#large dome tent

[laylaclark09]

Extra-Large Rainproof Dome Tent for Camping

Protect yourself from the elements with the Sonuto Dome Canopy Tent. This extra-large tent offers sun protection, mosquito resistance, and rainproof features for the ultimate outdoor experience. Ideal for group camping and hiking trips.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Honeysuckle.

Pairing: Butterfly!Fae!OC x Reader.

Word Count: 4.2k.

Written For A Very Lovely Anonymous Commissioner.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Aphrodisiacs, Dehumanization, Unhealthy Relationships, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Borderline Monster-Fucking.

The moment you saw her, you knew that she had to be the most beautiful creature that you would ever see.

Her wings were what struck you first – about ten feet tall and five across, the upper arch curved downward to better complement the large, black splotches currently prying into you through the shadows of the unlit garden. Swirling patterns of orange and red danced across a rich, dusty sort of brown, while white framed the outer perimeter, standing out sharply against the dull foliage. Although you’d initially mistaken her for one of the large, nocturnal birds that’d taken to crashing into your sugar water dispensers in the early hours of the morning, it was clear that she was more or less a woman – her long, sculpted legs bent and tucked against her chest, the arch of her back clear even in the dim light of your lantern. What seemed like hundreds of thousands of braids cast in the same shades as her wings hung to her waist, a pair of furred antennae tangled among them, and domed eyes larger than your fist and blacker than the night sky stared you down, unblinking. It was only when your eyes met hers that you realized your own gaze must’ve been just as invasive, and found the will to turn your attention to more important things than her (admittedly, extremely strange) appearance.

Instead, you poured your energy into the only other thing you could think to do: speaking. Or, attempting to, at least. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” And then, after a sharp inhale, a steadying breath, “I—I’m staying in the cottage this garden belongs to. Are you hurt, or injured, or—god, do you even speak English?”

If she had any intention of responding, she didn’t plan to do so vocally. The creature—the woman remained where she was, utterly motionless, utterly silent. It was only when you hazarded a step towards her that she reacted at all, her wings fanning to either side as she—

Ah.

So she was hurt.

The position of her wings had hidden it before, but you could make out the cause of her distress clearly, now. From the uppermost tip of her left wing to the lowest curve stretched a jagged tear, as if someone had taken a knife to it. Instantly, a new irritation blended with your prior concern, but you forced yourself not to dwell. There were more important things to focus on, at the moment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you repeated, edging that much closer. When she curled further into herself, you paused, lowering yourself onto your knees and placing your lantern on the ground in front of you. “I understand, you’re hurt, and there’s not much I can do to help you, but—” Holding up one hand, you shoved the other into a pocket of your apron, fishing out a single, palm-sized peach. You picked it earlier, planning on eating it yourself, but you’d never been so glad to have forgotten a meal. “You… You like sweet things, right? Are you hungry?”

Tentatively, you held the peach out to her, and before you had time to process that she’d moved at all, a hand had lashed out and snatched it away. You watched with rapt interest as her lips slit apart and a pair of pointed fangs (her maxillary palps, you figured, although you couldn’t be sure) dug into the peach’s tender flesh, her curling tongue lashing out to lap at the flesh and lick up the juice dripping down her fingers. While she was distracted, you moved closer, kneeling less than a full arm’s length from her wings to better admire the way they fluttered with every little movement, seemingly indifferent to her injury. There were more details you hadn’t noticed – she wasn’t wearing any clothes, but her entire body was covered in a fine, brown setae that grew thicker around her neck and chest and thinned as it reached her face and hands. She had an extra pair of arms, too, currently crossed over her chest, tucked so neatly underneath their more expected counterparts that you hadn’t been able to see them at all from a distance. Despite everything, you found yourself smiling. “If you’re in any pain, I can help with that. And—And, if you’re sensitive to temperature, you’re more than welcome to spend the night inside, but only if you’d like—”

Your attention drifted back to her face, and immediately, you cut yourself off. Her gaze was trained not on you, but on the space behind you – more accurately, on your lantern, still where you’d left it on the grass. “Oh,” you muttered, laughing to yourself. She must’ve been more moth-like than you’d realized.

Taking it by the handle, you offered it up to her as well. “I know it’s not much, but there’s enough oil in it to last until morning. If you get cold, I can bring out some blankets, too.”

It was obvious she didn’t understand a thing you were saying, but still, she eyed the lantern wearily. After a moment, she raised the lower of her right hands, angling her fingers and flicking her wrist. As if by magic (most likely because it was, probably, by magic), a perfect ball of light appeared in her palm, stagnant for a moment before rising a few inches into the open air. Wordlessly, she held it out in your direction.

For a long moment, you were silent.

In the even longer moment following, you were also silent.

Finally, when you started to think she might lose interest in you entirely, you managed to spit something out. “C-can you do that again?”

For the first time since you’d stumbled onto her, you saw the corner of her lips quirk upward.

You spent the rest of that night watching a strange, ten-foot-tall butterfly woman conjure strings of light until the sun rose and you fell asleep in the grass.

And at the time, you didn’t know to be anything but relieved that, upon waking, she was still by your side.

~

She healed remarkably quickly – a near-transparent chitin film appearing over the missing portion of her skin within twenty-four hours of her initial appearance. Still, Leo (as you’d started calling her when you realized she could only express her own name through a series of swirling patterns of light and borderline inaudible clicking sounds) seemed to have little interest in leaving your cottage and even less in leaving your line of sight. It took her less than a full two days to start trailing after you as you did your daily work around your garden and the forest that surrounded it, less than a week to start knocking on your windows at night, pouting when you tried to explain the concept of sleep through a language barrier, and today, on your one month anniversary, you’d finally gotten her to come inside properly. Currently, she was poking through your bedroom while you worked at your desk, transferring a never-ending list of borderline meaningless statistics from your roughly handled field journal to more appropriate sheets and charts. Or, trying to work, anyway. Admittedly, it was difficult to take your eyes off of her.

And, as you heard something large and fragile hit the floor and shatter, you were forced to give up any pretense of attempting to. Sighing, you twisted around your seat and immediately found Leo, standing next to your bedside table, what used to be a lamp sitting in shattered pieces at her feet as she stared down at it with a hawk-like sort of vigilance. Her wings were tucked cautiously against her back, lips pursed in concentration. You could only shake your head, grinning as you sighed. She was smart, but curious, and painfully unfamiliar with anything remotely human. It was cute – just how little she seemed to know about you.

(You were aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that your judgement around Leo was skewed. Mostly, you could chalk it up to scientific curiosity, not wanting to disturb a live specimen as it would act in its natural habitat and all, but even you knew there must’ve been something else to it, something more selfish. It might’ve just been her naivety. It was hard to get mad at someone who didn’t know she was doing anything wrong.)

Eventually, her gaze shifted to you. “Broken,” she said, assertively.

You couldn’t stop yourself from chuckling. She was getting better at your language, even if the words still sounded somewhat awkward on her inhuman tongue. “Very broken,” you agreed, waving her over to you. “I’ll clean it up later – have a look at this for me, first.”

Turning away from her, you fished a thick, leather-bound book out of the chaos that was your desk and opened it to a marked page. “I think you might be one of these,” you said, pointing to an illustration of a half-moth, half-man type creature. Admittedly, the written description lacked many her more other-worldly traits, but there were only so many types of butterfly people to choose from. “They’re supposed to be—uh, extra-dimensional, I think, which would explain your more supernatural abilities, but they’re kind of, um—”

“Hideous. Very hideous.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled. “That.”

She reached over you, one left hand resting on your shoulder while the other flipped through yellowed pages. She’d only been searching for a minute or so when she seemed to find what she was looking for, pointing decisively to an illustration of an extremely beautiful woman kneeling in front of a disemboweled man’s body, her mouth dripping with blood and one of her hands still buried inside of his torn-open chest. The caption underneath it read ‘Fae, neighbors, folk of the air’ in golden illuminated manuscript.

You pursed your lips. Fairies weren’t real, but this illustration did look a lot more like Leo than yours had.

By the time you looked towards her, she’d lost interest entirely, instead fiddling with a picture frame that’d previously been on the corner of your desk. In an instant, you felt your blood run cold. You could’ve sworn you’d hidden all your framed samples before inviting her inside, found every single pinned-up dragonfly, moth, and butterfly and stuffed them all into the deepest, darkest closet you could find. You couldn’t imagine how you would’ve felt – stumbling into an alien creature home only to find a miniature version of your own carcass nailed down behind a pane of glass. She must’ve been so afr—

The frame tilted towards you, and you managed to pull yourself out of your panicked spiral long enough to realize that she was not looking at a preserved insect, but a picture of your housecat – a cute one, too, taken while she was leashed on your patio, sunbathing on her back. You sighed, sinking into your chair and smiling up at her. “That’s Missy. I thought about bringing her, but she’d be a terror on the local wildlife.” And then, more hesitantly, “Do you have any pets?”

You couldn’t imagine Leo taking care of anything, but she seemed fond enough of birds ‘and other insects. Plus, if she did have a pet, it’d tell you something about where she came from – if she had a house, or migratory season, or there were other people with wings and antenna and a spare set of limbs lurking just outside of your peripheral. It was a good place to start, but she didn’t seem to understand the question – only pursing her lips. “…Pet?”

“Like, an animal that you take care of, that you love,” you started, gesturing vaguely, as if that’d make your point any more clear. “Most people have cats and dogs, but—”

“No cats.” Her wings fluttered, her gaze narrowing at the picture. “Big teeth. Sharp claws. Violent.”

“Got it, no cats.”  You slung an arm over the back of your chair. “It’s too bad. Missy was a good girl. You two would’ve gotten along.”

She seemed to think for a long moment, considering. Finally, as one of her free hands came to rest on the top of your head, she glanced towards you. “You are… pet?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “No, no, I’m a friend. Do you know what that is?”

If she wanted to answer, she didn’t seem to think of it as a priority. Her hand fell to your chin, another rising to cup your face entirely. Her thumbs traced over your cheeks as she smiled down at you, and with an airy laugh, you melted into her palms. “Good girl,” she cooed, her voice saccharine, her tony sappy. “Very good girl.”

It would’ve been a sweeter moment if you hadn’t heard the familiar sound of glass shattering at your feet, your picture frame dropped and discarded with just as little thought.

~

As far as you could tell, her wings were necessary for flight, but not actively a part of it. As the chitin film healed over entirely, the shape and color of her wings seemed to shift, taking on a luminescent green overtone, the eyes on the upper segments fading as their lower counterparts sprouted a pair of long, curling tails. Her fur and hair followed suit, and by the time she was able to get her feet off the ground, she was practically unrecognizable as the creature you’d first taken in. You were proud of her, even if you doubted she needed your support. Or, you wanted to be, at least.

Even after Leo had all-but recovered, she stayed nearby – rarely leaving your sight for longer than an hour. If you hadn’t been so curious, you might’ve been concerned. Butterflies were short-lived, migratory creatures. It wasn’t normal for them to stay in a single place for so long, not unless they were looking for a ma—

You were drawn out of your thoughts as you felt something light hit the top of your head – flower petals, you realized, as pieces of shredded coneflower and button bush trickled down into your lap. You tilted your head back, immediately finding Leo hovering about ten feet above you; tearing apart a handful of flowers petal-by-petal. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to – grinning as she motioned for you to follow her. You didn’t bother trying to resist, only pushing yourself to your feet and trailing after her.

She landed on the very outskirts of your property – where your garden met the forest proper. It took a few minutes of wading through foliage, but eventually, you managed to join her in her makeshift clearing.

The smell of iron hit you, first.

Not rot, but blood – fresh and metallic, strong enough to make you reel back. You almost stumbled, almost tripped, but a larger hand caught your wrist, trapping you where you were. You made no attempt to pull away. No, you were too focused on the—on the corpse in front of you, all blood-soaked feathers and broken bones and spilled viscera. It must’ve been a hawk, or a falcon, something with an absolutely massive wingspan and claws to match. Any other identifying features had been crushed, bent out of shape, or reduced to a fine, liquid pulp that was slowly soaking into the ground.

Your gaze flickered back to Leo, her grin just a touch more satisfied than it’d seemed, before. “Leo,” you started, forcing an unsteady smile. “I know we talked about pets, but—”

“Not a pet.” The correction was as swift as it was sugary. “A treat. A gift.”

Huh.

You didn’t remember teaching her that one.

~

It was more startling than you would’ve expected – waking up to the feeling of feather soft hands.

You guessed that wasn’t entirely true. They weren’t feather soft, and you should’ve known better than to say they were. Velvet would’ve been more a more accurate comparison, or satin – anything soft and rich that seemed to melt where it touched your skin. You couldn’t have been waking up, either, because that would’ve meant you were asleep, and there was no way you could’ve been asleep and staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom, feeling more exhausted than you ever had before. You would’ve liked to sit up, to see what was going on, but you couldn’t seem to move.

Leo was above you, straddling your waist. In her new form, she was practically iridescent – her wings reflecting the dull moonlight as if she was the one glowing. She was summoning her lights, again – drawing strings of silver drew drops with one hang while the other shaped them absentmindedly into a ring, one large enough to fit around your thigh. Or your neck.

For whatever reason, your mind was unwilling to linger on the thought.

