughts, and wait it out. Maybe fate wanted to test him, but why did it still hurt the same after many years? Why did the burden in his heart not lessen an ounce? In fact, it only weighed more.

People thought it was selfish of him to end his life because he wouldn’t be here to deal with the aftermath.

But what about before the aftermath? What about those difficult times when his heart hurt so much that he couldn’t breathe? When the voices in his head were so loud he couldn’t make them shut up?

Those left behind deal with the aftermath but not what happened before that.

People didn’t know because they were also busy dealing with their own pain.

Your eyes were red. You glared at Jungkook, “I hate you so much, shitty Jungkook. Jisoo-unnie was wrong. You’re not a good person. You’re an asshole. She shouldn’t have trusted you. She shouldn’t have made me promise to return here in Incheon to tell you all about Soobin.”

Your embrace of Soobin tightened. “Because you know what? You don’t deserve Soobin. You don’t deserve to be his father. Fuck you.”

This scene was eerily familiar to Jungkook. He watched as you turned your back on him, aiming for the exit with no intention of ever returning.

***

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A/N: Comments are highly appreciated! Please leave some :)

I've written multiple Jungkook fics, you might want to check that out!

#jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #ficswithluv #pseudo cheating

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deadsetobsessions · 6 months ago

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“My bad, homeslice.”

“You are so old.” Duke grumbled at Dick, clutching his bleeding nose where Dick had just kicked it by accident in the middle of showing Damian a move.

“I’m not old!” Dick quickly grabbed the med kit to help stem the blood flow and assess the injury. “I know you’re trying to get back at me right now, but I’m not old!”

“You literally used “I’m the bomb.com” yesterday, unironically.” Steph grinned. Her wrapped fists slammed into the punching bag, Steph’s form taking on a bit of Cassandra’s flow. She alternated between brutal kicks and devastating punches, the repetitive motions ingraining the moves until it was less of a move and more of a reflex. “Face it, you’re getting old.”

“I believe you are greying, Richard. Perhaps you should invest in hair dyes.” Damian smirked, handing duke a bandage.

“Greying? GREYING?” Dick looked as if he’d taken a devastating blow, dramatically clutching his metaphorical pearls and swooning. “My hair is perfectly black! Look at these gorgeous locks, Damian! You’re killing me! I’m not turning old!”

“Yeah, guys, he’s not old.” Tim chimed in from his own training area, bo staff no longer slicing through the air. Instead, Tim was crouched down, adding enhancements and gadgets onto his staff.

“Thank you, Tim! See? At least I can trust Tim to have my back!”

“He’s not old,” Tim repeated, glancing up in amusement. “He’s just elderly.”

Dick let out a dramatic gasp. “Betrayed! By my own kin! You beasts!”

“Oh no, what a nightmare.” Duke intoned sarcastically, muffled behind the patch job done on his nose.

“This is the jungle, Richard. The laws of nature must be upheld.” Damian jabbed a pouting Dick Grayson back to the training mats.

Duke snickered, wiping off specks of blood. “Yeah, and the elderly gotta make way for the young.”

“You guys are such assholes, I respect it.”

Duke gave him an innocent look, aided by the guilt inducing bloody rag on his face.

“Thanks. I’m a a natural at it.” Steph threw a grin over her shoulder and finished up her training. “Hey, old man, wanna show me that flip you did off of Brunner’s Chemical Disposal?”

Dick grumbled but acquiesced.

#dick grayson #Stephanie Brown #Duke Thomas #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #I just wanted to write something cute #sibling energy

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zvaigzdelasas · 1 year ago

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A senior Ukrainian official has said that the impact of Azerbaijan’s blockade of Nagorno-Karabakh is being exaggerated as a Russian effort to distract the world’s attention from the war in his country. In an interview with the Moldovan public broadcaster, Mykhailo Podolyak, an adviser to Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskiy, said that the blockade was being “pumped up” in order to “distract attention from the war in Ukraine and redirect it to other conflict spots so the whole world looks there.” In the interview, the Moldovan presenter framed the blockade in Karabakh as a Russian plot. “Some experts” say that Russia is preparing a “Crimea scenario” for Karabakh, she said to Podolyak, suggesting that the territory’s new de facto leader, Russian-Armenian billionaire Ruben Vardanyan, was sent from Moscow for the purpose. While Armenian sources claim that 120,000 ethnic Armenians are living in Nagorno-Karabakh, “in fact it’s three times smaller,” the presenter claimed, saying that Russian President Vladimir Putin used the same tactic of distorting population sizes as part of the process of seizing control of Crimea and other parts of Ukraine.[...]

Podolyak’s reading of the conflict was echoed in a number of other officials’ statements at around the same time. Lyudmila Marchenko, a member of parliament in Zelenskiy’s Servant of the People party who has long supported Azerbaijan, gave several interviews in which she made many of the same points. “As an ally of Russia, Armenia is using similar methods to maintain control over Nagorno-Karabakh that Russia does for control over Crimea,” she said in one interview. “Raising the estimates for the quantity of people living in these territories, Vardanyan speaks about 120,000 residents, but by objective assessments there are 40,000 people there.” Another MP from a different party, Igor Popov, wrote an article at the same time also taking issue with the population estimates, and denying altogether that there was a blockade. “Azerbaijani activists are not preventing the transit of civilian and humanitarian transportation,” Popov wrote. “But the leadership of unrecognized Karabakh is using the situation to show shortages of food and the threat of a ‘humanitarian catastrophe,’ and blaming Azerbaijan and the activists for it.”[...]

Ukraine has long taken a pro-Azerbaijan position vis-a-vis the conflict with Armenia. The conflicts share some common patterns, as Armenia and Russia have forcibly taken Azerbaijani and Ukrainian territory, respectively, with the purported aim of unifying their ethnic kin on that territory.

25 Jan 23

21 Feb 23

9 Sep 23

11 Aug 22

I've been told that Ukraine's analogous to Armenia here, while Azerbaijan is analogous to Russia. strange that Ukraine doesn't seem to think so.

#the azeris also made a big show abt arresting vardanyan

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neteyamssock · 16 days ago

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Not so bad, after all.

╰┈➤ PART I.

pairing: neteyam x fem!metkayina!reader

summary: When neteyam and you met each other for the first time, they were overwhelmed with feelings they have never felt before.

wordcount for this chapter: 2.3k

tags: love at first sight, misunderstanding, arranged marriage/mateship, unrequieted love, betrayal, angst, happy ending, etc.

wordbank: 'eveng = child. mawey = be calm. skxawng = moron/idiot. uturu = a request for safe harbor/asylum. tsahik = spiritual leader. olo-eyktan = clan leader. paskalin = sweet berry (?).

A/N: UNEDITED, just word vomit. Tsu'nari is the name I used as a place-holder for reader-insert. I'll try to not use it as much...i'm also new to tumblr and the fandom in general so i hope i'm not doing something wrong??? 😭😭😭 I was going crazy thinking about neteyam and couldn't sleep so i created a tumblr account to posted all these word vomits. I also posted it first on AO3. Sorry for this word vomit, uh... Enjoy?

TEXT DIVIDERS CREDITS TO @cafekitsune

masterlist

part ii.

part i.

When your parents joined Eywa’s embrace and you only had your grandfather as your own remaining kin, you knew your life wouldn’t be yours to live. He often said you have an immense potential for greatness, that you were born to lead. You have been expected to accomplish a lot since you were an ‘eveng, and your grandfather saw something in you that he believes would help the clan.

He’s a vital elder who wields power under the olo-ekytan, helping in the matters of the clan. You knew his ambition for you and your family, but you never once complained for you know what is your duty and responsibility.

“I’m doing this for you, paskalin. You are born for this, and Eywa bears witness.” He once told you, when you refused his proposal to study under the Tsahik as a tsakarem.

He cupped your face, “I’m running out of time, paskalin. I’m doing this to ensure that once I embrace Eywa’s loving arms, you would be in good hands.”

He thought the only way to ensure that you live a good life is to set you up with the olo-eyktan’s oldest son. When you heard of it, you wanted to disagree, thinking everybody else would too. You didn’t expect that in one typical eclipse, Olo-eyktan would call you and look at you with approval. “You will grow up into a fine young woman. Learn well under the Tsahik. Do you understand me, girl?”

You agreed, sneaking a glance at the Tsahik and saw her looking at you with an unreadable expression. She actually never consented, at least verbally, but she also didn’t protest it. She was just watching you, assessing your worth like she would do herbs and medicinal plants.

“Mother is not one who speaks a lot. Her lack of protest is her answer, you know that right? I’m excited for your tsaheylu with Ao’nung, tsmuke. You would make a fine mother and Tsahik of the clan.” Tsireya exclaimed when she learned about your engagement.

You find it ironic how your clansmen says they know you, of what you will become, but never once heard your silent scream for freedom. They never picked up on the fact that you weren’t happy at this arrangement. But then again, does happiness even matter when duty and responsibility hold the clan together?

“Is there even a problem?” Ao’nung asked you when confronted him about the issue. He seems genuinely perplexed as to why you kept asking him about his thoughts. Then you understood. The reason why the olo-eyktan and the Tsahik agreed wasn’t because of your potential to become a Tsahik. It was always about Ao’nung and his thoughts, and it should've made you flattered. That the future olo-eyktan finds you suitable to lead the clan side by side by him. But it only made the burden on your shoulders heavier.

Eywa was the last one you sought. You asked her for guidance, a hint of what future holds for you. But she only said to wait. That its not the time yet, so you compromised. You accepted everything and remained silent.

Never expecting in one typical wild day for your life to change forever.

When you heard the familiar call of the horn, you didn’t hesitate to ride your ilu back to the shore. You still many herbs you need to pick, but you knew by the sound that something major had happened in awa’atlu. Whatever that is, the sound of the call seems urgent, requiring the attention of the everybody. When you looked above the surface, you happen to see several figures with skin shades darker than regular people of awa’atlu. Not far behind ere banshees you rarely see in the ocean. Your people were surrounding these darker Na’vis, murmurs and gasps could be heard across the beach.

You saw Tsireya not far away, also riding her ilu, so you decided to whistle to get her attention.

“Who are those, Tsmuke?” You asked her when she came near you.

“I don’t know yet, tsmuke. We must hurry.”

You saw the people making way for Ao’nung and Roxto, who the two foreign boys greeted with politeness but was met with disrespectful snickering.

“Look, what is that? Is that supposed to be a tail?” You heard Roxto speak in Na’vi, wanting to touch the tail of one of the guests. This earned a look from the two boys. Ao’nung laughed at Roxto’s comment, seemingly agreeing to his friend, making you frown. What a skxawng! Is this how a future olo-eyktan should act to guests?

Tsireya and you reached ashore, pulling the attention of the darker na’vis into your direction. At this moment, your eyes met with golden ones of the tallest among the children. His eyes seems piercing, scrutinizing you before giving you a small smile with intensity that you froze and stopped walking.

Tsireya didn’t fail to notice this as she giggled, whispering to you. “Tsmuke, let’s go.”

You cleared your throat and looked away from those golden eyes, your heart still racing, wanting to beat out of your chest for reason you cannot understand. Mawey, there’s no reason to be afraid. They are the guests, not you.

Thinking once is not enough, Roxto opened his mouth again, “It’s too small, how are they supposed to swim?”

You eyed Roxto with contempt, thinking to yourself. Did it not occur to you that they are not Reef Na’vi? Skxawng.

Tsireya, who’s nearer to the Roxto, swatted his pointing fingers and warned. “Do not, Roxto, Ao’nung.” Before smiling to the two. It didn’t escape your eyes and ears when one of them softly mumbled a greeting towards your sister that made her giggle.

You took this chance to hide among the people as they gathered around the visitor, observing them with fascination. You have seen Na’vi in this color, most of them are land Na’vi, thus their difference in terms of skin color and tail shape. Their arms were thin, unlike the reef people’s wide forearms.

When you heard your clansmen’s whispers, you couldn’t help the gasps that escaped you. It is actually Toruk Makto and his family, the Omatikaya people!

Your heart raced even further as you watched the father of this foreign forest na’vis, the Toruk Makto Jakesuli that defeated the sky demons and brought victory and peace among several clans. It is a tale that your grandfather often tells you at night when you cannot sleep. He must be the eldest son of Toruk Maktob and his mate Neytiri te Tsakaha Mo’at’ite then. That’s why you felt like that because he’s the son of a mighty warrior and he himself had passed his iknimaya.

You wondered what made Toruk Makto and his family come here in awa’atlu. What could be their reason for visiting a clan from so far away, with lots of baggages and storages in their ikrans. Thankfully, the olo-eyktan has finally arrived in his tsurak along with several hunters and warriors. He landed in front of the Sully family, greeting them with respect. The Tsahik has also arrived, giving you a glance as she passed by you. You knew what that glance meant. She wanted you to be infront, to accompany Ao’nung.

You wordlessly followed her. You tried to ignore the prickling sensation directed towards you as you emerged in front in Ronal’s tow, ignoring the shiver that went down to your spine when you stood face to face with the oldest sully son.