She lifted her head every so slightly, her inky gaze settling on you. She was already touching you, one hand cupping your cheek while another brushed through your hair, but it took you longer than it should’ve to recognize just how warm your face felt, to put a name to knotted tension resting heavy in the pit of your stomach. You wanted to push her away, but your arms felt like lead at your sides, and— oh, she was already dipping down to your height, nuzzling gently against the top of your head before her hand found your chin, raising your head as her lips found yours.

It was less of a kiss and more of a prolonged collision, her tongue slipping easily past your parted lips, raking over your own with a measured kind of slowness. Her taste was as sweet as her voice, as her touch – all honeyed nectar and syrupy ambrosia and pure, liquidized sugar. It was beyond overwhelming. It was beyond euphoric. You were melting into her before you could so much as think about stopping yourself, letting out a fractured whine as you moved her lips sloppily against hers, as the tapered tip of her tongue hit the back of your throat and—

And you drew back with a sharp gasp, shuddering as you pressed yourself into your mattress. You shouldn’t be doing this. You couldn’t do this. She wasn’t an animal but god, she wasn’t far off.

“Leo,” you managed, trying to keep your tone gentle, soothing. If she heard, you couldn’t tell – her attention only falling to the crook of your neck, then the dip of your shoulder. “I—I’m not really sure we should be doing this, and I really wish you wouldn’t touch me, and—”

“Quiet.” Just like that, your jaw went slack, that sugar sweet scent intensifying and dulling any coherent thought you might’ve had to a numb, blank static. A deep, rumbling sort of reverberation sparked in her through as she nuzzled into your chest, her body slotted against yours. While one of her hands remained on your cheek, another found the hem of your dress, toying with the fabric for a moment before moving her attention to your neckline, instead. The first tug was gentle, experimental, but her impatience must’ve won over her curiosity; the sound of tearing material filling your quiet bedroom as a single, pointed claw traced a jagged line from the base of your throat to your midriff, the ruined fabric falling away without resistance. “Useless,” she muttered, half-under her breath. “In the way.”

It was an awkward position, her back arched, her wings clasped tightly against one another, but she didn’t seem to mind – her lips trailing over your collarbone, then the curve of your breast. You shut your eyes, but it would’ve been impossible not to feel her tongue lapping shallowly over your nipple. Your hands balled around the sheets as her lips wrapped around the sensitive bud, more of whatever awful substance she produced dripping down your skin, pooling on the flat plain between your breast, spreading a terrible sort of heat to everything it touched. She rotated between sucking and laving, a hand coming up to knead at the unassulted side of your chest with just a touch too much force to be for the sake of your pleasure.

You didn’t want to feel anything. You didn’t want to react. You didn’t want to, and yet, you couldn’t seem to swallow back the low, cracked moans and hitched whimpers spilling past your lips. Leo’s purring grew louder, her spare set of hands finding your hips as they bucked pathetically against nothing. It was almost a relief when she pulled away, lifting her head. Through your eyelashes, you watched her eyes narrow, lips pursing. If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought she looked disappointed.

You tried to call out again, to tell her to stop, but your voice remained despondent as Leo repositioned herself, slipping into the space between your open legs. What was left of your nightgown as done away with entirely, and with a hand wrapped around either of your thighs, she bowed her head, her tongue dragging over the length of your clothed slit. Instantly, her expression brightened, and for the first time, you were forced to acknowledge the slow, viscous heat slowly leaking out from between your thighs, forced to listen as she hummed in delight and tore through your panties, the silk as easily defeated as your nightgown had been. Tears formed in the corners of your eyes as her tongue dragged over your now-exposed pussy, lapping up the slick staining the inside of your thighs. Her nose ground against your overly sensitive clit as she buried herself in your cunt, less focused on your pleasure and more dedicated to eating you alive – pointed teeth scraping against tender flesh as she ran the flat of her tongue over your entrance, refusing to let a single part of you go uncared for. Because she was caring for you, like a lover, like a nurse.

Like an owner.

You dug your teeth into the inside of your cheek with enough force to draw blood. She was not a lover, or an owner, and she wasn’t taking care of you – nothing about this could be called caring. You tried to snap your thighs shut, to pull yourself up, but the blunt tip of her prolonged tongue dipped into your entrance and it was all you could do to scream – the noise tearing out of your throat as something pathetic and miserable. If Leo noticed your agony, she wasn’t in a place to care, too busy curling her tongue inside of you, grinding against the clenching walls of your cunt and abusing every spot that made you shake and moan and drip. It wasn’t hard to see what she was motivated by, what she was chasing after, but knowing why she was doing this didn’t make it any easier to endure. You’d never be able to look at her again, after this. You wouldn’t be able to let her stay with you, anymore. You’d have to make her leave.

That was, if you ever found a way to.

You managed to get an arm underneath you, but it didn’t matter. Her unoccupied pair of hands clamped down around your hips, your thighs forced onto her shoulders as she straightened her back and threatened to fold you in half, all-but devouring your cunt with a renewed gluttony. Fuck. Fuck. Her tongue was too fast, too flexible; twisting inside of you, filling you entirely. The pressure on your clit, while not deliberate, wasn’t helping, and it was only a matter of time until you could feel your legs twitching where they were propped on her shoulders, until your vocalizations turned form moans to whines to muttering – all ‘stop’ and ‘no, don’t’ and ‘not there’, hasty and incoherent and humiliating. You couldn’t stop yourself, though.

You were starting to think you’d never be able to do much of anything ever again.

She didn’t stop when you came. You doubted she even noticed; her purring only growing louder, the movement of her tongue taking on a more wild sort of pattern. No, she drew back after you’d gone limp underneath her, your voice dying until those little, keening nothings were the only noise you could make. Distantly, you could feel your body being lowered back onto your bed, Leo shifting above you, then two fingers swiping over your cunt. You felt something prodding against your lips, and too exhausted to resist, opened your mouth. “Good girl,” Leo cooed, her inflection mimicking that of someone talking down to something smaller, something lesser. The taste of your own slick mixed with her saliva flooded your senses, as vile as it was saccharine. “Sweet, and pretty, and good. My good girl.”

Her head dipped, her lips finding yourself. This kiss was softer than her first, tender rather than hungry, lingering rather than desperate. As she held you there, you felt something wrap around your throat – cold as ice and soft as velvet. When you found the will to open your eyes, you looked not towards Leo’s expression, her dazzling smile, but to her right hand and the beaded silver cord tangled around it.

You didn’t have to guess what the other end was connected to.

“All mine.”

[devinwong9873]

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[onlyyvette]

i need optimus pussy so bad

You're so real for that I'm actually going to make a whole thirst for this

warnings: dom/top reader + sub/bottom optimus prime + cybertronian reader + sloppily eating out Optimus' valve + praise + prime gets wrecked by the power of oral

a/n: thank you so much for giving me the inspo to create this🙏🏾

╰┈➤ Just imagining Optimus laying down on his back and presenting himself for you, large white thighs shyly held open while his digits tentatively hold open his already leaking slit. It's not that he was necessarily scared or nervous, but he can't help but let shivers run down his spinal struts as you admire his valve so intently.

╰┈➤ You were mesmerized by his pulsing blue biolights decorating his valve lips and his oh-so-pretty red node resting in the hood of his valve. His array was the prettiest one you ever saw, When you say that out loud to him, he lets out a small "thank you" and tries to cover his pretty pussy with his servo but you move it out of the way, causing him to let out a whine. You look up from your spot between his thighs and drink in the look on his face. His battle mask was off. His optics are half-shuttered, the light coming out dimmed. A very prominent blue flush is spread across his face and his mouth is screwed into a slight pout. He was so cute and you hadn't even dome anything to him.

╰┈➤ Way too soon, your glossa is on Optimus' valve, and he lets out a short yet embarrassing yelp. In his defense, even though you had done this so many times before, you were always so quick to push your glossa into him and you never held back. Your glossa delves into Optimus' wet heat, forcing it as deep as you can as you listen to the Prime let out moans with his low baritone. He feels your nasal ridge crushing his node and the pleasure bursts under his eyelids.

╰┈➤ Optimus' thighs begin to automatically clamp down on your helm but the slight crushing feeling only raised your charge. You eat him out like a starved mech, sloppily lapping at every node you can feel in the mesh of his valve and making sure he can feel it. By now, Optimus is so close to overloading, he always overloaded quickly from being eaten out. If you lifted up your helm you would see Optimus biting on his servo joints, trying his best to not let out his embarrassing noises but clearly failing.

╰┈➤ With your eager mouth, you'll bring Optimus to overload so hard he won't even know what hit him. He'll let out a series of staticky moans while his thighs clamp down hard on your helm while he squirts, and you'll still work your glossa in his valve despite his recent overload. He'll whine and push at your helm but you both know that those weak pushes don't mean anything-- he doesn't want you to stop and you don't plan on it.

╰┈➤ You'll make him overload a few more times, each overload more powerful than the last. He keeps seeing stars in his vision and--oh Primus-- he's overloading again. He'll sob as he squirts for a last time, his frame trembling from the aftershocks as you suck on Optimus' node for the last time before releasing it. You're almost 100% sure you were left with some kind of helm processor damage, but you really didn't care. After you've eaten his valve out to your satisfaction, you bring helm out from between Optimus' legs and lay your frame on top of his. Your derma meet his and you begin to give each other messy, open-mouthed kisses. His optics shutter close as he whimpers into the kiss. Your servos roam his frame and you map out his familiar curves, lightly groping them, especially his chestplate while the Prime lets out sensual sighs.

╰┈➤ Underneath you, you feel his thighs tighten and rubbing against each other. Making out was getting Optimus charged up again, and it didn't surprise any of you. While your spike pressurized against his abdomen, you knew that you would make sure that your conjunx would be quivering in pleasure by the time you were done with him.

[flowerandblood]

The Gate of Salvation [2/3]

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: fingering, smut, sexual tension, angst, religious guilt, doubts related to faith, chauvinism ]

[ description: During the conclave, a new pope is elected, but to everyone's surprise, he does not intend to show himself to the crowds waiting for him. His ideas terrify the cardinals, and one of them convinces his niece, who is studying marketing, to talk to the new head of the Catholic Church in his presence. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

A mini-series created as a thank you and celebration of my 2'500 followers. I initially plan that it will have about 3 chapters.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Song of Songs (Oneshot) Death and Ressurection (Oneshot)

Aemond as a Pope Edit Series Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After her meeting with the Pope, she had been writhing around all night, terrified and humiliated, unable to sleep. She couldn't forgive herself for her stupidity, for not seeing in time that it was obvious her uncle was trying to slip her over to the head of the Catholic Church like a snack he might be tempted to focus on.

The worst part was that he had hired her and she didn't know how she could take it back, defy the Pope himself, communicate that she was rejecting his proposal.

She got up before dawn, recognising that she would not get any rest anyway, and decided to take a warm shower. She thought while standing under the stream of hot water that she would try to distance herself, be professional and not give satisfaction to either her uncle or the Pope himself.

She hoped that when he finally decided to give any sort of interview the commotion around him would quiet down and she could quickly offer her resignation.

She sighed heavily, running her hand over her wet face, wondering how she was supposed to reconcile this madness with her classes at the University.

A car with the same driver as the day before arrived outside her townhouse again and took her straight to the Vatican; driving through its streets, she noticed that many people had pitched tents in and around St Peter's Square, waiting for any new information about their Pope.

She sighed quietly, resignedly thinking about how unnecessary his stubbornness actually was.

This time it was not her uncle waiting for her in the square, but a middle-aged priest who could have been her father, dressed in a plain black cassock. He smiled at her in a way that seemed genuine to her and she reciprocated the gesture when he indicated with a movement of his hand that she should move to follow him.

"The Pope is just having breakfast in the garden and he will receive you there." He said as they walked along the marble corridors filled with works of art; she looked at him surprised and sighed quietly, glancing out of the window, finding that it was indeed pleasant warm weather, the sky was cloudless.

They walked out one of the back exits to the cloisters into a small garden consisting of a maze formed of walls of shrubbery, which, however, easily led them to its centre, on which stood a large arbour styled in antique manner, with a dome and Corinthian-style columns.

She grinned with some kind of disbelief when she spotted his figure seated at an ornate small white table, his cassock also white, he held in his hands a newspaper he had just been looking through.

She thought with amusement that he was reading about himself.

Only when they got closer did she notice that other gazettes from different countries lay folded on the table top; the front pages of each asking who the new pope was, why he wasn't showing himself, why he was silent.

"Your Holiness." Said the priest standing next to her and nodded; the young pope, however, did not even bestow a single glance on them.

She pressed her lips together as she saw his thumb go to his mouth, he licked it and then used it to flip the page of the newspaper.

The priest who had brought her left them alone, as if he had already become accustomed to the lack of reaction and any culture on his part. She stared at him in silence for a moment, standing in front of him in the same dress as the day before, not having time to buy anything else.

"Holy Father." She said softly, wanting to get it over with, standing a few steps beside him.

He did not look at her, instead lifting his hand and extending it towards her, a signet ring of pure gold on his heart finger.

She looked at him for a moment in disbelief, then swallowed hard and walked towards him, grasping his warm hand in hers.

She leaned in, placing a quick, brief kiss on his ring and let him go immediately; he took his hand without even giving her a glance and went back to reading the newspaper.