“Why do you come to us, Jakesuli?” Tonowari’s deep voice silenced all the awa’atlu people, all wanting to hear Toruk Makto’s response.

Jake looked at his family and spread his arms wide, “We seek uturu!”

You can hear the collective gasps of your clansmen, the suddenly shift in Ronal’s tail movements indicated her disbelief and displeasure, “Uturu?”

The rest were a blur to you as you looked down at the sand in your feet. Uturu has been asked, and no matter how Ronal dislikes the idea of Na’vis with demon blood seeking asylum in awa’atlu, tradition is not something to be questioned. Safe harbor was requested, and Tonowari shall deliver.

“Teach them our ways so they do not suffer the shame of being useless. My son Ao’nung and my daughter Tsireya will show your children what to do.”

You watched Tsireya guide the Sullys into the village, while Ao’nung looked displeased at his father before looking at you pointedly. You nodded at him with a smile, which made him roll his eyes and follow Tsireya.

“Girl,” Ronal called you.

“Yes, Tsahik.” You bowed your head respectfully as her hand landed on your shoulder.

“Watch over Ao’nung, make sure he does no mistake that will disgrace the clan.” Without waiting for your response, she walked away along with the Olo-eyktan, talking in hushed tones. You watched them silently before looking at the direction where Tsireya and the Sully family walked to.

Neteyam watched the forest slowly faded away from his sight, as they bravely faces the unknown future of their family. No matter how it hurts him to leave his home, Sullys have to stick together. They couldn’t afford losing another one of their family under Quatrich’s knife, and endanger the Omatikaya People for the second time. Their people had lost too much.

He looked at his father, who seems to have aged a lot overnight. His distressed mother who’s forced to leave the place she had spent her life protecting, his youngest sister nestled in her bosom, confused and sad leaving her grandmother alone. His brother Lo’ak who has been silent all the way, still blaming himself for getting his siblings under the enemy’s hand, and Kiri who’s reluctant to leave her ma behind.

And him… who spent his life striving to become a warrior like his father, excelling as the future olo-eyktan of Omatikaya.

The return of the sky demons changed their future into something unrecognizable. Neteyam hated it, he hated not being able to see what future holds for him and his family now that they were forced to leave. All his life, he had everything under control (except Lo’ak) and at least he had a grasp of what’s supposed to happen.

Can they really adapt like his father said? Will the Metkayina accept their request for uturu? What could be waiting for them in unfamiliar environment they have never been exposed to?

They are not meant to be in the ocean. They are forest people, meant to be swinging through vines and flying their ikrans until eclipse. They are meant to fight with bows and arrows, not with spears. Fight in the forest, not the ocean.

Neteyam cannot help but to doubt, helplessness emerged from his heart and clouded his vision.

“Trust Eywa’s plans, Neteyam. She will guide you to the right path. Do not fear, for she will be there to watch over us.” Mo’at told him the night before their flight, giving him a small smile and a tight hug, assuring him that there’s always light at the end of the darkness. Eywa’s light.

Metkayina people are different from Omatikaya in many ways. Not only their physical appearance, but also their way of life. Neteyam wasn’t afraid to admit that they were beautiful.

Especially you. The moment he laid eyes on you, he felt his heart skip a beat, a flutter on his stomach that made him flustered internally. When your gaze connected with his, he couldn’t help but to hold his breath. He kept staring at you, tracing your features and wanting to catch your eyes, but you seem to avoid his, hiding yourself amongst your people.

Neteyam felt his stomach flip as realization dawned on him. Perhaps, you also thought him and his family are weird, so you hid yourself. Neteyam looked away, confused by his own reaction. Lo’ak seems to pick it up as he gave Neteyam a knowing look. Neteyam gave him a glare, thinking that Lo’ak is just the same as him, flustered when Tsireya and you emerged from the shallow waters.

Neteyam calmed his racing heart and thoughts, attributing it as tiredness. It didn’t help that he’s also on edge due to the Metkayina’s reaction towards him and his family, especially when Tonowari questioned his father about the war against the sky people. He wanted to talk but a simple flick of tail from his father stopped him.

When he saw you behind Ronal and stood face to face with him, he wanted to greet you, but you never once looked at him, simply staring at the sand in your feet. Ronal began questioning his sibling’s blood as Na’vi, making him angry but unable to do anything, so he directed his gaze at you. Thinking it was the reason for your refusal to look at him in the eyes.

“Teach them our ways so they do not suffer the shame of being useless. My son Ao’nung and my daughter Tsireya will show your children what to do.”

It didn’t escape Neteyam’s eyes when Lo’ak smiled at Tonowari’s words. Making him wonder about you. Are you not Tonowari’s daughter? Why are you with Ronal?

He looked at you one last time and saw Ronal speaking to you with all seriousness, making him even more curious about your identity. With narrowed eyes, he followed his family into the village.

The next day, Tsireya came early to the Sully’s marui, intending to fetch the Sully children and teach them the ways of the water. Strangely enough, she was alone with no Ao’nung in sight.

“Will he not come with us? Does he dislike us?” Tuk asked aloud, making everyone flabbergasted. Neteyam quickly covered Tuk’s mouth, afraid that she’ll make it even worse with her next words.

Tsireya didn’t take it to heart as she laughed, stealing glances from Lo’ak. “It is fine. He will come, because someone will watch over to make sure he does his task.”

Neteyam’s heart skipped a beat, the scene of you with Ronal yesterday appeared his mind. “Who?”

Tsireya paused, suddenly clueless on how she will introduce you to the Sully. Ao’nung’s future mate? The next Tsahik? Her closest companion and sister at heart? Before she could speak, Lo’ak elbowed Neteyam. “We’ll know in the future. Tsireya seems a good teacher and i’m sure we’ll learn without Ao’nung.”

Neteyam ignored the loss he felt inside and followed his siblings as Tsireya led them to the shallow waters.

Mawey. Stop this. Why are you acting this way? Neteyam chastised himself inwardly, crushing the budding hope in his heart that you were somewhere in these shallow waters.

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novaursa · 9 days ago

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To Win a Princess (watchful)

- Summary: Once you come of age, the realm seeks to curry the King's favor once more by seeking a hand of his younger daughter. You.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Note: Some events in this story may differ from the canon.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: dragon's favor

- Next part: stolen moments

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Daemon has returned to King’s Landing, and with him comes a ripple of unrest, running thick as dragonfire through every hall, every shadowed corridor of the keep. His presence is like a storm on the horizon, a threat unspoken yet understood, hovering over the court. Servants bow and scurry, whispers travel swiftly, and the nobles in the throne room try to appear composed, though their unease betrays them. For you, it is almost thrilling—the arrival of your rogue uncle, the one who often only existed in your family’s stories, now come to life again.

But Tyland? Tyland Lannister is not at ease. His gaze darts to you constantly, sharp and vigilant, his mouth set in a firm line, as though he could guard you from Daemon’s gaze by sheer will. You sense the unease in his usually calm demeanor, his fingers pressing into his palm as he watches the doors.

You do not share his worry. Perhaps you should, but something in you delights at the newness of it all—the disruption Daemon brings, the way it unsettles those around you, even Tyland, so often unwavering. But now, under the scrutiny of Daemon Targaryen’s arrival, he seems almost… vulnerable.

“Y/N,” Tyland murmurs, his voice barely a whisper as he sidles closer to you in the throne room, his presence a warm, steadying shadow beside you. “Promise me, you won’t stray far today.”

You raise an eyebrow, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Afraid my uncle will charm me away?”

His expression darkens, tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Daemon’s charms are not something to jest about.”

“Tyland.” Your voice drops, your tone gentling. “Daemon may be many things, but he’s still family.”

He presses his lips together, looking away briefly, as though gathering his thoughts. “Your family… not mine.” He hesitates. “And his reputation precedes him. Your father knows it too—why do you think he kept Daemon away for so long?”

You look at Tyland with some intrigue, the shift in his usual confident poise catching you off guard. It’s rare to see the worry so clear in his usually polished gaze, a worry you realize is less for himself and more for you. He’s too cautious to let his true feelings show in such a public place, but in this moment, you catch glimpses of them, each concealed concern stitched between his words. “You worry too much,” you finally say, keeping your tone light, though your heart skips at the protectiveness he cannot fully hide.

Your attention is soon drawn to the throne room doors, which open with a low creak, and the atmosphere shifts as Daemon himself strides in. He wears his usual confidence like armor, dark violet eyes sweeping the room before settling, almost lazily, upon you. His smirk is subtle, wolfish, and you feel Tyland’s hand tense at your side.

Daemon’s eyes linger on you for a fraction too long, assessing, and then slide away, landing on your father, King Viserys. A murmur runs through the court, voices hushed, shoulders drawn tight. Tyland’s presence beside you is like an anchor as Daemon approaches the throne, bending to one knee in a show of respect that seems almost mocking.

"Brother." Viserys’s voice holds both weariness and authority. “To what do we owe this unexpected visit?”

Daemon’s smile widens slightly, a flicker of amusement glinting in his eyes. “Merely to pay respects, Your Grace. And to see my kin,” he says, his gaze flicking toward you once more, holding you in place.

The anxiety surrounding Tyland is palpable. You can feel his unease like a tether holding you close, as if his grip alone could shield you from Daemon’s gaze. He leans slightly closer to you, murmuring under his breath, “Do not let him draw you in.”

“Daemon?” You keep your voice light, aiming to soothe Tyland’s frayed nerves. “He’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Yet even as you say it, you feel the weight of Daemon’s scrutiny, as though he can see through the layers of formality, straight to the untold secrets hidden within. There’s a flash of possessiveness in Tyland’s gaze as he watches Daemon’s smirk—an expression both brazen and intimate, though you and Daemon have exchanged no words.

As the court session draws on, you find yourself pulled into conversation with Daemon himself. It’s subtle, a maneuver that Tyland could not intercede without drawing suspicion. Daemon’s tone is rich with false innocence as he turns to you, offering a slight bow.

“Niece,” he greets, a flicker of amusement sparking in his eyes, “I have heard much of you in my absence. It seems you have grown into quite the presence here in court.”

You return his smirk with a polite smile, feeling Tyland’s gaze burning at your back. “Perhaps you heard exaggerations, Uncle.”

“Hardly.” Daemon’s eyes gleam, leaning in slightly, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “But I am surprised. You seem… unguarded.”

There’s an edge in his words, a faint, almost challenging tone, as if he’s testing the waters, assessing the boundaries that lie between you. You raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze steadily, unflinching. “Perhaps you were the one who let rumors grow wild in your absence, Uncle.”

Daemon’s smirk widens, dark amusement flashing in his eyes. “Sharp-tongued, just like your sister.” His gaze drifts briefly over your shoulder, and you know without looking that Tyland is watching, stiff, barely containing his unease.

“Tell me,” Daemon continues, tilting his head, “what do you think of court these days? I would assume it has kept you… entertained?”

He speaks as if he knows something more, as though he can read between the words, and you choose to remain unreadable, every flicker of expression measured. “Court,” you say carefully, “is never dull.”

At this, Daemon lets out a soft chuckle, but it’s Tyland’s presence that grounds you. Even from across the room, you sense his protectiveness, feel his gaze linger, as though his very watchfulness could shield you from whatever Daemon might intend.

And then Daemon’s smirk softens into something more dangerous, his voice dropping low. “Family can be a powerful thing, Y/N. And there are those who might seek to use it.” His gaze hardens, flickering between Tyland and you.

The words linger in the air, an unspoken threat masked as advice. He straightens and nods at you, an odd glint in his eye as he steps back, his presence fading from your side but leaving his message behind, layered and unmistakable.

When you meet Tyland later, in the shadowed alcove by the garden, he does not hesitate. His hands find yours, grip tight with urgency. “Y/N,” he breathes, brushing a thumb across your knuckles, “you cannot take this lightly.”

You feel his heartbeat beneath his skin, steady yet strained. “I know,” you reply softly, allowing yourself a rare vulnerability in his presence. “But you needn’t fear for me, Tyland.”

He leans forward, forehead brushing yours, his voice barely a murmur. “It’s not just Daemon, Y/N. You’re surrounded by vultures here—everyone with their own schemes.”

You look up at him, meeting the intensity of his gaze. “And what of you, Tyland? Are you not one of those ‘vultures’?”

His breath hitches, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. “Perhaps.” He brushes a hand through your hair, his expression softening, worry creasing the corners of his eyes. “But only to keep you safe.”

You stay there in the alcove, enveloped by Tyland’s warmth, his steady grip grounding you amidst the storm swirling around the Red Keep.

As the court disperses and the courtiers filter out, leaving the air filled with whispers and speculations, Daemon and Viserys linger. You catch a glimpse of Daemon giving you one last glance, an unreadable expression flickering across his face before he turns to his brother, following him to a secluded chamber within the Red Keep.

Once inside, the door closes with a resounding echo, sealing the two brothers away from the prying eyes and ears of the court. Viserys takes his seat with a weariness that seems etched into his bones, but his gaze on Daemon is sharp, wary of whatever storm his younger brother has brought with him.

"Why have you returned, Daemon?" Viserys’s voice is measured, careful. It’s not an accusation, but it isn’t welcoming either.

Daemon, as usual, appears unfazed, moving to pour himself a goblet of wine. He holds it in his hand, swirling it as he regards Viserys with that unsettling calm. “Why, dear brother, is it so strange for a man to wish to see his family?”

Viserys narrows his eyes. “It is strange when that man is you.” His voice drops, edged with frustration. “You left us, Daemon, stormed off to the Stepstones and left behind chaos in your wake. And now you return, unannounced, with no warning, as if you expect to simply resume your place here. What game do you think you’re playing?”

Daemon’s lips curve into a wry smile. “I never left, Viserys. Not truly. My absence was merely physical.” He takes a slow sip of his wine, watching his brother over the rim of the goblet. “But you must admit, the court is… fascinating these days.”

Viserys’s jaw tightens. “If you think to meddle in the affairs of my court—”

“Your court?” Daemon’s eyes glint with a flash of something darker, something dangerous. He sets the goblet down and steps closer, his gaze boring into Viserys. “You mean Otto Hightower’s court, don’t you?”

A silence hangs between them, thick and charged. Viserys’s face betrays a flicker of guilt, of resignation, before he composes himself. “Otto serves me faithfully. He is my Hand.”

Daemon scoffs. “Faithfully? He’s a snake, brother. One who has wrapped himself around you, whispering in your ear, poisoning everything you touch.” His voice lowers, a mocking edge creeping in. “Did you think he wouldn’t try to control your children as well?”

At that, Viserys’s face hardens. “Leave my family out of this.”

Daemon smirks, the expression cold. “Your family? What about mine? I have more kin here than you realize.” His words are layered, and for a moment, a chill settles in the room as his gaze sharpens. “Including your… younger daughter.”

Viserys’s posture stiffens at that, a flicker of protectiveness flashing across his features. “You would not dare to involve her in your schemes. She’s little more than a child, Daemon, and has nothing to do with your grievances.”

Daemon’s smile is slow, predatory. “Oh, I don’t need to involve her in anything, brother. The court already has plans for her.” He pauses, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “It’s fascinating, truly, how eagerly they plan her future without your knowledge.”

Viserys’s face contorts with barely concealed frustration. “And what would you know of it?”

“More than you, apparently,” Daemon replies smoothly. “The vultures are circling, Viserys. Alicent, Otto, even that insipid son of his, Gwayne—they see her as a prize to be claimed, a tool to be wielded. You may have promised her a choice, but it is slipping through your fingers.”

Viserys falls silent, his gaze shadowed. It’s clear that his brother’s words strike a nerve, an uncomfortable truth he’d rather not face. “I will protect her,” he finally says, voice laced with conviction, yet tinged with the weight of doubt.

“Will you?” Daemon’s tone is a whisper, but there’s a blade hidden in his words. “Or will you let them marry her off, like a toy in their games?”

Viserys’s fists clench, a mixture of anger and resignation flashing across his face. “I would never allow that. She deserves more.”

“Then give her more, brother.” Daemon’s voice softens, almost coaxing, though his eyes remain sharp, assessing. “She’s a Targaryen. Fire and blood, not some tool for Otto to control.”

Viserys finally meets Daemon’s gaze, his face drawn. “And what would you suggest, Daemon? That she go with you? That you influence her as you did Rhaenyra?”

A slow smile spreads across Daemon’s lips, tinged with a trace of fondness and something darker. “If that is what it takes. Better her in my company than in the clutches of the Hightowers.”

Viserys leans forward, his voice taut with warning. “She is my daughter, Daemon. Not yours. And I’ll not have you corrupting her as you have so many others.”

Daemon laughs, low and mocking. “Corrupting her? Viserys, I’d be saving her from the true corruption in this court.” He steps back, a cold amusement flickering in his gaze. “But don’t worry, brother. For now, I’ll simply watch. After all, she is… a treasure.”

The words linger, laced with implications that seem to rattle Viserys more deeply than anything Daemon has said thus far. He rises slowly, his voice firm. “She is not a game piece in your schemes, Daemon. Nor will I allow her to be.”

Daemon’s expression shifts, turning almost contemplative, though the edge of amusement remains. “We shall see, brother. I do not need to scheme where truths lie plain as day.”

With that, Daemon bows—more a mockery of respect than sincerity—and makes his way out of the chamber, leaving Viserys alone, his shoulders weighted with the gravity of what’s been spoken.

And as Daemon exits, there’s a glimmer in his eyes, an unspoken promise that his words were not a warning, but a challenge.

The gardens of the Red Keep are awash in soft light, casting a serene glow over the paths winding through the foliage. You walk with measured steps, the silk of your gown brushing against your ankles, surrounded by your handmaidens. Their laughter fills the air as they talk among themselves, but your mind wanders, lost in thoughts too private to share. The recent arrival of Daemon has shifted the balance of the court, stirring currents unseen, but you have learned to wear a mask of calm, even as you feel those changes ripple around you.

A voice calls your name, polite yet eager, breaking through the reverie. You turn to see Ser Gwayne Hightower, his face alight with a confident smile that barely conceals his anticipation. He’s dressed impeccably, his tunic embroidered with his house colors, and he bows slightly as he approaches.

"Princess Y/N,” he greets, his tone pleasant, if a touch too enthusiastic. "I was hoping to find you here. May I join you?"

The handmaidens exchange glances, exchanging smiles and whispers, but you offer him a polite nod. “Of course, Ser Gwayne.”

He takes his place at your side, walking beside you, though there’s a hesitation in his movements. You can sense his eagerness to say more, to capture your attention fully, but your mind is elsewhere, your gaze drifting back to your handmaidens as they chatter, filling the silence Gwayne seems almost afraid to break.

“So,” he begins after a moment, clearing his throat, “I trust the day finds you well?”

“Yes, quite well,” you reply, your voice gentle but distant. “And you, Ser Gwayne?”

“Very well indeed,” he replies, perhaps too quickly. “Though… my days are made brighter by your company.” He gives a small smile, almost boyish, as he glances at you, but you offer only a gracious nod in return, your gaze already shifting back to the handmaidens, who have wandered slightly ahead.

Undeterred, Gwayne presses on. “It seems I rarely get the chance to speak with you alone,” he says, a hint of frustration in his tone. “Each time I seek you out, you’re called away.”

You glance at him, a faint smile curving your lips. “The duties of court are endless, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Indeed,” he agrees, though there’s an edge to his voice, a trace of impatience. “But even the busiest of ladies must have some time for leisure.”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a polite curiosity. “Are you suggesting I spend too much time attending to my duties, Ser Gwayne?”

His cheeks color slightly, and he laughs, though it sounds forced. “No, my lady, only that I would enjoy your company if you ever found the time for… simpler pleasures.” He gestures toward the gardens, as if to illustrate his point, his hand brushing the petals of a blooming rose.

You nod politely, your expression composed, though your heart remains unmoved by his attempts. “I have always enjoyed the gardens,” you reply, voice soft. “They provide a certain peace, don’t you think?”

“Peace, yes, but also beauty,” he says, his gaze lingering on you longer than the flowers. “Much like yourself, my lady.”

The compliment is earnest, almost desperate, and you give him a small, courteous smile. “You are kind, Ser Gwayne.”

But there’s a distance in your words, a polite barrier that he cannot seem to breach. He shifts uncomfortably, searching for something more to say, as though afraid that silence would lose your attention entirely.

“Tell me,” he ventures, a little more boldly, “is there anything you find wanting in King’s Landing? Perhaps something you miss?”

You pause, considering his question, before answering with a thoughtful look. “Perhaps sailing the open sea,” you say softly. “Its vastness, the feeling of the wind… there’s a freedom to it that the walls of the Red Keep cannot provide.”

His eyes light up, seizing on the answer with almost too much enthusiasm. “The sea, yes! Perhaps one day, I could accompany you to the shores. We could ride out to Blackwater Bay and—”

You cut him off with a polite chuckle, gesturing for him to lower his voice as your handmaidens glance back, curious. “Perhaps,” you say, neither agreeing nor refusing, the soft lilt of amusement in your tone deflecting his eagerness without discouraging it outright.

He hesitates, seeming to sense the delicate boundary you’ve drawn, yet clearly struggling to accept it. “Forgive me, my lady,” he says, after a moment, his tone more subdued. “I only wish to know you better.”

You glance at him, feeling his earnestness, yet sensing the restraint within yourself—the line you know he must not cross. “Ser Gwayne, we are well-acquainted already, are we not?” Your voice is soft, kind but measured. “There is no need for haste.”

He smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps… but if only I could…” He trails off, seeming to search for the right words. “If I could be more than an acquaintance, Princess Y/N, I would be honored.”

You pause, your gaze holding his with a serene detachment. “I value your friendship, Ser Gwayne,” you say carefully, each word chosen with precision. “And I am certain that friendship will serve us well, whatever may come.”

The quietness of your response, though not unkind, settles heavily upon him. He smiles, though it’s strained, his hope dimming. “Of course, my lady. Friendship is… indeed a precious gift.”

There’s a brief silence, one that stretches and feels almost hollow, as though the words he truly wishes to say are lost. He walks beside you in silence after that, and though his presence lingers, you return to the companionship of your handmaidens, their laughter and easy conversation providing a respite from the tension he brings.

As the path winds back toward the Red Keep, Gwayne stops, bowing deeply. “Thank you, my lady, for allowing me to accompany you.” He offers a small, strained smile, knowing that he’s failed to break through your polite, unyielding distance.

“Until next time, Ser Gwayne,” you reply with a gentle smile, one that is warm enough to be kind, yet distant enough to remind him of the boundaries you have set. As he watches you go, you sense the weight of his gaze on your back, his disappointment evident, but you step forward, returning to the comfort of your own thoughts and the familiarity of your handmaidens’ company.

The atmosphere in the small council chamber is taut, weighed down by the sudden, unforeseen presence of Daemon Targaryen. Each member of the council is seated around the polished table, their expressions ranging from wary to openly displeased, yet all are careful to mask their thoughts beneath a veil of courtly civility. King Viserys sits at the head, his face drawn and weary, yet resolute in his choice to bring Daemon back into the fold, a decision that has stirred unrest among his advisors.

Daemon himself lounges at the far end of the table, a faint smirk playing at his lips as he surveys the council. His gaze is as sharp as a dragon’s, taking in each man’s expression, as though savoring the discomfort his presence brings. Beside him, Otto Hightower sits stiff and silent, his face set in a hard line, while Lord Beesbury shifts uneasily, his gaze flicking between Daemon and the King. Tyland, ever perceptive, watches Daemon with guarded curiosity, though he keeps his face carefully composed.

Viserys clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Thank you all for attending. I have asked Daemon to join us in matters of state, as he is my brother and a prince of the realm.”

Otto, who has been silent, leans forward, his voice cool and measured. “Your Grace,” he begins carefully, “while none would question Prince Daemon’s lineage, his… reputation precedes him. His presence here has caused considerable unrest among the court.”

Daemon chuckles softly, as though amused by Otto’s thinly veiled remark. “Unrest, Otto? My, you make it sound as if I’ve arrived with fire and blood.”

Otto’s jaw tightens, but he restrains himself, casting a quick glance at Viserys before responding. “The people of King’s Landing recall the last time you graced us with your… presence, my prince. Many still bear the marks of your ‘cleansing’ of the city.”

Daemon merely shrugs, his smirk widening. “They bear marks? It seems they should thank me for reminding them of their loyalty to the Crown.” His gaze shifts, sweeping over the others seated at the table, lingering briefly on Tyland, who meets it with calm indifference.

Viserys raises a hand, silencing them both. “We are not here to rehash the past, but to look forward. Daemon has returned, and as my brother, he has a rightful place on this council.” His tone softens, weary yet firm. “It is my hope that we can move beyond… past conflicts.”

Lord Beesbury shifts, clearly uncomfortable, and finally speaks up, his voice quivering slightly. “Your Grace, I do not wish to question your judgment, but I fear that Prince Daemon’s return will do more to unsettle the court than to reassure it. His intentions are unclear, and rumors have already begun to spread…”

Daemon laughs, a low, almost sinister sound. “Rumors, Lord Beesbury? Do you always put such weight in the words of idle courtiers?” He looks around the table, his gaze as unsettling as his smile. “Or is it just my presence that makes you so quick to believe?”

Jasper Wylde clears his throat. “It is not just about rumors, Prince Daemon,” he says carefully, his voice even and composed. “The suddenness of your return, without warning or clear purpose… It does raise questions.”

Daemon tilts his head, as though genuinely curious. “Do you need a clearer purpose than family, Lord Wylde? Or do you not believe in loyalty?”

The council falls silent, animosity crackling in the air. Tyland finally speaks, his voice calm yet carrying an undertone of challenge. “Loyalty is not in question here, my prince. It’s the manner in which loyalty is displayed that concerns us. Respect, duty… these are the pillars of loyalty.”

Daemon’s gaze snaps to Tyland, a flicker of interest in his eyes, as though he’s taken note of something in Tyland’s words. But, surprisingly, he says nothing, merely raising an eyebrow as he regards the young Lannister lord with something close to amusement. Tyland holds his gaze for a moment, his expression unyielding, before shifting his attention back to Viserys.