She pressed her lips together feeling his intense, pleasant-smelling male perfume again.

"What do you think of what they write about me?" He asked, carelessly tossing the newspaper he had just read onto a pile of others, the discouragement on his face bordering on disgust, as if what he had read made him sick. "They are already reaching my family. Day and night they chat outside my mother's house."

She felt a tightness in her throat at his words and some kind of sympathy, because although he must have known what his decision entailed and what the consequences would be, some journalists crossed all possible boundaries, recognising no sanctity.

She shifted from foot to foot, looking at the French croissants that lay on one of the porcelain plates and a jar of strawberry jam, and reminded herself that she hadn't eaten breakfast. She grunted quietly, looking away, staring at the field flowers that grew around them – she spotted a gardener in the distance who was cutting the shrubs with his big steel shears.

"They won't stop until you give them something, Holy Father." She replied truthfully, hearing him snort under his breath.

"They will always want more." He replied dryly and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye – he was staring at her sitting with his legs crossed.

She shuddered and looked at him in disbelief as he pushed the other chair in front of her with his foot clad in white elegant shoes, moving it away.

"Sit down, child. You are pale. Did you eat breakfast today?" He asked disapprovingly, like a parent expressing their discontent. She shook her head and he sighed heavily, indicating with his hand gesture to the seat next to him.

She thought that this certainly had nothing to do with behaving according to protocol, but decided that it probably didn't matter much to him. She sat down next to him, smelling the intense scent of his perfume again, adjusting her dress, remembering not to sit with her legs crossed.

"Eat." He said dispassionately; she wasn't going to argue, figuring that since she was being forced to be at his every beck and call now, she could get something in return.

Therefore, she reached for the croissant and jam, which immediately drew the attention of her stomach – she casted him a wordless surprised glance as she heard the sound of the lighter being lit and the hiss of the cigarette he held in his mouth.

He took a deep drag and spread out comfortably in his chair, looking at her thoughtfully, letting the smoke out through his nose. He smirked, as if something in her gaze amused him.

"My chancellery contacted your University. They were happy to hear that you will be doing a sort of…internship here. You don't have to worry about your exams or classes." He hummed as if he was talking about something trivial and uninteresting, an irrelevant piece of information he had to convey to her, and took another drag, the tip of his cigarette igniting red.

"− what − but −" She started, but decided it made no sense; whoever he was, this man had clearly already planned everything for himself and had no intention of changing anything, much less asking her opinion.

"I thought you'd be pleased. Your uncle arranges for you accommodation and studies, the Pope makes sure you pass your exams without your personal involvement. Isn't that beautiful?" He asked with a sneer, and she felt a tightening in her throat, a cold sweat on her back; she stared wide-eyed at the half-cut croissant on which she had just spread jam, but lost the urge to eat.

He knew everything about her and thought she and her uncle were the same.

She pressed her lips together and leaned back against the backrest, placing her hands on the armrests even though she shouldn't be doing so and crossed her legs. She saw his gaze drop involuntarily to her bare knees, his cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.

"My uncle wants you to take me to your bed, Holy Father." She said quietly, recognising that she didn't have the strength for this, for their games, their hookups, the secrets they obviously adored, of which the entire Vatican was made.

She blinked when he chuckled, his pointing finger hitting his cigarette so that the ash from it fell to the stone floor beneath him.

"Tell me something I don't know. Eat. We have a lot of work ahead of us." He muttered, taking one last drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out through his nose, extinguishing the remnants of it on his plate.

She stared at him with her heart pounding fast, thinking in disbelief that he really was a few steps ahead of everyone else.

He was perfectly informed, and although his words and actions seemed chaotic, there was purpose in them.

"What do you want, Holy Father?" She asked lightly, taking a piece of croissant into her mouth. He threw her an amused look and raised an eyebrow.

She had the impression that he took satisfaction in teasing her, his gaze fixed on her lips, which she involuntarily licked.

"Many things. Above all, holy peace and quiet, but I am not afforded it. Get up, let's take a walk." He said matter-of-factly and rose abruptly, putting his hands behind him, moving ahead without looking at her towards the corridors made of tall, evenly trimmed bushes.

She quickly swallowed the piece she just had in her mouth and stood up, following him, levelling her step with his, sunshine and birdsong all around them.

"We're being watched. It's harder for them to eavesdrop on me as I walk." He said coolly; she turned behind her and saw the gardener she noticed before, who was apparently just pretending to water the flowers around the arbour.

She looked at him in horror, realising that he must have been spied on all the time.

That they all wanted to know what he was going to do, surely he must have kept them in an iron grip since no picture of him had leaked to the press yet.

"What's going to make the atmosphere calm down and the journalists back off?" He asked discouraged, and she sighed quietly, looking up at the cloudless sky.

"Your private invitation."

She was surprised that her idea that he would hold a press conference where he would be invisible and only his voice could be heard appealed to him. He felt that, in fact, his faithful should hear his words and what he has to share with them, and this did not require his image to be revealed at all.

He decided to receive the TV and newspaper envoys in the Sistine Chapel, recognising that this was some kind of milestone moment that required a special place, a black veil was placed in front of his papal throne.

Although on the one hand it looked comical, on the other it added a sort of solemnity and impression of holiness, something tangible and yet inaccessible.

The cardinals and his office workers had prepared a script for him, which he tore in front of her eyes before the speech itself, handing her the shreds that remained of the pages, staring blankly at the black fabric in front of him. She took it from him, not knowing what else she could do; he demanded she be by his side in case someone asked an uncomfortable question.

Her heart was pounding like mad, she could feel the cold sweat on her back and wondered if he felt a similar anxiety.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and although his face was stony, he seemed even paler to her than usual, his large hands on which she could clearly see the outline of his veins clenched on his armrests – he sat comfortably on his throne with his legs crossed.

"Holy Father, why don't you want to show your face to your faithful? Is this some new kind of Vatican policy, a way of getting the whole world's attention?" They heard the question echoed by the first journalist on the other side of the curtain; she saw him press his lips together and swallow loudly before his cold, matter-of-fact, dispassionate voice began to spread around them.

"My face is not useful to my faithful for anything. They need my action. My causality. They need my intervention in matters of urgency, in the problems of paedophilia in the church, in the embezzlement and misuse of church assets, in the restoration of law and order, in the opening up of the church to young people who feel forgotten and unwanted. My face, my history, my personal views will distract them from all these things."

He said without stammering. She looked at him in disbelief, realising that he couldn't have prepared this answer beforehand.

He was saying straight from his heart what he was thinking and there was something touching about it.

Somehow she understood what he meant.

"What about the pilgrimages, what about the Sunday masses celebrated by the Pope?" Asked another journalist. She heard him sigh heavily, noticed that his hand trembled as he raised it to his face, tightening his fingers on the base of his nose.

"The Pope is not alone, he has his cardinals who can assist him in his missions around the world. As for the masses, I will attend them as a guest, but I will not be visible. The Pope is not unique. The Pope is chosen as first among equals. As Pope, I still remain a cardinal, one of the apostles. I am not Christ. I am not God."

She looked at him in pain, breathing unevenly through slightly parted lips, remembering what she had told him a few days earlier.

They need a guide, not another invisible God.

She couldn't believe that after what she had heard she had begun to feel sympathy for him – his answers seemed thoughtful and sensible, and she wondered if she had just seen his true nature, or if he was as perfect a manipulator as any of the cardinals.

She wondered how he had convinced them.

How he became Pope.

When it was all over he left without a word; the journalists were led away, and she prayed that it would help, that public opinion would calm down a little.

She watched all the news editions that evening with bated breath – the whole world quoted his statements and his decision, to her relief, most of the experts spoke warmly of him. The newspaper headlines also left her under no illusions.

The Pope has spoken. He doesn't want to show his face, only his actions.

The Pope who chooses the fight against paedophilia over the glamour of glory.

The Pope without a face − a new beginning.

The end of splendour − the Pope retreats to work like any of us.

The end of the church as we know it. The Pope at last again the voice of the weakest.

The next day she arrived in the Vatican with a stack of newspapers, eager to show him the result of their work, hoping it would satisfy him and allow her to return to normality.

"The Pope is exercising, but he said he would receive you." Said the priest, who was called Father Lenz, and who was apparently his private secretary, always waiting for her to lead her wherever he just happened to be.

"He's exercising?" She asked with amusement, and he just raised his eyebrows, himself clearly not knowing what he thought about it.

He opened the door for her and she stepped into a large room, with a beautiful baroque vaulted ceiling and hundreds of paintings on one side, rows of tall windows on the other, illuminating an exercise machine consisting of a small bench with a mattress on which he placed his back as he pulled on the railing at the end of which the weights hung, his legs braced on either side of the machine for balance.

He was dressed in white tracksuits.

She stared at the sight in disbelief, waiting for him to notice her; it only happened after a while when he took a break and sat down, reaching for a bottle of water standing on the old wooden floor. She lifted up a bundle of newspapers and he nodded, running his fingers through his hair, trying to calm his breathing after his exertion.

She walked over to him and handed him the magazines she held in her hand; she felt a pleasant throbbing between her thighs feeling the smell of his sweat mixed with the scent of his perfume, his lips slightly swollen and pink from the blood that pulsed faster through his body.

He flipped through the front pages of the papers one by one and sighed quietly; she thought with surprise that there was a sort of expression of relief painted on his face, as if what was happening frightened him somewhere deep inside and filled him with anxiety.

He put them down at last, looking ahead, grabbing the white towel that hung over the railing at the other end of the machine.

"I prayed to God after I was elected. I prayed that he would show me the way, and although he usually answered me in some way, that evening he was silent. It was a silence full of rejection, as if the heavens did not agree with the decision of the conclave. How was I to go out to the crowds in such a situation, to convince them that Our Father in the heavens was sending me to them?"

He asked, rising with a quiet creak from the metal bench, surprising her completely with his words; because of his clothes and the way he spoke she had cognitive dissonance and had to remind herself that he was the Pope and not just a young man close to her age.

His confession touched her in some way – she was able to imagine his despair on the evening he was elected as people chanted his name, but it was the voice of God that he wanted to hear.

He stood a few steps away from her, drinking the contents of his small water bottle to the end, and stared ahead, as if he had returned with his mind to that time, as if he needed to get it out of himself.

"That's why I asked my faithful to pray from me. And what did they do? They despaired. They despaired that they could not see my face, that they could not touch me, tear me apart, dissect my private life and my past. I have never felt so lonely." He said with a regret from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and lowered her gaze, not knowing what to say, reminding herself with shame that she had thought the same thing about him as all those people.

"Perhaps it was also the will of the heavens. In the end, when the time comes everyone will face God alone. Maybe it was his words: don't follow the crowd, don't conform, that's not why I sent you." She said softly, but immediately regretted her words, recognising that she had no right to interpret anyone's spiritual experiences, much less those of the Head of the Church.

She heard him snort with amusement; he pulled a lighter and cigarettes from his pocket and for a moment she thought he would want to smoke in this beautiful baroque chamber, however, he moved ahead towards a small door other than the one she had entered through.

"Come." He hummed, so she moved after him, knowing that it was pointless to resist.

For the rest, the more she got to know him, the more she liked him.

They passed through a narrow corridor and began to climb up a stone staircase that spiraled around a large pillar – it seemed to her that they were in some older part of this great complex. They reached a small wooden door, and when he opened it they emerged onto the roof of one of the buildings located to the right of St Peter's Square.

The view in front of her struck her –the sun was rising over the Vatican, lazily leaning out from above the church standing in the centre of the square like a nimbus, the air around them pleasantly cool and crisp.

She watched as he moved ahead and walked closer to the stone wall, firing up his lighter and leaning forward with a cigarette in his mouth – there was something so obscene about the sight that she smiled involuntarily.

He looked at her over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, taking a drag, then slid his cigarette out of his mouth with a motion of his hand and let the smoke out silently through his nose, shaking the ash to the ground with a flick of his finger.

"It has been reported to me that journalists are slowly making their way into my past. Don't worry, I don't think it's your fault. I knew it would happen, but I thought I had more time." He murmured lowly seeing her surprised, horrified face, suddenly as if tired and discouraged, taking another drag with a quiet hiss of fire.

She thought looking at his silhouette illuminated by the first rays of the sun, that he looked like a saint.

"I want you to hear it from me. Will you listen to what I have to say?" He asked calmly and she nodded, feeling her heart pounding fast, looking at him with her lips slightly parted, terrified of what he wanted to tell her.

"My mother I told you about is a nun. She adopted me a few years after I was placed in a convent orphanage." He said calmly, looking away, staring at the crowds of people walking around St Peter's Square.

"They took me from the woman who gave birth to me because she liked to inject various stimulants into her veins. She was asleep when one of her men decided he didn't like the way I looked at him, that I was complaining about being hungry. He decided that he would gouge my eyes out, but he only succeeded with one, my screaming would wake even the dead."

He muttered, not looking at her but somewhere in the distance, letting out a puff of smoke with a deep breath; she looked at him with her eyebrows arched in pain feeling the squeeze in her throat, her cheeks red with emotion.

She wanted to say something but was afraid to interrupt him, she knew that what he was telling her was of the utmost importance and she wondered if anyone else knew about all this, if he had confided in anyone.