Viserys seems to sigh in relief at Tyland’s intervention, grateful for the shift in the discussion. “Daemon,” he says, tone softer yet firm, “if you are to sit on this council, you must understand that trust is earned, not demanded. You are my brother, and I welcome you, but it is for the benefit of the realm that we all tread carefully.”

Daemon inclines his head, a slight mockery in his movement. “Of course, brother. I am here to serve the realm, just as you wish.”

Otto, seizing the opportunity, speaks up. “And in serving the realm, Prince Daemon, I assume you’ll respect the decisions made here, especially regarding… delicate matters.”

“Delicate matters?” Daemon’s smile grows sharper, as though relishing the underlying tension. “Surely, you do not refer to my niece, do you, Lord Hightower?”

There’s a pause, and a flicker of something dangerous passes through Otto’s eyes before he replies. “I speak only of the necessity to protect the future of the Crown, my prince. Lady Y/N is, after all, a valuable asset to the realm, one who must be guided wisely.”

Daemon’s gaze darkens at that, and for a moment, his easy demeanor slips, revealing a brief flash of anger. “An asset?” he repeats, his tone low, cold. “Princess Y/N is family. She is no pawn for you to move on your board, Otto.”

“Enough.” Viserys’s voice cuts through the rising tension, a firm reminder of his authority. “Princess Y/N is my daughter, and her future will be determined by my will, and mine alone.” His gaze shifts to Daemon, almost pleading. “I trust you remember that, Daemon.”

Daemon holds Viserys’s gaze for a long moment, then inclines his head, though his eyes remain hard. “Of course, Your Grace.”

A strained silence settles over the table, broken only by the faint shuffling of robes as the council members shift in their seats, clearly uneasy. Mellos clears his throat, speaking in his usual monotone. “If we might turn our attention back to matters of the realm…”

Viserys nods, seizing the chance to move on. “Yes, let us continue. Otto, you mentioned concerns regarding the grain stores…”

The meeting continues, though Daemon’s presence lingers like a shadow over every word spoken. Tyland listens with one ear, yet his gaze occasionally drifts to Daemon, watching the prince’s reactions, noting the calculating gleam in his eyes each time his niece is mentioned. The council may carry on, but the true heart of the discussion, the simmering unease over Princess Y/N’s future, is left unspoken, lying like kindling within each word spoken.

As the council disperses, Daemon lingers near the door, catching Tyland’s eye as he passes. For a moment, Tyland feels the weight of that intense gaze, as though Daemon has seen through his carefully composed demeanor. But Daemon says nothing, merely offering him a knowing smile that holds as many threats as it does secrets, before disappearing into the shadows of the Red Keep.

Tyland watches him go, a chill settling in his chest. He knows, as do the others, that Daemon’s presence is no mere family reunion. The prince’s return has stirred something dangerous, something that cannot be so easily quelled. And as he walks away from the council chambers, Tyland cannot shake the feeling that, despite his best efforts, he may soon be pulled into a battle he cannot win.

The sun is setting over King’s Landing, casting a warm, amber glow across the stone walls of the Red Keep. The city below hums with life, but up here, away from the prying eyes of courtiers and whispers of scheming lords, you find a rare moment of peace in the secluded alcove of the gardens. Waiting in the dappled shadows, you feel the tension that has clung to you since the morning ease, replaced by the quiet thrill of anticipation.

And then, you hear his footsteps. Tyland steps into the garden, his gaze finding yours with a warmth that softens the lines of worry on his face. He approaches, his hand reaching out instinctively, brushing his fingers across yours in a brief, tender gesture before pulling you further into the shaded corner. For a moment, he simply holds your hand, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your knuckles as he studies you, the weight of the day visible in his eyes.

“You’re here,” he murmurs, relief and fondness mingling in his voice.

You smile, leaning in slightly, teasing him. “Where else would I be?”

He chuckles, though it’s weary, his gaze falling to the ground for a moment before he looks back up at you, his expression earnest. “Every day that I have you here feels… borrowed. Especially now, with everything shifting so quickly.”

You tilt your head, catching the faint edge of unease in his words. “Are you so worried, Tyland? I am still with you, after all.”

He sighs, a hint of frustration coloring his tone. “Worried? Yes, Y/N, more than you realize.” His hand tightens around yours. “With Otto constantly pushing his agendas, twisting the King’s ear, it was already enough to keep up. But now…” He trails off, his gaze drifting back to the Red Keep, his voice lowering. “Now, Daemon has returned as well. His presence alone is like a spark in a room filled with wildfire.”

You lift an eyebrow, a hint of amusement softening your features. “So, are you telling me you’re afraid of my uncle, Tyland?”

“Afraid?” He laughs, though it’s without much humor. “Daemon has no loyalty to anything but himself. He doesn’t follow rules, nor does he care for the boundaries others would have him obey. And when it comes to… matters of family, he is especially bold.”

You smirk, tilting your head to catch his gaze, a glint of mischief in your eyes. “Bold, perhaps. But he does not have me.”

Tyland’s grip on your hand tightens, a possessive gleam flashing in his eyes. He steps closer, his voice soft but intense. “No, he doesn’t. But it’s not just him I fear. It’s the influence he brings—the way people bend to his will, the way he moves through court as if it were his to command.” He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your cheek. “Having Otto push his own agenda was enough, but now Daemon’s returned to disrupt every carefully laid plan… and they both see you as the center of it all.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you gaze up at him, your voice gentle yet teasing. “Oh, Tyland, you speak as if I am surrounded by enemies. Yet here I am, alone with you.” You press a hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “Does that not reassure you?”

He sighs, his hand covering yours as he draws you closer. “It does… for now. But they have plans for you, Y/N. Otto, Daemon, even your father—they all want to shape your future in ways they believe best. And I… I am caught between them, with no right to you but the one we’ve made in secret.”

You reach up, brushing your fingers along his jaw, feeling the tension in the muscles beneath his skin. “Tyland,” you say softly, your voice soothing. “We may not have a right in their eyes yet, but I am here of my own choice. And I choose you.”

He closes his eyes briefly, exhaling as if letting go of a weight he’s been holding. When he opens them again, his gaze is softer, vulnerable in a way that he rarely allows anyone else to see. “You don’t know what that means to me,” he whispers, lifting your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles.

You watch him, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin, a smile tugging at your lips. “Then let me show you.” You lean in, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ve chosen you, Tyland. And no matter what they plot, no matter what games they play, I am yours.”

He hesitates for a moment, as though he can hardly believe the words, before pulling you into his arms. His hand finds the back of your neck, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that is both gentle and fervent, filled with the silent promises you’ve shared in the quiet spaces away from prying eyes. The world around you fades, leaving only the warmth of his embrace, the softness of his breath mingling with yours.

When you finally part, his gaze lingers on you, his hand resting against your cheek as if he fears you might vanish if he lets go. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to say it, how many times I’ve wanted to hold you like this in the light of day.”

You smile, brushing a stray lock of his hair back. “Then say it, Tyland. Say it now, with no secrets between us.”

He swallows, his voice rough with emotion as he speaks. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I realized you were more than just a noblewoman bound by duty. You are… everything.”

Your heart swells at his words, and you press a kiss to his forehead, letting the moment settle between you like a vow. “And I love you, Tyland. Whatever schemes they weave, whatever forces they throw at us… we will face them together.”

He smiles, his face softening with a rare vulnerability. “Then let them come,” he murmurs, his arms tightening around you as though he could shield you from the world. “As long as I have you, I’ll endure whatever they bring.”

For a moment, you stand there, wrapped in each other’s embrace, holding fast to the love you’ve managed to carve out in a world so determined to pull you apart. And as the last light of day fades into twilight, you find a sense of peace, knowing that, whatever battles lie ahead, you will face them together.

The air in Rhaenyra’s solar is thick with incense, a faint, smoky aroma clinging to the air as Daemon enters, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he regards his niece. She watches him with a mix of curiosity and wariness, seated gracefully by the open window, her gown trailing around her like a pool of dark silk. Daemon closes the door behind him, leaning against it with an air of casual insolence, as though he owns the space.

“Quite the welcome home,” he muses, his voice laced with mock admiration. “Seems everything’s taken an interesting turn in my absence, hasn’t it?”

Rhaenyra smirks, crossing her arms as she watches him with amusement. “You do seem surprised, Uncle. Surely you didn’t expect us all to simply wait for your return?”

Daemon chuckles, stepping further into the room, his gaze flicking over the delicate tapestries and rich decor before settling back on Rhaenyra. “Patience was never my virtue, you know that. But I hadn’t expected the court to be so… lively.” He pauses, a sly smile curving his lips. “Or for my dear niece to be such a popular subject.”

Rhaenyra’s expression doesn’t change, but her gaze sharpens, a glimmer of protectiveness flashing in her eyes. “Y/N has grown, yes. But what of it? She’s under my father’s protection, as well as mine.”

Daemon chuckles, a knowing look crossing his face. “Oh, I know she’s well protected, Rhaenyra. I merely find it curious how many eyes are on her. Otto’s been practically falling over himself trying to position his oafish son near her—Gwayne Hightower, moping about the Keep like a kicked dog. He looks at her as though he’s lost something he never had.”

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “And what of it? Gwayne’s infatuation is harmless enough.”

Daemon leans forward, his eyes gleaming with interest. “Is it, though? From the way he skulks around, I’d say he thinks he has some claim.” His gaze narrows, as though weighing his words. “And he’s not the only one sniffing about. Tyland Lannister, for instance… he watches her with a different sort of gaze.”

At the mention of Tyland, Rhaenyra’s smile falters, but she composes herself quickly, her tone breezy. “Tyland is loyal to the throne, like his brother. And as for Y/N, she is a lady of the court, and attention is natural. It’s nothing worth noting.”

Daemon’s eyes flicker with amusement as he watches her carefully, clearly catching her subtle reaction. “Oh, is that so?” he murmurs, tilting his head. “How curious that you’d be so eager to dismiss it, given your loyalty to her.”

“Loyalty,” Rhaenyra repeats smoothly, meeting his gaze with a calm intensity, “is something I extend to all my family, especially my sister. Whatever Tyland may or may not feel is his concern. Y/N is under my protection, and there is no need to read further into it.”

Daemon watches her closely, his smirk widening as he senses her carefully guarded tone. “Very noble of you,” he says, a trace of amusement coloring his voice. “But noble deeds aren’t your usual concern, Rhaenyra. Tell me, what is it you’re hiding?”

Rhaenyra’s expression doesn’t waver, though a flicker of warning enters her gaze. “You may be my uncle, Daemon, but even you don’t know everything.”

Daemon chuckles, impressed. “Fair enough.” He moves to the window, glancing out over the city as he speaks, his voice light, yet probing. “Still, I can’t help but wonder… why would Tyland, of all people, show such keen interest in our little Y/N? He doesn’t seem like the sort to be driven by mere courtly flirtation. He’s careful, calculating.” He pauses, casting her a sidelong glance. “Quite unlike the rest of his family.”

Rhaenyra’s response is smooth, a practiced indifference in her tone. “Perhaps Tyland simply enjoys intelligent company. Y/N is spirited, intelligent—qualities that would interest any man of taste.” She shrugs, her gaze steady. “But she is also discerning enough not to be swayed by empty flattery.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, his curiosity sharpening as he catches the hint of steel in her voice. “Is that so? I would have thought you might steer her toward more advantageous company. After all, there are plenty of lords in the realm who would be honored to have her as a wife.”

Rhaenyra leans back in her chair, crossing her arms, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Y/N is not a prize to be won, Daemon. She is my sister, and her happiness is her own concern. I trust her judgment.”

Daemon laughs, shaking his head. “Such a loyal sister. It’s almost touching.” He turns, folding his arms as he regards her with a glint of suspicion. “But you know, you’re not as subtle as you think, Rhaenyra. There’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

She merely smiles, her expression placid, unyielding. “Believe what you wish, Uncle.”

He watches her a moment longer, a calculating glint in his eyes, before shrugging, seemingly letting the matter drop. “Very well. But tell me, what does the King think of all this? Surely he has his own ideas about Y/N’s future.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifts slightly, though her tone remains composed. “My father is preoccupied with matters of the realm, and he trusts me to see to Y/N’s wellbeing. I am her protector, and he respects that.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Protector, indeed. One might think you’ve grown rather… protective of your little sister’s affairs.”

She meets his gaze unflinchingly, her expression firm. “Family protects family, Daemon. Surely you, of all people, understand that.”

He laughs, a low, rich sound, shaking his head. “Oh, I understand it well enough. Perhaps better than anyone else.” His gaze softens, if only slightly, as he regards her, something almost like pride flickering in his eyes. “It’s good to know you’ve become so… capable, niece.”

Rhaenyra allows herself a small smile, though her expression remains guarded. “Capable or not, I will do whatever it takes to keep those I love safe. You should remember that.”

Daemon’s smirk widens, a gleam of approval in his gaze. “Indeed. But I do hope you’re prepared, Rhaenyra. The court is not so easily handled. Between Otto, Tyland, and even poor Gwayne moping about, there will be plenty of games to play.”

She raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Games are nothing new to me, Uncle.”

“True enough.” He pauses, his gaze shifting back toward the window as though seeing something far beyond it. “Still, there’s something uniquely amusing about watching all of them dance around each other. Gwayne, Tyland, even Otto… all hoping to win the favor of a lady who has her own mind.”

“Is that truly all it is to you? Amusement?” Rhaenyra asks, her tone laced with skepticism.

Daemon’s expression shifts, his gaze turning shrewd, thoughtful. “Perhaps. But then again,” he murmurs, “one can never underestimate the allure of amusement… or the power it can wield.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrow, though she keeps her tone casual. “I’m sure you’ll find some way to amuse yourself, Uncle. But remember, some things are better left untouched.”

He chuckles, as though entertained by her warning. “Advice from you, my dear niece? Now I know things have indeed grown interesting in my absence.”

Rhaenyra meets his gaze evenly, her tone steady. “Consider it less advice, and more… a friendly warning.”

Daemon grins, a flash of teeth that is more wolfish than warm. “Very well. I shall heed it… for now.” He inclines his head, his voice softening, though the glint in his eyes remains. “But rest assured, Rhaenyra—whatever your secrets, they won’t stay hidden forever.”

With that, he turns, striding toward the door with a casual confidence, leaving Rhaenyra alone with her thoughts, the weight of his parting words lingering in the room.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #hotd tyland #tyland lannister #tyland x you #tyland x reader #tyland x y/n #to win a princess #house targaryen #house lannister

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dragonstoners · 8 months ago

Text

𝖆𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖓 𝖆 𝖓𝖔𝖇𝖑𝖊𝖜𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓 | 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘

18+ | Minors DO NOT INTERACT | Ageless blogs will be blocked

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: aemond targaryen x reader

𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌: canon-typical misogyny, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, toxic relationships

𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: f!reader, noble!reader, obsessive!aemond, toxic!aemond

⁃ it starts off strange, naturally. aemond’s way of showing interest is like a game of cyvasse, where you don’t know you’re playing until you’re losing.

⁃ he begins by throwing words like daggers, seeing which ones will stick, as well as which ones will miss. “courtesy is often the cloak of deceit,” he says one day as you pass by, eyes sharp, challenging you to disagree. you’re left pondering his intentions, unsure if this is disdain or a warning. you're not even sure he knows your name, but he's got his eye on you, that much is clear.

⁃ all of his tests are subtle at first, almost imperceptible… at least to everyone else. during a meeting including your house, he undercuts your suggestions with a smirk, “is that the best wisdom we can muster?” making you doubt your voice, your place. yet, when others join in the critique, his dissent stops, a silent barrier against the tide.

⁃ he starts to frequent areas of the red keep you're known to visit, under the guise of random meanderings or pressing royal duties. his presence is always pronounced, a storm cloud in a serene sky, yet he never directly acknowledges you unless absolutely necessary. when he does speak to you, his words are a mix of backhanded compliments and critiques designed to unsettle, to pull your attention and push you away all at once.

⁃ he tests the waters with questions that cut close to bone, speaking in riddles of his kin and house, gauging your reaction below a veneer of idle curiosity. "and what do you say of the whispers about my brother?" he asks, his gaze sharp, searching, every one of your words and expressions a stone in the foundation of this game he’s you’re both playing.

⁃ he’s watching, always, from the corners of rooms, from across courtyards, his gaze a heavy thing. you start to feel it, the weight of his attention, in every place you go. “you seem to find yourself in my path quite often,” he remarks, a statement that makes it seem less like coincidence and more like an invisible thread pulling you into his orbit.

⁃ at a court event, a bard mishandles a tale of your house’s valour, rendering it comically rather than heroic. while others laugh, aemond's eyes find yours across the room, his gaze sharp and assessing. later, you hear the bard has been given a generous sum to leave king's landing — and the realization that aemond might have been defending your honour, in his own convoluted way, leaves you bewildered.

⁃ only next, he's once again all about putting you in the spotlight for the wrong reasons. during a dinner, he casually asks if you truly believe in the tales of old valyria, making your opinion sound naive in front of everyone. it's like he enjoys seeing you squirm, but when you catch his gaze, there’s something else there, maybe respect?

⁃ after a particularly sharp exchange, you wander the quieter halls of the red keep, mulling over aemond’s pointed remarks. “is loyalty not our greatest virtue?” had left his lips with a smirk. his words had a sting, intended for you in a room full of eyes and whispers. it wasn’t just the comment but the public questioning of your loyalty that left a bitter taste. it’s the solitude afterwards that weighs heavily, making you question where the line between loyalty and a noose truly lies.

⁃ then, when you're about ready to write him off as a typical targaryen prince, toying with you for amusement and not much different from his elder brother, small things begin to happen. a finely-made bone comb appears amongst your things, no note, nothing to indicate it’s origins. it's truly beautiful, haunting almost. none of your household maids know where it has come from. you do not think about it again, until your maid casually notes the comb is in fact made of dragon-bone whilst she brushes out your hair one evening, and your heart drops.

⁃ when news reaches you of a lord questioning your place at court behind your back, nothing comes of it. no confrontation, no public defence. however, the lord's aspirations wither as if touched by frost; his allies turn away, his influence ebbs, and he is left to the cold mercy of court politics. you never explicitly see aemond act, but the timing is enough for you to know he is responsible.

⁃ the cloak follows, materialising on a chilly evening, draped over your chair, with no explanation. the craftsmanship is impeccable, finer than anything you’ve ever owned. it’s the colours that give him away – shimmering greenish blue with bronze detailing adorning the hood, unmistakably the colours of vhagar, etched into your memory from watching in wonder as aemond took her to the skies above the keep. when he sees you wrapped in the cloak, his smirk is a tell. "gevie," he mumbles, almost begrudgingly, before he’s speaking with a nearby lord as if you do not exist. (later, you discover he had said beautiful in high valyrian, after hours upon hours of scouring language books in the library.)

⁃ when you confront him about it later, his only response is a cryptic, “it suits you,” his eye glinting with something like satisfaction. the ambiguity of the comb was one thing, but the cloak is a statement. he sees it, you wearing it, as an unspoken acceptance of his claim, a mark of his territory, even if only known to him, and now you.

⁃ but even with the dragon-bone comb brushing along your scalp and the cloak wrapping you in its warmth, aemond’s tests don’t cease. they become more direct, more challenging. he questions your judgments, pushes you to defend your beliefs, each instance a gauntlet thrown at your feet. “prove me wrong,” he dares, and every time you rise to the challenge, it feels like a victory and a defeat, all at once.

⁃ his kinder actions aside, he's still a storm, a dragon at heart, unpredictable and restless. one moment, he's pushing you away with a cutting remark about how easily charmed you are by shiny things, the next, he's singling out anyone who dares speak lowly of you, though he'd never admit it's defence.

⁃ at a small gathering in the courtyard, a long-standing court noble sidles up to you, their voice low and laced with mock concern. “he’s got his eye on you, hasn’t he?” the words linger, unsettling in their ambiguity and specificity. you pause, the realization that your identity is becoming entwined with aemond’s reputation unsettling you. aemond has never hinted at any interest directly, nor publicly, yet his actions speak volumes, and, you realise in that moment, it’s not solely obvious to you anymore. soon after the incident, you find out that same noble has suddenly, unexpectedly, and without formal reason, returned to the seat of their house.

⁃ his idea of openly flirting with you? challenging you to a horse race when he falls into stride with you during a royal hunting trip in the kingswood, under the guise of proving your recklessness. "i believed you too fragile, my lady," he teases, goading you into proving him wrong once again. his singular attention on you, which is no longer lost on the court, is both infuriating and exciting.

⁃ challenging aemond becomes an unexpected thrill, not only during a ride but over a map of disputed borders laid out in the council chamber. “might there be room for diplomacy?” you suggest, the words hanging boldly between you. his look is sharp, a mix of annoyance and something vaguely resembling admiration. it’s a small victory, asserting your voice amidst the power plays of court.

⁃ at a feast, when you catch him observing from across the room, there’s a moment where the world narrows to just the two of you. later, as he escorts you to the far-side of the keep to your quarters (with his kingsguard and your maid as chaperones) he openly negs you about your taste in music, literature, the arts, but always in a way that demands a response, a defense. it’s exhausting, exhilarating, maddening.

⁃ the tension between public perception and private truths comes to a head when a rumor reaches you about aemond defending your honour in your absence, against a council member nonetheless, stirring a complex mix of emotions. confronting him leads to a terse exchange, “i can defend myself” you start, watching his reaction closely. his reply is noncommittal, a shrug that does little to clarify his intentions, leaving you to question the nature of his interest. it’s this dance of half-truths and veiled motivations that keeps you wary, even as court intrigue pulls you deeper.

⁃ but within weeks, at a ball, his behaviour is so uncharacteristic of his typical self-seriousness that it has prince aegon downright gleeful in his amusement, and queen alicent looks as if she’s seen a ghost. aemond is seen drinking, whispering with others, occasionally even laughing. however, his eye never strays far from you, always positioning himself where he could get to you if he so pleased. he dances and flirts with a handful of ladies other than you, but each step seems a performance, deliberate and pointed. later, he privately comments on how predictable such events are, subtly relishing in your sulky expression and stiff responses.

⁃ jealousy becomes a tool after that, a sharpened blade wielded with precision, but only ever at you. he’s seen in the company of the most eligible ladies of the court, only to cast them aside with a cold indifference as you approach. "mere court games," he scoffs when you question it, but the message is clear, and the music, testing the lengths of your interest.

⁃ if your gaze lingers on another, noble or common-born, their fortune subtly wanes and they suddenly seem… less. aemond doesn't openly compete; still, pieces move, fall and retreat in a carefully woven net of doubts and second guesses, a whisper here, a look there, enough to make rivals for your affection run for cover without a word spoken against them.

⁃ more gifts arrive, still with no indication of their sender, but layered with meaning; a book on war strategy with passages underlined and notes in the margin, a brooch echoing both the targaryen and hightower sigil, as well as a sapphire necklace that you do not understand the connection of, yet – each gift a tangible tether to him. aemond does not react when he sees you with his gifts, except for looking vaguely pleased with himself, which is hardly out of the ordinary. however, his grandsire otto does a double-take as you pass him in the hall whilst wearing the sapphire one, and soon after queen alicent is personally inviting you to ladies luncheons and visits to the sept with her pious entourage, rarely accepting your attempts to decline.

⁃ suddenly, your opinions, your insights become valuable to aemond. "what would you do?" he asks at point blank, unexpectedly. he is not simply testing your loyalty or competence anymore, but also making you a co-conspirator in his plans, a shared counsel that blurs the line between advisor and confidante, drawing you deeper into his web.

⁃ there are also more guards being stationed in the spaces you regularly inhabit, silent sentinels who only seem to materialise with your presence. a guard, often enough a kingsguard, is seemingly always readily available to escort you to wherever you wish to go, whenever you wish to go. that in itself is a privilege few ladies are afforded, if not a confirmation that this newfound surveillance protection is aemond’s doing.

⁃ even if you pretend not to, you don’t miss the way select servants follow you from one of your duties to the next under the pretence of cleaning spotless floors. more concerning are the shadows and faint footsteps that you notice on occasion. a silent assertion of his presence in your life, protective yet possessive. it’s there in the corridors you walk, the gardens you frequent, a reminder of his reach, his interest, a silent witness to your virtue and a deterrent to your vices.

⁃ the isolation comes gradually. “they do not see you, not truly,” aemond whispers during a stolen moment, his surprisingly warm fingers grazing your cheek. these days, he casts doubt on the intentions of those around you, proudly and indiscriminately. it’s a not-so subtle tug away from the crowd, toward him, towards his house, towards the brewing civil war, and the frightening thing is, it works. he had spun a web, complex and suffocating, around you deftly, and you had not seen the delicate strands until it was too late; you find yourself seeking his company, his approval, even as you bristle at his methods.

⁃ so when he corners you under the cover of moonlight, asking, “what is it you want?” it feels like the culmination of a long, intricate dance. it’s a challenge, a confession, a turning point. his question isn’t just about desire; it’s about allegiance, about choosing sides in a game you never agreed to play. the gifts, the challenges, the protection, the whispers, the barbed words — all of it binds you to him in a way that’s impossible to ignore. and you realise, with a mix of dread and fascination, that you’re too entangled to simply walk away.

thank you for reading – feedback and requests are welcome x

→ 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖆 𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗 🕊️

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x f!reader #aemond targaryen x noble!reader

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brucewaynehater101 · 2 months ago

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I was looking over all my kin boards on Pinterest

they are all slightly deranged more so depressed sleep deprived nerds

then I looked into the mirror and realized that I to was becoming that

so in my opinion that is what Tim Drake did

he kinned dick when he was a chaotic kid

then he kinned his dimbass friends who did the same back to him until it was like a mirror house of chaos

he accidentally kinned a few to many murders (shiva, Helen, etc) that his morals went a bit sloppy but it’s fine

just if Tim idolizes you, he starts to become you

Tim's obsession with people is that he shapes himself in their image. Something something imitation is the best form of flattery, or whatever.