"Sister Alicent after I was brought in wouldn't let me call her my mother. So I called every woman I saw that, cooks, cleaners, teachers. She adopted me in the end, unable to look at it anymore. She got a dispensation from the Pope." He said lowly, throwing the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it with his completely white Adidas.

"Some trashy, cheap magazines are already writing about the fact that I am the son of a nun and the Pope, others with mockery recognise that I am certainly her immaculate conception. That they mock me doesn't bother me, but it fills me with sadness that journalists stand outside her house all day. She can't even go out shopping or gardening. I guess you think the only way out of this situation would be an interview where I would tell my story?"

He asked disapprovingly, looking at her finally; she was shocked and horrified that he was asking her opinion on such an important matter. She shook her head helplessly, shrugging her shoulders.

"You cannot allow them to make your mother a hostage, Holy Father. You must show strength. Call press conferences where you talk about what decisions you make, but don't answer questions about your family. In the Vatican, you are Pius XIII, not Aemond Targaryen. When they see that they cannot blackmail you, they will let go. In my opinion, you both have to bear it." She said what she thought, thinking in the back of her mind that journalists would always want more and the matter would only get worse.

He looked at her silently as if analysing her words and sighed finally, kicking a stone that lay under his feet with his shoe.

"Have you ever kissed?" He asked lightly and she looked at him with shock written all over her face, feeling her heart pounding like crazy, her cheeks burning with heat.

She couldn't believe such a question had come out of his mouth.

"You don't have to answer. I'm just curious. I've never kissed anyone." He replied after a moment, seeing her embarrassed reaction, as if he wanted to clarify and elaborate that his interest was purely scientific and theoretical.

She swallowed loudly, pressing her lips together, thinking that he had told her about himself, about the most private aspects of his life, and decided that nothing bad would happen if she answered him.

"Once, in high school." She muttered, stroking her arm in a gesture of uncertainty and embarrassment, looking away. She heard him hum under his breath, intrigued.

"Did it feel good?" He asked softly, standing a few steps away from her with his hands tucked into his snow-white tracksuit bottoms, cocking his head.

She looked up at him in disbelief, breathing erratically, clasping her hands tighter, involuntarily her gaze escaped to his full, glistening lips.

"It was a very moist, soft and warm sensation." She muttered feeling a tightness in her throat, her gaze fleeing from his eyes to his lips, unable to stop herself from imagining how wonderful it would be to feel how they tasted.

"Hm." He murmured, looking away thoughtfully.

They stood like that for a moment in silence – she could feel the wordless tension around them, as if electricity flowed through the air with their every word and movement.

"Did you confess this deed?"

She blinked and felt her heart stop. She shook her head, looking at him with slightly parted lips.

"Pardon?" She asked in disbelief, feeling discomfort in her lower abdomen and a cold sweat on her back, not believing that he was suggesting such a thing.

"Failure to maintain chastity before marriage is a sin." He replied indifferently; she pressed her lips together, feeling tears of shame and humiliation under her eyelids, her eyebrows arched in pain.

"So I am a sinner, Holy Father." She said coldly, and turned away, leaving without any pleasantries or even a simple goodbye.

She burst out sobbing as she ran down the narrow stairs.

It was only a kiss.

She just wanted to see what it was like.

In fact, she felt bad afterwards, but not because she thought it was a sin, but because she was not in love with this boy.

She asked Father Lenz for any of the drivers to take her home; seeing her face red from tears he asked what had happened, but she did not answer him.

She opened up to him, spoke about an intimate part of her life, and he could only judge her, make her another Eve, a fallen woman.

It was only a kiss.

She returned to her flat filled with regret and disappointment – she angrily pulled off her long dress she had bought and chosen specially to be able to present herself as expected, to keep herself humble, but for what?

She decided that she would never appear there again.

There was no kind of real contract between the two of them, she had only signed documents regarding her collaboration with the Pope's secretaries and a confidentiality clause.

She changed into her pyjamas, undid her hair, took the box of leftover cakes from the cupboard and lay in bed, browsing social media platforms on her phone, trying not to think about what had happened.

She tilted her head back and groaned in frustration when she saw that her uncle had started to call her. She muted her phone and flipped the screen down, sighing.

She lay back on her bedding, staring blankly at the window, and thought with pain that the man who should be giving her the strength to be a better person had made her doubt herself, made her feel sinful and dirty.

She started to think that maybe she should go to confession after all, that maybe he was right, that she was only making excuses for herself without wanting to admit that she was wrong, but she felt even worse at that thought and just burst out crying.

Exhausted by sobbing and remorse, she finally fell asleep, seeing only through her closed eyelids that the phone display lying next to her glowed again and again.

She shuddered, rising quickly to sit up in complete darkness when she heard someone's loud knock on her door; she looked around with a pounding heart, not knowing where she was, whether it was evening or morning.

She glanced at her phone and saw that she had slept for several long hours and the sun had set, on her screen 20 missed calls from her uncle and a plethora of text messages that she didn't have the energy to read.

She sighed heavily and got up, walking reluctantly to the door, knowing her uncle would now make a litany for her; she turned on the night light on the way so she wouldn't trip over anything and she turned the lock, opening it.

"Oh God."

She muttered, seeing the figure of the young Pope in front of her, still in the same white tracksuit and sneakers.

He had his hood up over his head.

He pulled the white earphones out of his ears with a soft flick of his hand – she could hear the heavy metal music playing from them.

"Will you let me in?" He asked indifferently; she looked at him in disbelief, thinking he was risking a lot by going outside just to see her.

She sighed quietly and stepped back, allowing him to go inside. She leaned out wanting to check if anyone had seen him and closed the door quickly.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and saw that he had turned off the music on his player and put it back in his pocket.

They stood for a moment in silence, his gaze focused on her naked thighs; she swallowed loudly with shame at the thought that she was standing before the Head of the Catholic Church in nothing but pyjamas consisting of cream shorts and a shirt buttoned up the front, under which she didn't even have a bra.

She turned her head, running her trembling hand over her face, her heart pounding like mad.

"I made a mistake." She heard his voice full of regret. "I wanted your uncle to pass it on to you, but you didn't answer."

"I didn't and don't feel like talking to anyone, Holy Father." She muttered, feeling a tightening in her chest, fiddling restlessly with the cross hanging on her neck.

She heard him swallow loudly and look to the side, pulling the hood off his head.

"I made you doubt in yourself. In your purity and your value in the eyes of God." He said lowly, and she felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes for the umpteenth time that day. She closed her eyelids and tilted her head back, trying to control herself, not letting them flow out.

She did not reply.

"My words arise from my depravity, which I fight unsuccessfully. From my vanity and jealousy. I would rather have you locked up in a convent. You could then be by my side and no one would ever touch you again. You could be mine." He said softly, thoughtfully, looking at some point on the floor, as if he had drifted off completely in his musings – she felt her lips part in disbelief, her brow arching in pain.

I would rather have you locked up in a convent.

You could be mine.

What was she to reply to such a shocking confession?

She shuddered when he finally turned his attention to her, the gaze of his healthy eye sharp and piercing, while his artificial one was empty, white, lifeless.

"Though never before have my members reacted to the sight and thought of a woman, when I see you, I long to touch you, to taste you, to smell you. I have become addicted to your scent and try to recall it after evening prayer before I fall asleep." He spoke calmly, as if it was not an emotionally driven statement but something thought out, something that had been going on in his head for a very long time.

She felt with fear how her body reacted to his words with a greedy throbbing between her thighs and a moisture from which the material of her underwear was getting wet, her nipples hardened, more clearly visible from under her shirt.

She froze when she saw his gaze flee to her breasts, seeing exactly what she feared, his full lips parted slightly; she could hear his breathing clearly, fingers of his hands rubbing against each other in an anxious, nervous gesture.

"What do you feel now?" He whispered and she drew in the air loudly, feeling a tightness in her throat. She licked her lips dry from stress, taking a step backwards, hitting her back against the wall, feeling that she had nowhere to run. She helplessly clenched her thighs together, wanting to stop what was happening, seeing that his pupil widened at the sight.

"I'm wet." She confessed in shame, recognising that there was no point in pretending that there was something innocent in what was happening – her body was twitching with desire, begging for his touch and relief, her heart pounding like mad.

She heard him draw in a loud breath at her words while looking straight into her eyes, she saw fire in them, heavenly or hellish.

"Does it feel good?" He asked softly, gazing shamelessly at the spot between her thighs – she felt a wonderful heat in her lower abdomen and a tickling inside her, her walls were clenching around nothing at his question.

She thought helplessly that she had never felt anything like this before in her life.

"Yes." She whispered in a trembling voice, feeling her whole body quiver and pulsate, feeling desire in her fingertips, in her lips and down there, deep, deep inside her.

She shuddered as he approached her with a slow step and lifted her terrified gaze to him. His lips were parted in an anxious, hitched breath, in his eyes heat and darkness from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and between her thighs.

He stood over her, for a moment just looking at her – his trembling hands finally raised, reaching for the buttons of her shirt. They looked at each other with some kind of pain and suffering from which she felt a sting in her heart as a coldness enveloped her naked skin.

It seemed to her that it lasted an eternity – he took his time, his gaze fixed on the line of her bare body as he unbuttoned her shirt fully; he didn't expose her breasts, he just looked at her.

She gasped when he lifted his hand and ran his fingertips slowly over her sternum down to her stomach – she closed her eyes and sighed quietly, feeling her lips pulsate with desire, swollen and thirsty.

"− so soft − so warm −" He whispered; her quivering palm rose and touched his fingers, his hand larger and more massive than hers, she could feel the outline of his veins clearly under her skin.

She pressed his hand to her heart, heard him draw in the air hard as he felt it beat beneath his fingertips.

He looked at her, remaining still, as if frozen, knowing that one word from him, one expression of hesitation and they would be left with only shame, only regret, only disappointment.

She felt the tears under her eyelids, which involuntarily one by one ran down her face; he noticed it and shook his head, his breathing shaky, uneven, despairing.

"− you're so pure −" He whispered, nuzzling the tip of his nose into her cheek as if seeking refuge. She clenched her eyelids in shock at how intimate and desired this closeness was, his scent filled her entire lungs, his warm breath enveloped her cheek.

"− looking at you I feel terror because I regret − I regret that I will never feel you − that I will never give you what I want −" He muttered in a trembling voice; she felt his warm tears running down her skin.

They both gasped when his shaking hand tentatively began to slide lower and sobbed in pleasure as his fingers slipped hesitantly under the material of her shorts, deep between her thighs.

They were panting and quivering with desire, her trembling hands clenched on his arms as his fingertips pushed the material of her underwear aside with a shy gesture full of shame, she heard his low, helpless groan as he felt how wet she was.

"− God, help me −" He mumbled in a broken voice full of guilt – she tried but was unable to stop the moans of pleasure that left her mouth with each tentative movement of his fingers that brushed her swollen, throbbing womanhood, her body was so tense she felt she was on the edge.

"− please −" She whimpered pleadingly, placing her hand on his with a gesture full of desperation, wanting to feel him harder, deeper.

She tilted her head back as she finally felt him the way she wanted to, his fingertips digging into her fleshy, hot, moist folds with intense, circular strokes – she could feel his hot, ragged breath on her skin, his face pressed against her cheek, her hands clenched in a helpless gesture on the material of his sweatshirt.

Tears of despair and delight streamed down their faces, tired of pretending and fleeing, shivers ran down her spine every time the tips of his fingers teased again that tender bud from which her sobriety of mind was taken away; it seemed to her that their bodies were moving on their own, something hard and throbbing under his trousers rubbing against her thigh with desperate strokes.

"− forgive me − say you forgive me −" He mumbled pleadingly in a breaking voice.

She felt him trembling all over just like her, unable to stop now, knowing there was no way back, her face wet with her and his tears.

She reached her palm into his hair and combed through it with her fingers, letting out her breath with a loud sob, moving involuntarily to the rhythm of his hand as it pressed harder and harder against her fleshy skin with the lewd click of her moisture.

"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for forgiveness −" She gasped as she felt something approaching, moaning louder and louder.

She thought that despite the fact that he was touching her in this forbidden, sinful place, some incomprehensible kind of intimacy and innocence was added to what was happening by the fact that he hadn't exposed her naked body, that he hadn't wanted to possess her, only to experience something with her and in her presence.

"− good God, you're leaking − so sticky − I'll lick it off my fingers −" He whispered with a kind of awe, as if he were talking about something sacred and mysterious.

She felt that his words had done something to her – she cried out loudly, parting her lips in disbelief when suddenly a wave of warm pleasure surged through her body like a lightning bolt.

She felt wonderful tickling in her lips, in the tips of her fingers, in her breasts, in her chest, her inside's clenching greedily around nothing, her moisture trickled down onto his hand, she heard his low, surprised groan.

Her body suddenly became numb; she would have fallen if he hadn't put his arm around her in time, his hand ran over her cheek heated from the exertion.

"− you look like Bernini's Saint Teresa − so beautiful −" He mumbled in a trembling voice, panting hard along with her, looking at her dreamily. She sighed sweetly, laying her head on his chest, letting him embrace her tightly.

She could feel his manhood throbbing under the damp material of his sweatpants.

He came.