He picks up, examines, and keeps skill/traits he finds useful of those he observes. He packs them away into his toolbox until he needs it. Those behaviors aren't a part of him, but nearby.

For those he admires and loves, however, he wants the pieces of them to become fused with him until he can't tell where he ends and they begin. He's constantly adapting and shifting and sculpting. His declaration of love is obvious in the way:

His grin is lopsided like Jason's

His eyebrow quirks in Alfred's judgement

His need to climb like Dick

Jack's protective anger

Bruce's ability to command a room silently

Cass's affectionate and assessing head tilt

Damian not acknowledging the gifts he leaves

Duke answering questions too literally to piss his opponents off

Barbara randomly sending packets of information

Steph using whatever ability she has, even biting, to get out of a shitty situation

Bart's eerie ability to threaten someone with a smile

Cassie's strength to stand against the expectations placed upon her

Kon smiling nonchalantly despite any hurt/pain he receives

And the rest of YJ. Lucius, Helena, Dana, and others as well.

Tim's family knows he loves them because they can look at Tim and see themselves

#tim drake #thank you for the ask!!!!#dc hc

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bonefall · 10 months ago

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Clan Culture: Names and Titles

A guide to the meaning behind warrior names in Better Bones, including when a kit receives their first suffix, what happens in the case of a conflict, and honor and dishonor titles.

Edit 1: More added to FAQ!

Clan cats ferociously value their titles through life. It is a symbol of their honor, the proof of their rank, and a sign that they are a blessed warrior of their Clan.

Famously, a warrior name consists of a prefix, and a suffix. The prefix is given by their kin, and the suffix changes at least three times within their lives. The first, -kit, is given when a kitten sees their first full moon with opened eyes. The second, -paw, is given at their apprenticeship ceremony. The last is awarded after completing their Warrior Assessment, as written in Law 12 of the Warrior Code.

Once a Clan cat has a suffix, to leave it out of their name is ONLY done by family, else it is a sign of open disrespect for their rank. To respectfully shorten a Warrior's name, one sound from the prefix and one from the suffix are combined.

Squirrelflight = Squilf / Pishkafsheek = Pishee

Hallowflight = Hawf / Shahafniooaw = Shaw

In Clanmew, some names can get quite long! The full title only has to be used during sacred ceremonies, so that StarClan will gaze down upon the warrior using their name as a vector. Nicknames are common; a full name is a holy incantation.

(Though, this works both ways. Some enemy warriors make a point to use the full name when they cuss you out in battle, so StarClan can watch them beat you up. It's especially funny when they do this and then get their ass kicked.)

Below the cut;

Fading Kits; The Promised Name and the First Name.

Journey to the Moonplace; Conflicts and Leader Choices

Pride and Shame; Honor and Dishonor Titles

FAQ

Fading Kits; The First Name and Prefixes.

It is a part of life, for cat parents of all cultures, that they will have at least one kitten in a litter who does not live past their first month. It's so normal that it is not treated like a tragedy, it's as expected as afterbirth.

In Clan Culture, these are called "Fading Kits" or "Faders," and the same word is used for the 'twinkle' of a star. It is believed that Faders are StarClan Warriors who get "caught" during their delivery of the souls of the other kittens, and briefly fall to earth before fading away again.

They're thought to be family, in most cases! It would be very insulting to tell your grandfather that you don't recognize him, so, kittens are not "named" until it's clear they are not simply faders.

The first rank a Clan cat has is "kit." They are given this suffix, along with their official prefix, after they witness their first full moon with open eyes. It is believed that a Fader would not be able to gaze upon the moon without bursting into tears and dying on the spot, desperate to return to StarClan's hunting grounds. This title is called the "First Name."

(Jaykit was slightly delayed in receiving his First Name, as there was some debate that he could complete this ritual. The matter was settled by the Cleric, Leafpool, describing the moon to him in detailed prose to which the 3-week-old replied, "ok")

Prefixes are taken from just about anything that Clan cats are familiar with. Animals, colors, plants, so on. The reasons these names are picked can range from it being a good physical description, to having an abstract symbolic meaning, to being in honor of another cat.

While no word is "banned," there are names that carry social connotations. Thistles, wildfires, and honeysuckles have political implications. Cuckoo birds are referenced as an extreme insult. Cooked food used in a name would be considered extremely silly. Parents may be talked to if the names they pick are considered bad or 'not serious.'

If the First Name is ESPECIALLY bad, to the point of being abusive, the Clan might refuse to honor it. This is rare, and subjective based on the culture at the time.

Fading Kit: A kitten that dies without an obvious reason before its first moon. Extremely common and expected within a litter; not named.

First Name: The first prefix a Clan cat has, earned after witnessing their first full moon with opened eyes.

Journey to the Moonplace; Conflicts and Leader Choices

According to legend, the very first "True Names" were given to the five founders, after the First Battle. Upon each leader, their ancestors bestowed the fragment of a star, so that they too would be able to bless their warriors with holy titles of their own.

This is a sacred responsibility. A leader is expected to put immense thought and care into bestowing a name upon their warriors. Part of this process is checking with StarClan to ensure that there is no spirit with the exact same name. Full titles are holy, an incantation that means you. It's EXTREME disrespect, both to StarClan AND the warrior, to make them share the same title.

If a leader is about to see a conflict when they're being given their -star suffix, StarClan itself will give them a new prefix... but they will always honor a meaningful personal request.

Though they act as an extension of StarClan, every leader is unique in the sorts of names they give! For example, Mistystar likes to "theme" litters with matching or similar suffixes, Brokenstar would pick names that sounded threatening and cool, and Bluestar preferred 'straightforward' names.

To challenge the name that a warrior has been given is a challenge against the leader that named them. You're calling into question something that they have the sacred authority to do-- and possibly even saying that they don't have StarClan themselves on their side. It's a very serious thing to do in public.

According to Law 12 of the Warrior Code, all apprentices must do three things before they can be considered a warrior. The Assessment, The Pilgrimage, and The Vigil. These are called The First Tasks.

These are typically done in order. After passing the assessment, the apprentice goes on a trip with their leader to the Moonplace, which is the Moonstone in the Forest, and the Moonpool at the Lake. There, the leader communicates with StarClan to present the name they've chosen, and to make sure that no spirit shares it. When approved, they return to the Clan where the Warrior Name Ceremony is held and the vigil is sat.

A warrior's first vigil will last for 12 hours. Since Clan cats are crepuscular, the apprentice may choose if they want to sit for a Day Vigil, or a Night Vigil. They must stay quiet for this entire time, unless interrupted by an incoming threat.

(However, this is a value so strong it can permanently impact a young warrior. Stoneclaw sat vigil on the night of the WindClan Massacre, and watched ShadowClan warriors kill her sister, mother, and father. She found herself unable to speak ever again.)

True Name: The full title of an adult Clan cat.

The First Tasks: Three actions that an apprentice must complete before becoming a full warrior, as outlined in Law 12.

Pride and Shame; Honor and Dishonor Titles

A full name is a holy incantation, calling upon StarClan itself to turn its gaze upon the warrior it describes. When that name no longer properly encompasses who that warrior is, the leader might choose to change it.

For outstanding achievements, a cat can earn an Honor Title.

There's many ways to earn an Honor Title. An act of inspirational heroism (Hallowflight), a huge discovery or contribution to Clan life (Leafpool), or even surviving an extreme injury that should have been deadly (Honeysnake). It's also common for them to be given for distinctive scars and injuries (Shredtail, Crookedstar), which are a point of pride for Clan cats and their battle-oriented culture.

Because it's totally up to the discretion of the leader, there are certain times in history where they become common, and others where they're rare. Some leaders believe that the first warrior name should be simple to encourage the quest for an Honor Title, while others believe that they should be spontaneous and sacred rewards.

For a crime or a terrible sin, a cat can be branded with a Dishonor Title.

Like their counterpart, Dishonor Titles can be acquired in all sorts of ways. Usually, they're given for codebreaking behavior, so that the whole Clan will address them by their mistakes for a certain amount of time and see them as an example. Some cats will even specifically request that their leader gives them a Dishonor Title after a serious failure-- it is thought that while they live under the shameful title to repent, their true, "holy name" can hide away until their pride recovers enough to wear it again.

Dishonor Titles are not supposed to be permanent unless the crime was severe, such as Darkstripe's poisoning of Sorrelkit. Before being cast out of ThunderClan, Firestar renamed him Belladonnaheart for what he'd done-- it would have served the double purpose of calling StarClan to witness the exile, AND of warning other cats of WHY he'd been cast out.

(though, it was undercut immediately by Tigerstar, who renamed him as soon as he had the chance. Debate rages on if Tigerstar had the holy authority to do such a thing, and what the 'true name' of the spirit now is.)

But, Dishonor Titles can also be used in cruel ways. When Swiftpaw was killed by the dogs and it seemed like his cousin Brightpaw wouldn't survive, Bluestar furiously challenged StarClan by giving her the warrior name "Swifthound." They would take TWO swifts to the stars, or leave her alone to recover. This was a terrible thing to do, to turn her into a pawn in Bluestar's war with StarClan and force her to wear the guilt of the gruesome death of her cousin as a holy title.

TigerClan also used Dishonor Titles in a shocking and sickening way-- by changing Stormpaw and Featherpaw into Graypaw and Silverpaw, to remind them that their birth killed their codebreaking mother, and that their traitor of a father was not here to pay for his crimes, so they would instead. Mistyfoot and Stonefur were also forced to take the names Festerberry and Heartworm.

Honor Title: A reward given for outstanding achievements.

Dishonor Title: A punishment given for breaking the Warrior Code or committing a sin.

FAQ

Q: "On conflicts; if a cat earns an honor title or becomes leader, does their old name get 'freed up' for a new warrior?"

Yes! Conflicts only apply to the final name; though the names of famous cats will be avoided generally (Tigerstar, for example.)

Q: "When a spirit fades away, is their name freed up?"

Yep. StarClan won't protest if a spirit is fully faded or forgotten; but they still won't allow cats to share names with famous individuals. For example, Tigerstar had been double-killed by Firestar, but StarClan still renamed Tigerheart to Heartstar.

Q: "Are there any outright banned prefixes or suffixes?"

Nope. Just use in-universe judgement as mentioned above. Every leader is different, and cultural views of certain prefixes shifts over time.

Q: "If conflict names are so discouraged, how do they deal with conflicting kits and apprentices in StarClan?"

Young cats that reach StarClan are called "cherubs." They unlock a full title based on the cat they "should have become" in life, and choose the age they wish to appear as. Cherubs are very special spirits that I'll get into with more depth another time!

Q: "Do Fading Kits exist in StarClan? Do they take up a name slot?"

No. If they weren't just a "visiting" spirit, the soul is young and clean enough to get immediately re-used for another Clan cat. They're not named.

Q: "I have a question about Tigerstar's authority to change names!"

These are ambiguous cases even in-canon, and actively debated within Clans and between individuals. Tigerstar had a lot of lives from the Dark Forest after being outright rejected by StarClan, and many cats wanted to discredit his rule on top of that, leading to some fractures in how Tiger-Titles work supernaturally.

Stormfur's strongly-held personal beliefs lead to him still referring to Stonefur by his Dishonor Title. Most Clan cats believe that Darkstripe's true name is still Belladonnaheart, so using his old name doesn't properly summon him. The most important factor is if the cat in question believes they're correct.

Q: "Can Honor Titles and Dishonor Titles be revoked posthumously? Can true names change after death?"

Yes, but it's difficult and rare. Either the leader who set the name can do it, or there would need to be lakewide acceptance of such a thing through a ritual or the slow turn of memory through generations. This is more controlled by mortal cat perception than StarClan's will.

#Clan Culture #Warrior Names #Better bones au

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mischievouslittlecreature · 30 days ago

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Part 21: The Shadow of the Abattoir

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Luca continues in working towards his goal of unraveling Lucy both physically and mentally.

Word Count: 6,066

Notes: This chapter is pretty brutal, but I felt that it was important in order to properly understand Lucy's mental state going forward. But if you need to skip or skim it, that it entirely fine! Please take care of your mental health! Warnings for depictions of torture, blood, suicidal thoughts, use of a slur, sexual assault (but not full blown rape) past gang rape, and references to pregnancy and racism.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 23: The Mercy Seat

Men always hurt women, to punish other men.

It was something that her Aunt Miri had told her once, when Lucy was visiting her mother’s Romani kin where they lived in the mountains. She had been young, barely even a teenager, when Miri had told her that. At the time, she did not understand.

She understood now.

Drip…drip…drip…

She could feel the blood still oozing slowly down her back, falling in droplets to land in the crimson puddle that had steadily grown below her suspended feet.

Her back felt as though it had been dipped in alcohol and then set ablaze with a flaming match. The skin was so tender, even the simple kiss of cool air against it was agonizing. Without being able to actually see and assess the damage, she could only assume, based on how she’d felt the whip dig into and rip away chunks and layers of skin, that the entire expanse of her back had been slashed to ribbons. If the skin ever got the chance to heal, it would likely be just one mass of pale scars layered on top of one another.