She stayed in his embrace not daring to look at him, not daring to think about what they had done, wanting to push back the moment when they would feel remorse, pain and regret, sinking only into this wonderful relief.

You look like Bernini's Saint Teresa.

A sculpture in which a holy woman curves in ecstasy after an angel pierces her with an arrow of Divine Love.

God's Delight.

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses

[girlkisser13]

zeus cabin headcanons

children of zeus

• over time, they develop lightning scars on their body from the sheer amount of electricity that passes through them whenever they summon lightning.

• the mortals call these "stretch marks".

• they have a hard time holding their breath for longer than a minute due to their father’s air-based nature.

• eventually, someone sets up a tent inside to make it feel less empty and uncomfortable.

• they have an intrinsic understanding of the law wherever they are and could pass a bar exam with no preparation.

• they can play electric guitars and basses without using an amp.

• they give off little shocks when they're happy.

• they have a natural charisma that draws others to them, coupled with an authoritative aura that commands respect.

• they are immune to static electricity.

• their personalities are intense, mirroring their father’s own mood swings. they are passionate and driven, but are also prone to sudden bursts of anger if things don't go their way.

• when chiron decided that the electricity bill was getting too expensive, he had the hephaestus cabin set up underground wires so they could extract electricity from their cabin.

• due to their strong personalities, they have a complex relationship with authority figures, sometimes clashing with them or struggling to fit into conventional roles.

• they’re extremely impulsive and quick to act, especially when they sense injustice or danger. their actions are often driven by a strong sense of urgency.

• a lot of them grow up to become pilots or meteorologists.

• the statue of zeus is constantly covered with blankets to prevent anyone from seeing his "hippie" face glaring down at them.

• they can move lightning-fast over short distances, becoming electricity in the process.

cabin exterior

• the cabin resembles a large, imposing greek temple. it is made of solid white marble, giving it a regal and timeless appearance. the building has a rectangular shape with a peaked roof, and it's elevated slightly above the ground, with steps leading up to the entrance, similar to ancient greek temples.

• the front of the cabin is lined with impressive, thick columns that support a triangular pediment. these columns are doric in style, which are simple yet strong, symbolizing zeus's power and authority.

• the triangular pediment above the entrance often has carvings depicting scenes associated with zeus. these include lightning bolts, eagles, and scenes of zeus sitting on his throne. the frieze running along the top of the cabin is decorated with intricate designs of mythological scenes involving zeus.

• the roof is tiled with golden shingles that catch the light, making the cabin gleam and stand out, even from a distance. it has a weather vane shaped like a lightning bolt at the top.

cabin interior

• the doorway of the their cabin is grand and imposing, with a large wooden door inlaid with lightning bolt designs. it has a high, arched entrance that makes every camper feel small as they walk in.

• the ceiling is a high dome with a large skylight in the center. the skylight is magically enchanted to always show the sky outside, whether it's day or night. during thunderstorms, the skylight shows the storm directly above, with lightning occasionally flashing across it.

• lightning bolt patterns are carved into the walls and furniture. the bedposts, chairs, and even the table have intricate designs that resemble streaks of lightning. these designs occasionally glow with a faint blue or gold light, especially during storms.

• the interior is primarily made of white marble and stone, giving the cabin a clean, powerful, and timeless feel. the floors are polished marble, and the walls have stone columns reminiscent of ancient greek temples.

• the cabin is never completely silent. there is a low, almost imperceptible rumble of thunder that can be heard, especially during quiet moments. it feels like the power of the sky is always present.

• the cabin is illuminated by electric lanterns that mimic the look of ancient greek torches. these lanterns have a bluish-white flame that flickers like lightning. they provide a soft, but sufficient light for the entire cabin.

• each bed has dark blue bedding, with gold trim and embroidery. the pillows are soft, and the headboards are engraved with thundercloud patterns. each bed is spacious and sturdy, resembling a king's bed, giving a sense of royalty.

cabin traditions

• whenever something bad happens to one of them, they kick the statue of zeus in the balls.

• to start each day with energy, the head counselor has a morning routine where they produce a loud clap of thunder to wake everyone up. it eventually becomes a competition to see who can make the loudest or most impressive thunderclap each morning.

• they take it upon themselves to predict the weather for the day, using their natural instincts and connection to the sky. they could even post a daily weather forecast outside their cabin door, which would often be surprisingly accurate and trusted by other campers..

• on the nights when the sky is clear, they hold a tradition called "sky bridge," where they create a makeshift bridge with ropes and wooden planks, connecting the cabin to a nearby high tree or structure. they use this bridge to sit and stargaze, feeling as if they're closer to the heavens.

divider by @plutism

[sinning-23]

Fishbowl (Buggy x Siren!Reader)

I hope you guysss like this one lol it’s been in the works for a minute and is one of the last in the siren/mermaid series! Also sorry for any spelling errors! This one with be a two part red and definitely some angst? Or at least I’ll try lol angst isn’t exactly my specialty!

Anyway, ENJOY!

Your nails claw at the glass, leaving scrapes and indents in their wake. After being captured by these pirates, you were transported to a large glass dome on wheels. You were panicking, the screeching from your echolocation making passerby’s of the crew cover their ears and double over.

Why you? You hadn't even been by the ship...they just pulled up to the shore of your home island firing cannons as your sisters swam for cover. You directed them, helping them escape only to be grabbed by the hair an dragged to the shore before you could make your escape.

Any mermaid knew what happened when they were captured.... fin scales used for jewelry, the rich meat of your tails used in rare dishes. The your teeth would be grinder down to pearl like where’s, drilled for necklaces. Nausea builds in the pit of your stomach. This was it.

He approached you, lifting you by your hair as your gills opens and close at the side of your neck, an unpleasant, wet sounding “gasp” filling the silence.

“What a treat. My audience is gonna love you.”

You swallow hard, native tongue sliding off with venom. He sneers at this.

“Too bad I can’t understand you sweets.” Buggy chuckles.

He’s got your arm in an uncomfortable grip as he drags you across the sand and flings you into another crewmate. I’m some kind of silent agreement the carry you across the sandy beach to the temporary tank. Your stomach turns, glittery tears falling down your cheeks.

Currently, you keep clawing, scratching, and screeching, and the glass begins to crack at this latest noise. You needed to get out. But before you can fix your voice to scream again, he enters.

"Please shut your mouth sweetheart. You're not going anywhere.” He explains with a roll of his eyes.

You speak again, and of course, he can understand but it’s something along the lines of,

“I’ll kill you when I get out of here.”

_____4 months______

You scratched a tally for each day you were there, the fishbowl now adorned with a stand and a pretty label in fancy blue ribbon and gold paint. He forced you to act in his shows, putting your gifted set of pipes “to good use”. Even though your siren song was powerful, its intended purpose seemed to fade away.

Every song you sang, the sorrow of being captured poured into your notes, making the audience ever more mournful than they already were. Your songs and performances almost always ended in tears now, Buggy’s crew opting to wear earplugs in fear they’d end their lives then and there if they heard one more melancholic tune.

Buggy, on the other hand, was beginning to grow ever impatient. The first two months of shows had gone just fine! His crew and audience were so enamored by your beauty and sound. Now it was just pitiful. But even though it pissed him off his own decisions led to failure, he couldn’t help but want your gorgeous set of pipes to himself.

Often, he’s caught himself in a daze, wondering what it feels like to have you sing him to sleep, your hands caressing his face with a smile and he pulls into a sense of security. Fat chance though…

Besides, you hadn’t even really been properly introduced since that day he surprise adopted you(kidnapped). Perhaps he should make conversation? He shakes his head at the thought, sitting in his designated chair, just watching.

Your scales flash and flicker sparkles of light in the empty tent. Maybe that’s why he captured you in the first place? You were beautiful. And his did he love seeing those pretty glittery tears roll down your cheeks when you’d first met.

A smile plays over his lips when you catch him staring, your eyes narrowing for a moment before you press against the glass, blowing bubbles at him from under the water. You say something he can’t quite hear.

In a curious haze, he stands, walking up to your fishbowl, looking at each tally you’d engraved into the glass.

“Why won’t you let me go?” You hum, the water making your voice somehow sound prettier that ever, the slight muffle making him hum.

“Because I like sad songs.” He jokes, circling your glass prison.

How typical of him, to joke in a serious situation like this, well serious to you at least. He really takes time to observe you, the way your scales seem to be some sort of opalescent chrome.

How your hair floats around your face, your gills opening and closing ever so slightly. He admires the smaller fins adorning your spine and forearms. He wonders if you’re insecure about them.

“Sing for me.”

It’s a demand, and before you can protest, he’s already back in his chair, watching, resting his head against his closed fist.

Even though you feel obligated, your voice and song feel softer now. Almost as if the small interaction with the captain had only slightly lifted your spirit.

And somehow your hymn didn’t seem so dismal.

[feyhunter78]

Among the Sun Ch 2

Description: Your mother must make a choice for the good of the kingdom. Ch 3

Your corset feels too tight, but you relish it, taking comfort in the grip it has on your rib cage, pretending it’s a firm hug, a grounding measure as the throne room fills with armored soldiers.

“You must forgive me y/n, you must.” Your mother says stricken, your hand in hers, her grip ironclad.

“All will be well, do not fret.” You whisper, standing beside the throne, the hem of your skirt wet with blood.

“The Great Sun of the Empire, the Conqueror, He Who Bled Among Demons and Lived, Miguel O’Hara, Emperor of Nueva York, stands before you.” A herald announces as the doors slam open.

You flinch back at the sound and force yourself to turn towards the doors.

“Forgive me, y/n, forgive me, my child.” Your mother whispers over and over again, the sound setting your nerves on edge.

The room quiets as he enters, the sound of his heavy boots echoing off the walls and up to the high domed ceilings.

He is…not the monster you envisioned. He has monstrous traits, but your first thought is that he’s quite handsome. Tall and muscular, with thick black hair and piercing brown eyes. His features are strong, almost divine in their arrangement, and you fight the urge to move towards him for a better look.

“Queen Cyathea, you have my deepest sympathies for the loss of your husband and son, but I am a man of principle, I cannot make exceptions, so I offer you a choice, bend the knee, pay tribute or—”

“Take her.” Your mother says, cutting off the emperor.

You look back at her in shock, but she pushes you forward. “You must do it, y/n, for our people.”

You stumble forward, catching yourself right before you topple into the firm, armored chest of Miguel.

It’s as if he hadn’t noticed you before, but now he grabs your wrists, pulling you closer, inspecting you with an uncaring eye. “You wish to offer your daughter as tribute? My people do not believe in slavery, nor do I.”

“Take her as a bride, a servant, a bedwamer, she is pretty and a quick learner she can do many tasks.” Your mother says frantically, sounding very unlike herself.

Your face burns at her words, and you struggle against Miguel’s grip.

“Stop.” He orders, his voice cold.

You freeze, glancing back at your mother, silently begging her to do something, anything.

“Take her, leave our kingdom alone, we will not trouble you.” Your mother says a tone of finality to her voice.

She has made her choice.

Tears sting your eyes, and you stare up at the ceiling, praying they will not fall. You can’t cry in front of the Conqueror; you can’t show such weakness so early on.

Miguel laughs, it’s a booming sound, soon echoed by his men. It’s terrifying, and you fight the urge to curl in on yourself.

“I will take the girl, your kingdom remains in your hands, My Queen.” He says, giving her a half bow before throwing you over his shoulder and departing.

He doesn’t set you down until you’ve entered some kind of tent. It’s large and lavish, lanterns hanging from taunt ropes, trinkets, and pillows thrown about.

“Please, my mother is grieving, she did not mean what she said, I will return, and we will not trouble you. You can take anything you desire from the kingdom, but I beg of you, please let me go.” You can’t stop the tears from falling, and you try to quickly wipe them away.

Miguel towers over you, his arms crossed, his broad chest rising and falling in an even motion. “An arrangement was made; will you not honor it?”

“I—”

“A queen, a princess, a kingdom without honor is no good to me. It serves only as kindling.” Miguel says the lack of concern dripping from each word.

“No, no, please, I will honor it, I will.” You stumble over your words, cursing yourself for such weakness.

“Good.” He says curtly, his hands settling on your shoulders before they begin to slide down your body, his large warm hands caressing every inch, the skin so hot you fear he’s attempting to burn through the fabric of your dress.

You jump back, mortified. “How dare you?”

He grabs you, pulling you back, one hand on your waist, the other continuing its path. “I am checking you for weapons, cariño, cannot have you attempt to kill me as I sleep.”

You relax, slightly. “Oh…well I did not bring any weapons, I was not allowed to bring anything, but clothing and a few personal items, all of which were checked by your men.”

“But they are not me, they are not allowed to touch you.” He says, his hand leaving your wrist as he crouches down, his hands sliding down your waist, hips, legs, until he stands back up seemingly satisfied.

“I have no weapons.” You tell him.

He hums in response and grabs a dagger from the wall.

“Wait, wait, please, I swear I have nothing.” You plead, throwing your hands up in front of you helplessly.

He throws the dagger with surprising speed, and it tears through the fabric of the tent. Then you hear a thump. He leaves you there, then reappears dragging a body behind him. “Recognize him?”

You force yourself to look at the dead man’s face, he has a strange mark on his neck. You don’t recognize him. “No, I’ve never seen him before.”