She’d lost count of how many lashes she’d taken. By the end, she already had been drifting in and out of consciousness. And then Luca had poured something over the entirety of her ruined back, and she’d screamed so loud she thought she might bust her vocal cords, and darkness came to claim in her a great rush.

When she woke up, she was still dangling by the ceiling, her back burning and her shoulders screaming from having her entire weight hanging from them for hours.

How long had it been? A few hours? A few days? A week? She couldn’t tell; she’d been teetering in and out of consciousness since the whipping. There was no clock in the room. No windows to tell what time of day it was. No way to know just how much time had passed since Luca had taken her.

Tommy, where are you?

Tears that she tried furiously to try to blink away pricked at her eyes. He’d come for her. He would. Maybe it hadn’t really been as long as she thought…

The last time she had felt so helpless had been that night in the alley, when Matthew,–the man her father had promised her away to–angry over her latest rejection, had cornered her with his friends and gang raped her. And then, after they were done and they thought she was dead, they took her out to an abandoned park and buried her in a shallow grave. A grave that she woke up in, terrified and in agony, and by some miracle managed to dig her way out of.

Those had easily been some of the worst moments of her life. Haunting and tormenting her constantly. Never letting her entirely, fully be free of them.

She’d made a promise to herself to never be that powerless and incapable of defending herself ever again. And yet here she was, completely trapped, with no way to escape, unable to do much more than wait and hope that Tommy would come and save her.

Luca had been by a few times, to pour water down her throat and rake his fingers down the wounds in her back, grinning when she screamed. He fed little bits of bread to her from his fingers, Lucy hating herself even as she gratefully gulped down the tiny morsels offered to help quell the ache of hunger in her stomach. Sometimes he hit her. Once he kicked her in the small of the back before heading out of the room. She’d blacked out from the explosion of pain that action had brought, terrified for a moment he would try to break her back with his boot before the dark swoop of unconsciousness embraced her once more.

But the worst were the words that he spoke. Manipulative, sly hisses in her ear that she knew were not true. And yet it was as if he had crawled inside her ear and lodged himself in her brain, starting to wear away at her, bit by little bit.

He’s not coming.

He never loved you.

You’re alone.

Her fingers tightened against the rope, scratching at it uselessly. Hatred and disappointment towards herself for allowing this to happen providing her with a sudden bout of strength.

But even the tiniest of movements caused pain to slice through her back and shoulders. It almost felt like she was being whipped all over again.

The lock on the door clicked, and the heavy wood swung open. Briefly, she was treated to a glimpse of the world beyond her hellish cell. All she could see was a short hallway that led to a flight of stairs, and a guard standing at attention by the door. And then Luca stepped in, swinging the thick wood shut behind him and locking it.

“I brought you some water,” he said, setting down his briefcase on the table in the corner and removing his hat, going to her and raising a glass to her lips. Lucy gulped down the cool liquid, hating herself the entire time for accepting anything from him, even as it helped to quench her parched, aching throat.

“It’s been a long while, now,” Luca commented once she was done, lowering the glass from her lips and stepping back over to the table, placing it down next to his hat, then shedding his coat to drape it over the back of the chair. “Are you still so certain that he’ll come for you?”

Lucy answered him with a glare. Luca shrugged, unconcerned, snapping open the latches on the briefcase. When he opened it, he angled it in such a way that she could not see what was inside.

“Did you think that Tommy has even noticed that you’re gone, yet?” he looked up to her with that grin she’d grown to hate.

Her throat flexed, jaw clenching while she battled to keep all emotion save for contempt off of her face. It was impossible that Tommy hadn’t noticed. The second that she didn’t show up in time for lunch like she’d promised, he would know something was wrong.

“I know that he knocked up his little whore of a secretary. Maybe he simply doesn’t have much need for you, anymore.” Luca continued on. Lucy felt a lump wedge its way into her throat. “Maybe I’m doing him a favor by getting rid of you,” he chuckled. Lucy tried not to let his words sink into her mind and take root there, but it was already too late. He was already deep inside her head. Tears once again started to well in her eyes.

It felt like a violation. Almost like getting raped all over again. He was in her head and she didn’t want him there, rooting around and planting ideas into the depths of her mind that would only serve to hurt her. To torture her even if she did somehow manage to get out of this cell and away from him.

Luca took a step away from the briefcase, towards her, and Lucy tried to cringe back but couldn’t. He beamed at her obvious discomfort. “Maybe he’s noticed that you’re gone, but doesn’t care at all.”

The tears lingering at her lash line finally started to spill forth, running down her sweaty, tired face in a warm cascade of salty water.

No; Tommy loves me, she tried to argue. But the rest of her exhausted, pain ravaged mind just screamed back, THEN WHERE IS HE!?

Luca’s brow creased in mock concern at the sight of her tears, but his eyes betrayed the elation he felt at managing to get her to crack. Embarrassment and frustration over allowing him to see her break only caused more tears to come, the little sobs in her chest sending shocks of pain up and down her entire torso.

“Shh…” in a handful of long strides, he was directly in front of her, reaching out to swipe her tears away with his thumb. Lucy jerked her head furiously away from his touch, glowering at him through bleary eyes. Luca just shot her a condescendingly amused expression, brushing away the rest of her tears. “I have something for you,” he said it like a parent would to a child regarding a birthday present. “Wait right there.”

A pit of dread opened up inside her stomach, terror slicing through her like a knife. Tremors at the suggestion of having to experience more pain started to wrack through her entire body. Watching as he made his way back over towards the briefcase, to retrieve whatever new instrument of horrors he planned to use on her next.

“I know that anything that I do to you can’t be worse than what’s already been done,” Luca was looking her up and down like one would a particularly scrumptious meal. “So, we’re going to try something else. A little…trip down memory lane, so to speak.”

Lucy’s stomach cinched painfully, eyes widening with a thousand possibilities as to what he could mean by that.

“But first,” he drew from the briefcase a slip of black fabric. “I’m going to blind you. Not literally, though believe me, the thought was tempting,” he strode to stand in front of her, reaching out to stroke the back of his hand down her cheek, ignoring her useless attempts to jerk her face away. “To pluck out those pretty green eyes…put them in a jar to mail to your lover,” he wetted his lips, expression that of a man half aroused. Until he shook his head and the heatedness of his gaze dissipated into only hardened cruelty. “We’ll get to that eventually. But not now. I want you to be able to see my handiwork once I’m done.” Reaching out, he trailed his hands along one of the scars that ran from her collarbone down her chest, disappearing under the rags of the white shirt that barely clung to her body.

“I gave you something new, with those lashes to your back. Now for something old. My mother told me about the stories of what happened to you in London. I’m going to reopen all of your scars from that night.” That serpentine smile was back, stretching his cheeks grotesquely and shimmering in his eyes. “You will close your eyes behind the blindfold, and relive what it felt like to have your skin carved apart. To be raped over and over again,” his voice dropped in pitch to a menacing growl. Lucy felt as though she were about to puke, heart pounding and chest tightening as she fought to control her breathing around the mounting panic inside her.

No, no, no, no, please, not again…

“I considered just letting my men have at you for a few hours. But I’m a selfish man.” Luca reached out with one hand, and pressed his palm to the bottom half of her face, tipping her head back. His hand was large enough that it covered her skin from nose to chin easily. Like a muzzle, nearly crushing her cheekbones under his fingertips. Tears she did not even realize she’d allowed to spill forth dripped onto his knuckles. “I want your pain all to myself. I want to look Tommy Shelby in the eye, and tell him about how it was me who destroyed you.” With one last possessive squeeze to her face, he dropped his hand. His smile faded, and for a moment she saw the true man poised behind the grinning mask; a figure of deep, unending rage and hatred. “Let’s begin.”

“N-no–” she tried to twist her face away, but there was nowhere for her to go. Luca curled the slip of black fabric over her eyes. It was rough, almost like sandpaper against her skin, forcing her to close her eyes. The entire world was plunged into darkness, the sound of her panicked breaths seeming to increase in volume. A few strands of her hair were snagged and ripped from her scalp as he roughly knotted the fabric at the back of her head.

Not being able to see him or anticipate his next move only made the terror worse. Her heart was beating fast as a hummingbird's wings against her ribs. In the dark, her other senses were heightened, the damp smell of the room growing more obvious, the ache in her back and shoulders more pronounced.

When she felt Luca’s hands on her chest, she nearly screamed at the touch alone. To her horror, he plucked away the remains of her shirt and bra, pulling them from her body with one final tear of fabric. The need to cover her bare breasts had her desperately tugging on the restraints holding her arms above her head, momentarily able to ignore the pain in her shoulders. Luca just laughed, hands grasping at her waist to keep her still.

When his fingers started to fumble with the button on her trousers, she began to sob.

“Please, please, please, don’t–” she tried to twist and buck him away from her. In the time she’d been dangling there, she’d tensed her core at intermediate moments, pulling her body up when she did. Breathing through the pain in her back that the contracting of muscles caused, trying to take some of the weight off of her shoulders, if even just for a moment. She did that now, attempting to writhe away from Luca’s icy touch. Her legs soon joined the mix as well, trying to kick him away from her. Tears streamed down her cheeks in rivers, wetting the blindfold. Pleas fell from her lips, her pride entirely forgotten in the name of pure, uninhibited panic.

“Shut up!” he slapped her suddenly across the face, so hard that her teeth rattled in her skull and one of her ears rang. The shock of the sudden action was enough to have her struggles cease for just enough time to allow him to get a firm grip on her. With a vicious movement, he yanked open her trousers and pulled them off along with her knickers, leaving her entirely naked and horrifically exposed.

The need to cover and hide herself was all consuming, amplifying the terror already coursing through her. She could barely breathe, her chest felt so tight, little wheezes puffing from her lips.

Maybe she would pass out before he could actually do anything.

Even the tiniest ghosts of air against her skin was enough to have her flinching, little whimpers sounding in her throat as she braced for the first infliction of pain.

Her fingers curled against each other and the rope holding them in place. She tried to latch onto that. To focus on the bristles of the rope’s fibers and not what Luca was about to do to her. Certainly not on the memories of the last time she’d felt this exposed and vulnerable. They were swimming up from the well in which she’d tried to drown them, crawling towards her on hands and knees with demented smiles, voices that she still sometimes heard in her nightmares beginning to call out to her.

“Hm…” Luca hummed, contemplating. She started to cry even harder when his hands smoothed down her body, starting at the sides of her breasts, skimming down her waist to the swell of her hips, rubbing up and down her thighs. “I can see why Tommy likes you so much,” he whispered into her ear, hot breath fanning across the side of her face.

Without warning, a blade dug into the meat of her outer thigh, perfectly following the path of the scar that ran jaggedly almost down to her knee. Lucy screamed, the blade digging in deeper than she expected, and with her sense of touch more reactive, she swore that she could feel every bit of muscle and skin split apart in its wake.

In her mind, it was raining. She was crying as they swarmed around her, dragging her into the dark, narrow alleyway where no one would hear or see them. The damp cobblestones were slick and cold when they threw her to the ground. They were laughing, their voices layering on top of one another.

Luca started to carve into one of the messy scars on her right side, following the gnarly pattern that had been cut into her years before. She vaguely sensed that he was taking care to puncture her just deep enough to make it hurt, to coax her memories closer to the forefront of her mind, but not so deep that he accidentally punctured anything vital.

The men in the alley had used meager little pocket knives. Not professionally sharpened blades. That was likely the only reason she’d survived the encounter.

They had torn at and pushed up the skirt of her dress–that was back when she still wore dresses–hands groping greedily at her skin. The others held her down when she tried to squirm away, grips so hard she thought that her bones might crunch under their palms.

To keep her body from swinging while he sliced into a scar near her bellybutton, Luca placed a palm on her back, and she howled at the press of his fingers against the tender canvas of open wounds that covered her back.

The percussion of thunder overhead drowned out her screams and pleas for them to stop. Matthew had her first. Ignoring her begs for them to stop, he backhanded her across the face, then seized her cheeks roughly, spitting vile, horrid things into her ear that she squeezed her eyes shut against. As if that would somehow cut off her hearing too.

Try as she might, she had never been able to entirely banish his voice from her head.

This is what you get, you stupid girl. This is what you fucking deserve.

Luca’s blade bit into the flesh of her chest.

You are mine. All mine. Nothing will ever change that.

Lucy sobbed as the tip of the knife scraped along her ribs, following the outline of pale, raised flesh. She would be lucky if her body wasn’t entirely covered in scar tissue once this was over. If it was ever over.

You will never be free of me.

When Matthew was done, he let his friends take turns with her, him and the others holding her down, cutting into her with their knives as they pleased. Laughing. Look at how she bleeds, boys. So bright and red. And here I was thinking that all gypsies had dirty blood.

She could not tell if the way that Luca was touching her was with the genuine purpose to grope, or if he was simply seeking to find the best purchase on her body to keep her still while he carved into her. It didn’t not really matter, she supposed. The result was the same. Her skin felt dirtied from having his hands on her, stomach roiling at once again living through such potent sensations of violation.