Miguel hums in response.

“Should I recognize him?” You ask, inching closer, trying to place the man.

“Stay back.” He warns.

You freeze and your stomach churns as you watch the flesh melt off the man, revealing a twisted, demonic form beneath.

“He’s an anomaly, a human who strayed too close to dark magic and was consumed by it. They prowl the land searching for victims, destroying lives with a single act.” He explains, before he snaps his fingers, and the corpse dissipates.

“And he was coming here? For what reason?” You ask, a chill of fear settling over you.

“There is no reason to these creatures, y/n, if you see one, with that mark on their skin, you run. You find me, and I will kill it, do not attempt to engage it, no matter what it says to you.”

“They speak?” You’re both curious and horrified.

“They lie.”

He’s silent after that and finishes removing his armor, leaving him in simple breeches and a linen shirt. The shirt is unlike any you’ve ever seen. It dips low in a sharp “v” exposing his toned chest, with loose laces you assume meant to close the gap, but Miguel has them undone.

“Where am I to sleep?” You ask carefully, your hands behind your back to hide their fidgeting.

He looks over at you and raises an eyebrow. “In my bed.”

Your face heats up and you shake your head. “I—that is not appropriate, I am unmarried.”

Miguel makes his way over to you, his amber eyes burning into you. “Would it be more appropriate if you were married? If I kept you half bare in my bed while your husband was languishing in a castle somewhere?” He leans down skimming his nose up your throat inhaling deeply. “Yes, perhaps it would, how pathetic he would seem. How tortured he would be knowing that his wife is well satisfied night after night, drooling for my cock like a whore.”

You rear your arm back and slap him. Shock reverberating through you, your hand stinging, your head reeling. You were going to die.

Surprise flickers across his face, then he starts laughing. He keeps laughing, doubling over, the sound rich and still booming, echoing off the walls of the tent, and you take a panicked step back.

“I—I am so sorry, Your Majesty, truly, truly sorry.” You cry, tears welling in your eyes once more.

Miguel straightens up and in one swift motion throws you over his shoulder, then onto his bed. “You have fire cariño, I enjoy it.”

He’s hovering over you, strong arms steady, no sign of fatigue from holding up his weight. Gray ram-like horns protrude from his head, their bases hidden by his thick hair, the ends tipped with gold. He trails a clawed finger down the curve of your cheek, until all you feel is a calloused fingertip resting at the corner of your lips.

Can he retract them? You wonder, your eyes on the cloth ceiling.

Miguel gently grabs your chin, guiding your eyes to his. They’re brown like the rum barrels you often see rolled off ships, and just as potent as the intoxicating liquid they hold.

“Please do not harm me, I will not cause you trouble, I swear.” You promise, feeling a strange tugging at the edge of your consciousness as Miguel keeps his eyes locked on yours.

“Sleep, I will not touch you. I am not an animal who forces himself upon others.” He reassures you, a bitter tinge to his tone, his eyes shifting from yours for a moment, that tugging feeling receding.

You’re too stiff to sleep but try to force yourself to relax. “Thank you.”

Miguel’s eyes snap back to yours, red scattered within the brown, blood flecking the dirt of a battlefield. “Do not thank me, sleep.”

His words echo in your mind for a moment, then you sink into the arms of sleep.

TL: @not-aya, @belos-simp69, @deputy-videogamer, @sxnasbitch, @maxi-ride, @minimari415, @syndrlla97, @gejo333, @lady-necromancer, @zeyzeys-stuff, @tayleighuh, @loser-alert, @envyjmoney, @allysunny, @princessloveweird, @freehentai, @xlittlebubx-blog, @berry-potchy, @drefear, @jkthinkstoomuch

[materassassino]

O or V for Joe and/or Nicky

Took me a while to write this, it required research into something I know fundamentally nothing about, but it's cursory research, so if anyone sees any mistakes point them out. Or don't, exercise discretion.

There are many more things I could write about for this, but it was getting far too long.

Minific prompts!

---

O - the stars or space

“Have you seen this?”

Nicolò careens in, breathless, and almost slams a book on the table. His heart is pounding, the wonder of it all, he knows, is writ large on his face. Yusuf stares at him, bewildered for a moment, before he gets the book thrust in his face.

De revolutionibus orbium coelestium.

He blinks at it. “Astronomy?” he asks, tentatively.

“It changes everything,” Nicolò says, rifling through it. “Look, see here—” he taps an image of many concentric circles, “—look at the centre.”

Yusuf does as he is told, and whistles. “The Sun, hm?”

Nicolò nods, picking up the book again. “This is incredible. It makes so much sense.” He sits heavily in the chair, flicking through to the tables. “We are tethered to the Sun, all of us. It is a great dance, and we are but one of the dancers.”

Yusuf hums, and when Nicolò looks up at him, he has a besotted look on his face.

“When you think of the sciences, you become a poet,” he says, and Nicolò turns pink. He closes his book and sets it on the table, a hand upon it, but his eyes do not leave Yusuf’s.

“There are wonders both down here and up there, my love,” he says. “And we might live long enough to see them learnt.”

--

“Look, see there!”

Nicolò takes the telescope from Galileo’s hands with unhidden reverence, swallowing. With this, he will see further than most other people on Earth ever have, beyond the edges of their own sky into the very firmament they once thought so fixed. All those men who wrote those treatises he devoured five hundred years ago – Aratus of Soli, Aryabhata, Ptolemy, Albumasar, Al Bitruji, a hundred others – would have given their own weight in gold to see what he will see now. He trembles slightly as he raises it to his eye.

The night is balmy, thick with the heat of the Tuscan summer, and the sky is a brilliantly clear mass of studded stars. He has seen those a thousand times before, charted them, he knows the names of the constellations in five languages. The Moon is a crisp sliver, a cat’s claw, and beyond that… Jupiter.

Brighter than he’s ever seen it, and scattered around it, four dots. His breath hitches.

“Moons,” he says, and Galileo rubs his hands together.

“Exactly, my lad!”

Nicolò lowers the telescope, gazing up with his naked eyes. Jupiter shrinks, and its pinprick companions vanish into nothing, merging with the rest of the many, many stars above them. It is a strange contrast, he thinks, how much smaller the vastness looks when viewed through Galileo’s device, and how much smaller he himself feels when the great dome of the night sky is above them, clear from horizon to horizon.

“Wondrous,” he murmurs. Galileo tugs on his beard, clearly pleased with himself, but the compliment was not for him, and not even for his device.

No matter how close the sky might seem, it is still so very far away.

--

Andy had not been pleased when he’d asked.

“You want to interrupt our mission to watch some TV?!” she snaps. Nicky’s heart was thudding.

“Please, Andy,” he begs. “I have to see this. I have to.”

“We’re in the middle of the fucking jungle!” she hisses, gesturing around them. Nicky can see that, it’s where they’ve been for months and months now, border-hopping, skulking, getting themselves burnt and torn to shreds and blown to smithereens over and over and over, every life saved a hard-won blessing. But this…

“Please. Anywhere with a television, I don’t care.”

She turns away from him as if disgusted with him, and that makes his heart constrict. He hates to disappoint her like this.

“He never requests anything, Andy,” Joe says, his voice far more vicious than usual. This meatgrinder of a war has been taking its toll on him, and when Joe becomes bitter, it is a sign things are going very, very badly. “You can at least give him this!”

“I agree,” Booker says, and both Nicky and Joe look at him in surprise. “I want out of this shithole for a moment too, honestly.”

Andy runs a hand down her face. The bags beneath her eyes are deep, and her eyes have a dead-fish look to them. It’s a look that’s mirrored on all of them, and they have seen so much war already, centuries, millennia of it.

“Fine,” she mutters. “We might even get to Hanoi in time.”

Nicky is rarely effusive with anyone but Joe, but he throws his arms around her, holding her desperately tight.

“Thank you! Thank you!” He is grateful in every language he knows, and a miraculous sound occurs to that: she laughs. He can’t remember the last time she laughed. Thin, reedy, a vaporous, ephemeral thing, but it’s still a laugh.

They don’t make it to Hanoi, unfortunately – that was always a fool’s gambit anyway – but they stumble into Vinh Vien. It is mostly ruins, a sight that twists itself like a knife in Nicky’s gut, but it seems some mad luck is with them: they do find a television that is intact, and works, and a generator Andy siphons some of their precious petrol into. Some curious children wander over, bewildered by the sight of these foreigners fiddling with a television, and Booker gestures them over, offering them Russian sweets which they take with bright grins and giggles.

They crowd around it, the four of them on upturned crates and the children clustered in front, and are joined by some adults, desperate for a distraction. They amass quite the audience.

Nicky explains, in his Vietnamese scattered with quaint, ancient words he hasn’t quite gotten rid of yet, what is happening.

“The Moon?” an old man asks, dubious.

“The Moon,” Nicky replies, a lump in his throat.

He watches, transfixed, as the module touches down. The view is monotonous, a flat plain of grey rock to a black horizon, but he almost cannot breathe: this is as far as humanity has ever gone. He watches the man in the bulky suit descend the ladder and touch the surface, and it doesn’t matter that this man is American, just as it did not matter that Yuri Gagarin was Soviet. What do these petty Earthly feuds matter so far away? There is only wonder and mystery, and the breathless revelation of knowledge.

(Yes, he knows well this is a pissing contest between children, but does not care, in this moment.)

The children around them break into shrill cheers. He gasps softly. “One small step for a man” indeed.

Joe, beside him, threads their fingers together, and Nicky’s squeezes them because he cannot tear his gaze away, even to look at the love of his life. Booker whistles, leans over to Andy.

“Did you ever dream we’d do this, six thousand years ago?” he asks. Andy is quiet for a long moment.

“Everything was so much smaller then,” she says, her voice cracking. “And yet so much bigger.”

That is precisely how Nicky feels, though he couldn’t possibly find the words right now. They are sitting in the ruins of a city, years into a seemingly never-ending war which does nothing but tear people to pieces with no objective or remorse, and yet… and yet Nicky feels a kernel of hope within him.

“Do you think,” he murmurs, leaning his head closer to Joe’s, “that we will ever go beyond?”

“Who knows, my love… We have already gone further than we ever dreamt. How much further can space be?”

Nicky chuckles, and squeezes Joe’s hand once more.

[machine-herald-archive]

A Quick Fix - Anthony Burch

Any fool could have predicted that Viktor would strike back at some point. If one weren’t a fool, one might predict the exact date and time of an attempted counterattack.

Jayce was not a fool.

He stood in his workshop, bathed in sun rays from his skylight, surrounded by dozens of artifacts of his own genius: Gearwork boots that could cling to any surface. A knapsack with articulated limbs that always kept the user’s tools within easy reach.

Greater than all these inventions, however, was the weapon that Jayce now held in his hands. Powered by a Shuriman shard, Jayce's transforming hextech greathammer was renowned throughout Piltover, but he tossed it from hand to hand as if was any other tool from his workshop.

Three sharp taps echoed from Jayce’s door.

They were here.

Jayce had prepared for this. He'd run experiments on Viktor’s discarded automata. He'd intercepted the mechanical communications. Any second, they’d beat down his front door and try to rip away his hextech hammer. After that, they'd try to do the same with his skull. “Try” being the operative word.

He flicked a switch on the hammer’s handle. With an energetic sizzle, the head of Jayce’s masterpiece transformed into a hextech blaster.

He took aim.

Stood his ground.

Watched the door open. His finger tightened on the trigger.

And he almost blasted a seven-year-old girl’s head off.

She was tiny and blonde and would have seemed adorable to anyone who wasn’t Jayce. The girl pushed the door open and walked in with shuffling, tentative steps. Her ponytail swished to and fro as she approached Jayce. She kept her head down, ever avoiding his gaze. He had two hypotheses regarding why she might refuse eye contact: she was hugely impressed to be in the presence of someone so acclaimed, or she was working for Viktor and about to surprise him with a chem-bomb. Her blushing indicated it was likely the former.

“My soldier broke,” she said, proffering a limp metal knight, its arm bent backward at a perverse angle.

Jayce didn’t move.

“Please leave or you’ll probably die.”

The child stared at him.

“Also, I don’t fix dolls. Find somebody with more time on their hands.”

Tears began to well up in her eyes.

“I don’t have any money for an artificer, and my muh–,” she said, stifling a sob, “mother made him for me before she passed, and–”

Jayce furrowed his brow and, for the first time in quite a while, blinked.

“If it’s so precious to you, why did you break it?”

“I didn’t mean to! I took him to the Progress Day feast and somebody bumped into me and I dropped him, and I know I should have just left him at home–”

“ –Yes, you should have. That was stupid of you.”

The girl opened her mouth to speak, then stopped herself. Jayce had seen this kind of reaction before. Most everyone he met had heard the stories of his legendary hammer and his unyielding heroism. They expected grandeur. They expected humility. They expected him to not be a massive jerk. Jayce inevitably disappointed them.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked.

“Most facets of my personality, so I’ve been told,” he replied without hesitation.

The child furrowed her brow. She shoved the broken doll into his face.

“Fix it. Please.”

“You’ll just break it again.”

“I won’t!”

“Look,” he said. ”Little girl. I’m very busy, and–”

Something flitted across the skylight, casting a quick shadow on the two of them. Anyone else would have assumed it was nothing more than a falcon passing overhead. Jayce knew better. He fell silent. A wry smile spread across his face as he yanked the girl toward his workbench.

“The thing is,” he said, “machines are very simple.”

He lifted a large, thin sheet of bronze and began to hammer its corners with sharp taps. “They’re made of discrete parts. They combine and recombine in clear, predictable ways.” He beat the sheet over and over until it took the form of a smooth dome.

“People are more complicated. They’re emotional, they’re unpredictable, and – in nearly every case – they’re not as smart as me,” he said, drilling a clean hole into the top of the dome. “Now usually, that’s a problem. But sometimes, their stupidity works in my favor.”

“Is this still about my doll, or–”

“Sometimes, they’re so insecure in their inferiority – so desperate to take their revenge – that they make a foolish mistake.” He grabbed a shining copper rod, and screwed it into the center of the dome.

“Sometimes people fail to protect their most precious assets,” he said, nodding at her tin soldier before holding aloft the newly-formed metal umbrella. “And sometimes, that means instead of assaulting my workshop through the more obvious front door, they try to take…”

He looked upward, “...the more dramatic approach.”

He handed her the umbrella, which took all of her meager strength to keep aloft.

“Hold this. Don’t move.”

She opened her mouth to respond, only to yelp in surprise as the skylight shattered above her. Glass bounced off the makeshift umbrella like rain as a half-dozen men leapt down to the floor. Tubes of bright green chems protruded from the base of their necks, connecting to their limbs. Their eyes were dead, their faces emotionless. They were definitely Viktor’s boys, alright: drugged punks from Zaun’s sump level whom Viktor had pumped full of hallucinogens and hypnotics. Chem-stunted thugs who would follow Viktor’s every whim whether they wanted to or not. Jayce had been expecting to see automatons, but Viktor likely couldn’t have gotten so many through Piltover unnoticed. Still, these chem-slaves were just as much of a danger. They turned toward Jayce and the girl.

Before they reached the pair, however, Jayce’s hextech blaster exploded with voltaic energy. An orb of hextech-powered lightning shot out of its core and detonated in the middle of the group. The chem-slaves slammed into the workshop's immaculate walls.

“So much for the element of surprise, huh, Vikto–”

A hulking brute of a machine leapt down amongst the pile of unconscious chem-slaves. It looked, Jayce thought, like a cross between a minotaur and a very angry building.

“Watch out,” the girl yelped.

Jayce rolled his eyes. “I am watching him. Stop panicking. I have the situation well in-ow!” he said, interrupted as the metal beast rammed him in the chest.

The beast sent Jayce hurtling backward. He landed on a rolling cart, his back cracking from the impact.

Grunting, he pulled himself to his feet as the beast charged again.

“That’s the last time you touch me,” he said.

Jayce swung his hextech weapon as hard as he could, transforming it back into a hammer mid-swing. The minotaur lowered its head to ram Jayce again, foolishly ignoring the weapon’s arc.

The hammer found its mark with a resounding crunch. The minotaur, its head caved all the way back into its metal neck, collapsed to the floor. A cloud of escaping steam hissed from its carcass.

Jayce pulled back the hammer again, readying for another attack. He watched the skylight. A few minutes passed. Soon enough, he seemed satisfied the assault was over.

He tried to step back toward his workbench, only to double over in pain, grasping at his stomach. The girl rushed to his side.

“Still hurts where he tackled you, huh?”

“Obviously.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have let him,” she said. “That was stupid of you.”

Jayce raised an eyebrow at the kid. Her eyes widened, unsure if she’d crossed a line. A slow smile crept across his face.

“What was your name?”

“Amaranthine.”

Jayce sat at his workbench and grabbed a screwdriver.

“Gimme the doll, Amaranthine,” he said.

A massive grin broke out on her face. “So you can fix it?”

Jayce smirked at her.

“There’s nothing I can’t fix.”

[evidence-of-the-unknown]

[ID: Page 18 of Evidence of the Unknown. It’s in greyscale with a light blue spot color. Panel 1: A set of floodlight click on, the roof of a geodesic dome-shaped tent in the background. SFX reads, “Choooom” Panel 2: Medium close. In the foreground two figures in hazmat suits shovel some kind of dust into a labeled bag while kneeling on the ground. In the background, out of focus, someone dressed in slacks with a tie stands behind them. Panel 3: Camera pans up. The masked faces of the two grunts are shadowed and out of focus in the foreground, while Thyle comes into focus in the background. He has shaggy dark hair that covers one eye, square glasses, and tan skin. He wears a patterned tie with a messy dress shirt and a long black knitted cardigan. He is holding a mug and looking down, unenthused. Panel 4: Large panel, wide shot. The inside of the geodesic tent dome is shown. In the center is the divot in the dirt where the crashed spaceship once was. The scene is populated by groups of grunts in hazard suits doing various jobs gathering evidence. Thyle walks away from the two crouching in the dirt and towards two tables set up with donut boxed and coffee carafes. He says, “Why do I always get the 3 AM coverups?” Panel 5: Medium shot from Thyle from the side. He sighs and pours coffee from the container labeled “Double Caff.” Into his mug. Panel 6: Zoomed out from previous panel. Thyle turns to see an excited grunt in the foreground, who says, “Mr. Killroy, sir! I’ve found something!” Still unenthused, Thyle responds with “Hm.” End ID.]

[areyoudreaminof]

Unsupervised: a Band of Exiles drabble

Inspired by and dedicated to the incredible @velidewrites and THIS hilarious Inaccurate ACOTAR quote. Enjoy!

Elain looked up at the clock again, huffing to herself as she stuck the chunks of marinated meat on the skewers. It was already 4, she had sent Lucien and Jurian off for supplies hours ago, and sunset was rapidly approaching. If they didn’t get here soon, all of her plans for Vassa’s birthday would be ruined, and Elain needed it to be perfect. She had been planning it for months, pouring over volumes of Scythian history and culture, pestering her friend to tell her stories of the home she missed so much. They would cook skewered meats and vegetables over an open fire and sleep in a large tent under the stars, and while it wasn’t quite as Scythian as Elain would have liked, she could at the very least make Vassa happy with the effort. She didn’t have fermented mare’s milk, but sweet wine would work, though she did manage to get the spices needed for the food. Now, all that was left was the tent. It wouldn’t be the large dome that the nomads used on the plains, but they could fake it, Elain had decided. She had sent the boys off for canvas and posts in the early afternoon and there was still no sign of them.

Suddenly, Elain’s thoughts were interrupted by chaos, Lucien yelped as Jurian shouted “DON’T BITE ME” as she ran out the back door. Making a beeline for the yard, she stopped dead in her tracks as she found herself face to face with a very fat miniature horse. 

Blinking, Elain looked up at Lucien as he grinned awkwardly, “Lucien what is this?” she demanded

“His name is Barnabas,” Lucien said weakly

“You were supposed to get supplies for the tent-” Elain sputtered as Barnabas looked at her with cold, dead eyes. 

“I did, and we even got it from a Scythian merchant” he said pointing at the sad pile of canvas, “and luckily Barney here came at a discount. Now we can have a full Scythian experience.” Lucien leapt to the side as the demonic horse took a snap at him. “If we’re lucky, Vassa can ride him in her bird form.”

Elain, with fury creeping in her chest, met her mate's eyes. She had to remind herself, in that moment, just how much she loved him before she strangled him. “I sent you off hours ago for one simple task and you came back with this?” she hissed.

“In my defense, I was left unsupervised.” Lucien replied smoothly.

“Wasn’t Jurian supposed to go with you?” 

“In my defense, I was also left unsupervised.” Jurian said as his hand hovered over Barnabas’s fat backside.

“I’m going to kill you both”, Elain said numbly as the little horse began to nuzzle her body, “You two are like children.”

[morganaseren]

Snippet Sunday (Arranged Marriage AU)

Tagged by: @blackjackkent

Tagging forward: @illusivesoul, @this-is-something-idk-what, @noeldressari, @chaosroid, and anyone else who wants to participate!

Pairing: Leliana/Niamh Cousland

Rating: Teen

AU: If You'd Cross An Ocean for Me

Note: Honestly, you could consider this scene to be a continuation to this one I posted a while back.

---

Following dinner, Leliana found that the tent she was meant to share with her new wife had already been pitched up. It was domed in its design, and as expected as one of the leaders of the nomadic coalition, it was larger than many of the others that darted the valley. As La Louve brushed aside the tarp entrance to allow her through, Leliana couldn't help the sudden nervousness that settled over her as she wandered into the darkened space.

With their wedding ceremony and the feast that came afterward, the consummation of their marriage was, of course, to be expected.

Leliana was hardly new to sharing her body with another, whether for romantic intent or to satisfy a carnal curiosity. Despite the abruptness of their arranged marriage, La Louve had so far shown herself to be rather courteous--enough that Leliana wouldn't have been opposed to laying with her.

Still, after Marjolaine, Leliana knew all too well that the persona one presented in public could be so very different when behind the privacy of closed doors...

Before her thoughts could darken upon that memory, her breath hitched when she heard the snapping of fingers behind her. Her startlement had less to do with the sound but the fact that the act itself had instantly lit the candles that were lined in various locations within the tent. It brought a comforting warmth to what had been an unknown space to her.

Leliana could see the clean reed matting placed over the ground, providing a clear separation between the outdoors and one's personal sleeping area. Given how nomadic the Fereldans were, she expected the tent to be rather sparse, which was proven true. Save for a collapsible writing desk and chair along with the bags that held their clothing in the corner, the majority of the space was taken up by the pile of furs that Leliana realized was meant to be their bed.

She found that she had wandered over to it without truly meaning to, and as she reached down to touch a large, silvery pelt, she found that it felt just as soft and luxurious as she had expected. Looking over her shoulder, Leliana found that her wife was still standing at the entryway and hadn't bothered to close the distance between them. From the sheepish expression on the other woman's face, she couldn't help but wonder if La Louve was perhaps just as nervous about the expectations of their marriage as she had been.

Soft lips parted to speak, but before La Louve could voice a single word, a shout--a summon perhaps?--from outside had the woman frowning. In response, La Louve poked her head out of the tent briefly, and Leliana could just barely hear the muffled conversation outside. Before long, her wife flashed a look of apology her way. She didn't understand the words that followed either, but she also didn't miss the way La Louve gestured emphatically toward the bed before she left the tent entirely, her dark cloak sweeping behind her.

All in all, it was... not quite how Leliana expected to end her evening.

With nothing left to do, she began to undress, leaving herself only in her smalls before she tucked herself under the covers of the bedding. She couldn't help her sigh of relief as she sank into the soft furs, grateful for the chance to simply relax after such an eventful day.

An eventful month in general if she were being completely honest.

Exhaustion weighed heavy upon her, but she felt it polite to at least wait for her wife before succumbing to it. However, as the candles around her gradually lowered and dimmed, and with La Louve still nowhere in sight, lethargy settled more quickly into her bones.

A few minutes, Leliana thought to herself, barely suppressing a yawn. She could rest her eyes for a few minutes before continuing her vigil. She curled up more comfortably beneath the covers to take a brief rest, but despite her best intentions, her breathing soon slowed as she transitioned into deeper slumber.

---

When Leliana next awoke, it was to the sound of gentle clamoring outside the confines of her tent along with the scent of food being cooked. Much closer, however, she could hear the repeated scratching of quill against parchment. Blearily shaking off the lingering dredges of sleep from her mind, Leliana slowly sat up in bed, causing the sound of writing to be stopped.

"Leliana."

She recognized her wife's voice immediately. Common was perhaps a coarser language than her native Orlesian, but Leliana had quickly noticed that La Louve and her siblings had a distinct inflection--different from the linguistic standard found in Ferelden--when they spoke. Her wife in particular was rather soft-spoken, and it added a pleasing... lyricality when she uttered the syllables of Leliana's name.

She looked up to see La Louve standing from her desk to deliver two bowls to her: one filled with an arrangement of freshly picked berries while the other held the remnants of the ram they'd had last night but in a stew-like form. Energy for the day ahead, she supposed.

Leliana took the food from her wife gratefully, and if her wife appeared at all discomforted by her current state of undress, the other woman didn't show it, offering only a friendly smile, which she recognized to be genuine.

"Thank you, but did you not eat?"

As expected, her inquiry drew confusion in that gaze even as the smile across from hers remained politely in place. The language barrier was likely going to be a continual test for their marriage, Leliana thought, as she carded a hand tiredly through her hair in an attempt to make it more presentable.

"This," she said, pointing to the bowls atop her lap that were barely half empty. She gestured to La Louve then. "Surely, you need more sustenance than this to get yourself through the morning."

Thankfully, the other woman caught on quickly to what she was trying to ask and responded in kind, saying something in Common as she gestured to the bowls and then back to herself before holding up two fingers.

Two... Leliana's brows furrowed, trying to make sense of what was being conveyed to her. Her second bowl then?

"You already ate?"

La Louve seemed to confirm as much with a nod although it was done hesitantly, as if she wasn't sure if she completely understood the question.

"I see." Leliana huffed out a small laugh at the early morning charades before picking up the spoon in the stew bowl. "Thank you then."