“Please, please, stop…” she somehow managed to get the words out of her hyperventilating lungs. In response, Luca dug the blade in deep to get through a particularly thick scar near her hip, and she screamed, voice straining, as she swore that the blade slipped far enough into her skin to scrape bone.

No matter how much she cried, screamed, and begged, he did not stop. Not until all of her scars had been carved back open, blood dripping in rivers down her fair skin. When he was done, Luca did not say a word. He just stood, pulled the blindfold roughly off of her face, collected his things, and left her hanging there, her body ever so slightly swinging from side to side from the ropes binding her hands above her head. Sobbing, shaking, bleeding, and lost to her memories.

∗ ∗ ∗

Tommy stared out the window, watching despondently as the sun set on the third day that Lucy had been missing. By mid-morning tomorrow, it would be seventy-two hours since he’d last seen her. Since she’d smiled at and kissed him before disappearing out the door.

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten, despite the plates of biscuits and toast that Polly and Ada had left for him on his desk. He’d smoked more cigarettes than what he normally went through in a week. It felt like his head was about to burst, dread building to an unbearable level with every advancing tick of the clock.

She was dead. She had to be. No way that Luca would have kept her alive for this long.

Throat convulsing painfully when he swallowed, he looked away from the treacherous sun.

I don’t want to live without her.

It had been a thought that had started swirling around in his head when they’d officially passed the twenty-four hour mark. And try as he might, he could not push it away.

Amazing, how easy that realization had come. And how quickly he had accepted it. Almost with no thought at all. As if there could never have even been another alternative to consider.

If Lucy was dead, then he would not be far behind her.

Charlie would be fine. Better off, probably, with Ada or Polly. Same went for Lizzie and the baby. The rest of them could finally have the peace they had so long pleaded with him for. There was plenty of money to go around for them all, and more incoming, if they decided to keep things running.

How would he go about it? A blade to the wrists? A noose and a stepstool? A gun to the temple, loaded with a bullet engraved with his own name?

That last one seemed right, for some reason. He could ride out to their spot in the meadow. Under the tree by the lake whose trunk still displayed the scar of their engraved names encircled by a heart.

Yes; if Lucy was dead, so was he. It was as simple as that. After all, he could not live without his heart. And certainly not without half his soul.

Did Luca understand that? Tommy wondered. Did he know that all he had to do to kill Tommy was stop the beating of Lucy’s heart?

Shaking the thoughts away, he adjusted his fingers around the phone he held up to his ear, wetting his lips and taking a deep breath to try to steady himself as he waited for the person he was calling to pick up the phone on the other end.

Despite everything, he’d managed to calm down and pull himself together, at least externally. Worry, fear, and about a thousand other emotions still ravaged within him, but the mask of control was back firmly in place.

His explosion had managed to clear his mind of the paranoia he’d been getting choked by when Lizzie first came in. Once it was over, it actually felt like, for the first time in a few hours, he was able to think somewhat logically again.

Ada had left him alone briefly to go into the kitchen to check in on Lizzie and Polly, and to get him some tea, pointedly ignoring his request for whiskey instead. When she came back, saucer in hand, it was to fill him in on Lizzie’s story of what had happened when Lucy came to visit her. Even though he hadn’t eaten anything all day, his stomach flipped nauseatingly at the description of Luca slamming Lucy’s head into the doorframe and his men dragging her away.

But it was a relief to know that Lizzie hadn’t betrayed them. That, at least, was a thought he no longer had to worry about occupying vital space inside his head.

Since then he remained at the betting shop, coordinating with his men to make additional sweeps. Seated by the phone, always answering it on the first ring, listening with a sinking heart to each report that came up empty handed. They’d started questioning people in the area around Lizzie’s house after the first night, slowly widening the search, and still nothing. And with each failure to turn up any leads, all hope of finding her slipped even further from his grasp.

He squeezed his eyes shut. My girl. My sweet girl. I’m so sorry. I’m trying. I’m doing everything that I can.

He’d gone out with Arthur for a few hours on one of his sweeps, but it only served to make him more frustrated and anxious. The thought that one of the other search parties had found something and called the betting shop while he was out wreaked havoc on his nerves. It made him snappish and even more irritable than he already was. To the point that Arthur demanded he return home because he–in Arthur’s words–‘looked to be about two seconds away from either murder, mutilation, or a nervous breakdown.’

There was a slight crackle on the other end of the line, and then, “‘ello?”

“Alfie,” Tommy said, clearing his throat when he heard just how strained his voice still sounded. “I need a favor.”

“I thought that arranging my nephew to fight that scrawny little son of the man with the ridiculous hair was my favor to you, mate,” Alfie started to grumble. “If you’re going to start asking for more–”

“They took Lucy,” Tommy interrupted. Much as he often enjoyed Alfie’s colorful, at times bordering on nonsensical, rants, he did not have time for one right now.

Shocked silence greeted him from the other end. “They what?”

Tommy nodded, even though Alfie couldn’t see him. “I, uh, I have my men scouring the city here, but I was wondering if you could have some of your boys search around Camden Town in case he decided to take her out of Birmingham.”

“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll have some men sent out.”

Tommy let out a quiet breath of relief at how easy it was to convince him. Then again, Alfie had always had a soft spot for Lucy.

“Thank you, Alfie.” There was a soft tap of knuckles against his door. “I have to go. Call me if you find anything, yeah?” he waited for Alfie’s utterance of affirmation and hung up. “Come.”

The door opened slowly, and Lizzie timidly poked her head in. “Can I come in?”

He really would rather she not, but he sighed and beckoned her in, pulling another cigarette from his pocket and lighting it while she sank into the chair in front of him.

They’d seen very little of each other since his outburst towards her. Outside of his brief excursion out with Arthur, he’d spent the past three days holed up in his office. But he often could hear the hum of Ada, Polly, and Lizzie’s voices outside. Ada told him that he didn’t need to worry; they would take care of everything regarding the shop or the company.

Both Polly and Lizzie were giving him a wide berth, however, and it was almost always Ada who came into his office to ask the occasional question, give a short report, or simply drop off a plate of food that they both knew would go untouched.

He knew that he really ought to apologize for screaming at Lizzie, much as the words seem to catch in his throat and not want to budge. His eyes strayed to the ugly, slightly faded purple bruises on her throat.

“Alright, look–”

“It’s fine.” Lizzie cut him off, shaking her head. “You had a right to be suspicious.”

He closed his mouth, considering her carefully. She was so bloody confusing when it came to Lucy. He was beginning to think that he would never entirely understand how she felt towards her. “Are you alright?” he asked finally, because it seemed like the thing he ought to ask, considering how prominent those bruises still were.

Lizzie nodded, hand fluttering to her throat. “Looks worse than it is. Have you got people looking into the gardener? Ada said that she passed along what I told her and Polly about him.”

“Yes. We got the information you gave us out to all of our men. They’ll be looking for him.”

“He seemed like such a sweet old man when I interviewed him…”

Tommy gave her a look. “You hired him without telling me.”

Something in Lizzie’s eyes sharpened. “I didn’t want my entire staff to all be spies reporting my each and every movement back to you.”

“How many more people have you hired that I don’t know about?”

She leaned back into her chair, lips set in a firm line.

“Fire all of them.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Safety is of the utmost concern. Especially now. Like it or not, you’re a target. Anyone you hire needs to be at minimum background checked by either Lucy or Isiah.”

“Oh, for the love of–”

“Lizzie,” he said, angling his head up, voice stern. “You’re going to be the mother to my child. That means that there will always be a target on your back. I need to keep you both safe.”

“You could do that if you stopped.” Her light eyes were pleading as she leaned forward. “Throw the gun in the canal. Cut free the illegal businesses–”

“You like your new house?” he interrupted, head cocking. A crease appeared between her brows.

“Of course…”

“How do you think I paid for it, Lizzie?”

She went silent, jaw clenching, giving a tiny shake of her head. Scoffing, Tommy leaned away.

“I don’t have time to be talking about this right now.”

“Of course not, it’s always about her.”

“You’re damn fucking right it’s ‘always about her’ when she has been kidnapped and might very well be dead!” Ah, well. So much for keeping his cool with her again. Planting his hands flat on the desk, he leaned towards her. “You realize that they’re likely torturing her? Right now. Right as I sit here, talking to you and doing nothing to help her.” His voice cracked a little on the last word, slamming his shaking lips together before he said anything more.

Lizzie cringed and looked away, slamming her eyes shut. “I didn’t…fuck. I didn’t mean it like that, Tom.”

“Didn’t you?” he spat out, unable to contain the bitterness.

“No,” she looked down at her hands, tracing nonsensical patterns into the wooden armrest. “You’re not doing nothing, Tommy,” she added, after a moment of quiet. “You’re commanding a city-wide search for her. That’s not nothing.”

“It’s not enough.”

She looked back up at him with sad eyes.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. She and I actually had a very good chat before Luca showed up.”

“Is there anything else that you can remember? Any clues or bits of information? Did he say anything that might indicate where they took her?”

“I’ve been wracking my brain. I can’t think of anything else that might be helpful. It all happened so fast.”

He could feel her gaze on him as he rubbed at his eyes to fight back an incoming headache. Weariness and dwindling hope were rampaging inside his mind. It had been so long since Lucy went missing. All the things that Luca could have done to her in that time…

“Tommy, if she’s gone…”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

For a few seconds, it actually seemed like Lizzie might honor his request. “I just thought that then…maybe…you and I–”

His eyes snapped open, jaw going slack at the pure audacity displayed before him. Fucking hell, she was giving him goddamn whiplash with how quickly she was flipping between two diametrically opposed attitudes. One second, she was acting as though she cared for Lucy. The next, near gleefully trying to feel out how long after Lucy’s death would be appropriate to wait before she tried to shove her way into the space Lucy occupied within his heart.

“That’s what you want to talk about? We don’t even know if she’s dead yet, and you’re already wondering how long until you can take her place in my life?”

“After the way that you behaved following your first wife’s death, can you really blame me?”

He stared at her, so shocked that she would throw that back in his face that he found himself momentarily without words. “Get out.”

Lizzie immediately looked apologetic. “Tommy, I’m sorry–”

“I said get out!”

“Tommy, I didn’t–”

“Let me guess, you ‘didn’t mean it?’ That’s what you always fucking say, Lizzie. Right up until you turn around and say the exact same fucking thing again.”

She looked near tears, but stood from the chair and went to the door without a word. Hand on the doorknob, she stopped, turning back to face him.

“I just got battered around too, you know. The baby’s fine, by the way. Glad to know that you care so bloody much.”

He stifled a wince at that, the sharp knife of guilt twisting deeply. With everything else going on, he’d almost forgotten about the baby entirely.

“Polly offered that I could stay with her until this is all over. I was going to take her up on that, but now I think that I’d rather go back home and be away from the whole lot of you.”

She was going to give him a migraine. Or a fucking stress-induced stroke.

“I’ll get some of our best men to watch the house.”

Lizzie’s expression had unfocused, eyes wide and truly afraid where they stared at the wall. “He told me that he’d come for me and the baby once you’re all dead.”

Tommy frowned, and wondered for the first time if part of her recent attempts to wriggle in closer to him were not so much as a result of her trying to push Lucy out to make room for herself, as they were because she was afraid and seeking out security. Gathering up what last little shreds of patience he had remaining, he forced his voice to soften when he spoke to her.

“You stay here until I can sort out protection for you, all right?”

Her expression changed into one of sheepish gratitude, nodding. “I am sorry. I’m trying, I swear. It’s just so hard.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but there was a sudden bang as the door into the shop flew open, and then he heard Arthur shouting his name.

Lizzie opened the door and stepped out of the way to let him through to where his older brother was standing, chest heaving and eyes half wild with excitement and bloodlust.

“We found him. We found the fucking gardener. He was in a pub near the edge of our territory.”

There was a sudden roaring in Tommy’s ears, a rush of hope that he grabbed and clung onto with both hands. “Where is he?”

“Charlie’s yard.” Arthur grinned. “Figured that you’d want to talk to him yourself.”

Tommy nodded. “Right, you stay here with them,” he nodded over to the women in the shop. “Keep our men looking in case they find Lucy before the gardener gives up where they took her. Get ahold of Aberama. Tell him that I want you, him, and Bonnie all ready to move out soon as we know where she is. Then call Finn, Isiah, and Jeremiah. I want them here guarding the shop. Then come join me at the yard.”

“Right,” Arthur moved around him towards the phones. “You think you’ll be able to crack him?”

Tommy didn’t reply, instead just going to pull on his coat. “Come to the yard soon as you can.”

Opening the door, he stepped out into the cool night air. As he tugged his black leather gloves on, his thumb rubbed across the diagonal scar that still marked his palm. Even all these years later, he could still remember the bite of the blade slicing through his flesh, the warmth of his and Lucy’s blood mixing as they pressed their palms together.

A blood bond. As sacred–some said even more so–than marriage.

Just hang on, he thought, closing his eyes, trying to reach out to her through the bond that connected them. Hoping by some miracle that she could hear him. Just hang on, sweetheart. I’m almost there.

I’m coming for you.

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