With a relieved smile, her wife wandered back over to her desk to begin working anew on the various missives atop it. With the way the other woman's cloak was so casually draped across the back of her chair, it didn't seem she or the Fereldans were in any rush to leave the area anytime soon. Still, there was likely work to still be done, and she didn't want her new wife and clan to think she was a layabout. As such, she ate her fill before preparing her mind for the rest of the day ahead.

---

It was on her second week with the Fereldans that Leliana found herself growing increasingly perplexed, but it had little to do with the differing customs.

No, that had long been expected.

Rather, her bemusement came with her wife's continual disappearance from their tent whenever night fell. It wasn't as if her wife was avoiding her, Leliana knew. La Louve was always at her desk when Leliana awoke in the morning, rode at her side when it was time to travel, and joined her for every meal.

Yet, Leliana still went to bed alone.

Frowning as she stared at the empty pile of furred pelts, she finally wandered out of the tent to seek an answer. Of course, she soon realized that trying to find one was quickly turning out to be an exercise in frustration.

She had tried to speak with a group of returning hunters to find the whereabouts of La Louve, but, as always, the language barrier proved to be too much. They were hardly rude as they stood there, struggling to understand what she requested of them. As the wife of one of their leaders, perhaps they were wary of showing anything less than the proper deference to her. Still, after a time, one of them--a mage if the staff over her shoulder was any indication--motioned for Leliana to follow her.

She sound found herself led to one of the campfires dotted around the area. As luck would have it, both of La Louve's siblings were there. The mage shouted a greeting, drawing the attention of the two warriors, who saw Leliana and grinned widely in greeting. Both rose to meet her, but the mage who led her there got to them first.

A rapidfire conversation followed that Leliana had no chance of understanding, and the two leaders' gazes darted to her every few seconds, but from the puzzlement in their own gazes, it didn't seem they were any closer in offering her the answer she desired either. The mage could only offer a smile of apology to her before she quickly left to find the other hunters and help dress and preserve their catch of the evening.

Weary, Leliana was all but prepared to return to her tent at that point, but she tried yet again with a small sigh. "Do you know where La Louve is?"

The two warriors glanced at one another for a long moment before the blonde woman spoke to her.

“Neev?”

Of course, the word itself meant nothing to her, so Leliana couldn't help but stare blankly in response.

“Lah… loov?” the woman asked haltingly, trying to form the Orlesian words. She then drew her head back to emit a low pantomime of a wolf’s howl before raising her brows in question at Leliana, who recognized at once what she was trying to tell her.

“Yes! La Louve!" she replied excitedly, relieved at having finally gotten a lead. "Do you know where she is?”

The woman could only grin smugly at her brother, who rolled his eyes before waving her off. “Neev,” she said profoundly before escorting Leliana away.

Neev?

Leliana tossed the word around her mind for several minutes as La Louve's sister led her through the throng of tents. The way the other woman had said it seemed important however--at least in relation to her wife.

She blinked then.

Was it La Louve's actual name?

Before long, they had gotten past the settlement and were making their way down a grassy incline towards the riverbank. The fires of the camp didn't encroach as far out, but with the twin moons hanging overhead, there was little concern about losing their way in the dark.

Or finding La Louve as it turned out.

The woman in question was sitting at the edge of the water atop a bedroll with a sketchbook in hand, determinedly filling in the details of something or other on the page. Leliana knew she always carried it about when they were traveling. Her wife was apparently quite the artist, one who could often be found documenting the flora and fauna around them when her duties as the clan's emissary weren't needed.

"Neev!" the warrior beside her boomed out humorously, causing that dark head to turn toward them.

Moonlit eyes were surprised to see them there although La Louve seemed less than pleased to see her sibling if her expression was any indication. Although Leliana didn't understand the words being spoken between them, the rapport of sibling banter was as universal a language as anything. She bit her lip to keep from laughing when she saw La Louve's eyes roll so hard in exasperation at her sister's comment that she was almost half-convinced they were going to roll right out of their sockets. Having had her fill of the teasing, La Louve clicked her tongue and summoned the mabari pup that had been laying next to her.

In response, the white-furred puppy rose to his paws and immediately placed himself between the warrior and his mistress, bristling and yapping with infantile fury even though his current foe was several times his size. It was so adorable that Leliana almost couldn't resist cooing at the sight. La Louve's sister laughter was a deep, bellowing sound, but she held her hands up placatingly while backing away from the pup. Still, the little mabari insisted on herding the woman away from the two of them, tail wagging all the while--likely pleased at protecting his favorite human--while barking at the warrior's ankles in a vain attempt to get her to move faster. The sounds of them both soon faded away as they passed the perimeter of the encampment.

"Leliana is... okay?"

Leliana turned to see La Louve looking up at her with concern, but she smiled. "I'm fine, yes. I was just curious as to where you've been all these nights." As expected, all she received in return were dark, furrowed brows as her wife tried to piece together what she was saying with little success. Leliana shook her head, unbothered. "But never mind that. Is Neev your name?”

Ghostly-grey eyes lit up toward the end of her sentence, and Leliana felt she was making progress with communicating with her although perhaps not quite enough to bridge the language together just yet. She glanced down at her wife's sketchbook and found the woman had been drawing a flower of some sort but had also written some notes next to it. As she eyed the writing, she found Orlesian and Common shared a similar alphabet although the latter seemingly lacked any diacritics.

Leliana gathered her cloak more tightly around herself to ward against the night's chill before crouching beside the bedroll, motioning for the sketchbook and charcoal pencil in La Louve’s hands, who gave them away without much protest. In little time at all, Leliana had her own name written on a fresh page, which she showed to her wife.

"Leliana." She pointed to the page emphatically before gesturing to herself. "Leliana," she repeated again, watching as more understanding filled her wife's gaze. With the connection made, she proceeded to write what she assumed to the other woman's name just below her own. "Neev," she stated then, pointing to her writing.

After a brief inspection, Leliana could see her wife was very clearly trying not to laugh at her if the smile threatening to curl at the edge of her lips was any indication. Clearing her throat, La Louve gestured for the sketchbook back. From there, the other woman proceeded to cross out the attempt at her name before writing something else down in a neat, flowing script that she finished with a flourish, which she presented to her.

"Niamh."

It was... clearly not spelled as Leliana had expected, and when she looked back up with suspicious eyes, La Louve--no, Niamh--merely smiled.

"Are you just teasing me now?"

Niamh bit her lip, shoulders shaking silently, before writing down another name on the page. “Fergus,” she announced, pointing to her brother in the distance, who Leliana could see was helping another clanmate set up a tent. The spelling was more or less what she had anticipated it would be, but when Niamh pointed to her sister, who was currently wrestling with an absolute beast of a mabari--and was laughing maniacally all the while if her ears were to be believed--the arrangement of letters that had been revealed to her was even more complex than Niamh's own name.

"Saoirse."

Silence.

"Now you are teasing me..."

Leliana doubted her wife completely understood what she'd said, but she supposed her expression said enough for the both of them because the laughter that spilled from her wife's lips then were akin to the wind chimes that hung along the stables back at her mother's estate--airy and beautiful in their tinkling sound.

"Alright then, Niamh," she said with some measure of humor once her wife's amusement faded on the breeze. "Why are you sleeping out here--" She tapped at the bedroll the woman was sitting on. "--and not in our tent?" she finished, gesturing toward the Fereldan encampment.

As her wife's gaze following her outstretched arm, Leliana wasn't expecting any answer she would truly comprehend, but the pensiveness she saw settling on Niamh's features had her curious as the woman turned back to her.

"I sleep here to..." A jaw worked itself thoughtfully as she struggled to find the words. "...To give Leliana comfort alone."

Leliana blinked as she turned Niamh's answer about in her head.

If she understood correctly, her wife had taken to sleeping out beneath the stars every night because of her. It wasn't far from her initial assumption. Their marriage was still new, and with them both being of different cultures, perhaps Niamh hadn't wanted to overstep any boundaries Leliana might have had. Rather than inadvertently risk making her uncomfortable, Niamh had stayed away to allow Leliana to acclimate to her new surroundings alone.

It was... very thoughtful, Leliana could admit. Unnecessary but thoughtful all the same.

"Well, if you won't join me in our tent, then may I at least sit here?" she asked, tapping the bedroll repeatedly with her request.

Her wife's gaze turned to Leliana and the bedding several times before her eyes widened in seeming realization. The other woman nodded rapidly with her consent, making room for Leliana, but she scooted herself over so much that Leliana couldn't help but laugh when Niamh nearly ended up on the grass.

"Come here, Silly!" she said, reaching out to steady her wife before she needed to fish her out of the river. She tugged her closer across the bedroll and marveled at the warmth emanating from the mage's body even on such a cool night. She smiled. "There's space enough for both of us, no?"

---

And that's it for now! I always love writing soft things about these two! If you liked this, please leave me a like or comment, and consider checking out the other AUs I have!

[nexfox-art-writingblog]

Fox Ears 2

Previous | Next

CW: touch starved pets, institutionalized slavery, pet whump, pet kitsunemimi, pet nekomimis, multiple pets, intimate whumper

Kitsu walked tentatively up the stairs after Hiral and followed her into her dressing room. They still weren’t quite used to walking on flat ground, let alone spiral stairs. But Mistress Hiral had ordered them to walk and all they wanted was her approval. They did like the feeling of the cool marble under their feet, though.

“Come along, my pretty fox. We’re going to get you dressed up so that you look all pretty to show off to my friends.” Hiral said, resting her hand on the small of Kitsu’s back while they walked, helping them remain steady. They blinked and tried not to melt into her touch so they wouldn’t fall over.

Hiral smiled at them as they walked into a huge room where every wall  and the domed ceiling was covered in mirrors. They blinked as hundreds of themself and their mistress appeared. Hiral held their hand and helped them stand on the raised platform in the middle of the room before sitting on one of the red velvet couches.

She snapped he fingers and suddenly several of the mirrors flew open, and two nekomimis in matching maid outfits walked out carrying all manners of dresses and gowns. The taller nekomimi dark hair and skin and wore their hair in a short, straight pixie cut. The shorter one had long black and white hair as well as well as having white marking that contrasted sharply with her dark skin.

Hiral snapped again and both nekomimis immediately got started on dressing Kitsu in the first outfit.

…Several outfits later…

When the nekomimis stepped away again, Hiral got up from the couch to examine the new outfit.

The nekomimis had tied Kitsu’s hair back into a half-up style with a thick red ribbon and put them into a white robe-like garment with red trim and a matching ribbon around their waist. The dress came down off their shoulders and revealed some of their chest and they had some white silk flats with intricate red embroidery for shoes.

The tall woman circled Kitsu, eyeing them up and down, checking that everything was just so. She lifted a corner of one of the sleeves and felt the fabric. Looking pleased, she walked back around to the front of Kitsu. Her eyes suddenly landed on Kitsu’s barren throat, which she look at disapprovingly.

“Hmm, bring me something for their throat. Something with a bell.” Hiral ordered, not moving her eyes from Kitsu’s throat

The taller nekomimi immediately removed the collar from their neck and handed it to Hiral. It was a ribbon of the same shade of red as the rest of Kitsu’s accessories with a large silver bell and silver clasps in the back.

“This is perfect. Thank you, Beau. I will be sure to give you a new collar soon.” Hiral said, patting Beau’s short, spikey hair

Beau purred softly and wrapped their tail loosely around Hiral’s leg, leaning in for more.

Hiral snapped again and the nekomimis immediately began collecting the outfits that were strewn about the room before bowing out through the mirrors they came in by, which shut behind them instantly.

“Now, little fox, are you ready to meet my friends?”

Taglist: @kim-poce @druidx @acetheaxolotl7 @crow-with-1-knife @hypnokittynicole @star-mochi-draws @mothmxwhump @teamwhump @boonasaurusrex

[ask-a-bot]

I have now a cybertronian sister now where do I find these markets?? Also starscream what have you found out about the spiders.

Hehe. I'm answering from my room. I don't really care about being sent up here. I've got Rust here to keep me company and he seems to like me better now. If I pretend I'm upset, they'll keep sending me here when they're mad, instead of putting me in that stupid corner. Haha! Stupid Corner! They need to put themselves in the Stupid Corner! Prime can put himself in the Ugly Corner, too. And the Fart Corner!

OK, most places have got Cybertronian markets. Just look out for big aft tents by the side of a road. We need good access and ample space, because most of us need runways or roads. There are Cybertronian eateries popping up too – they look... well... Cybertronian. They're often metal – even if it's just cladding or something over bricks or concrete – and they often have domes and large, arched windows. Sometimes, we stain our glass and make Cybertronian pictures with them – or there might be a Cybertronian statue or something outside.

I found out jumping spiders are kind of like crows! They eat live things – they'll even kill wasps and bees! That's like me taking down... I don't know... Megatron? Probably more impressive than that. Omega Supreme, maybe. Without using my weapons, while he's armed. Impressive! – but they also eat dead stuff and they'll even eat fallen fruit, petals and nectar. They're clean-up crew like woodlice and stuff!

Hmm... but they also eat woodlice and stuff.

[bumblesimagines]

Under The Moonlight

Part 11

Request: Yes or No

~~~

Novgorod was what he expected and more. A fairly sized city protected by tall stone walls. Surrounding the exterior of the city sat ships on sleds, collecting snow as they waited to be used. (Y/N) noticed the tall buildings peeking out from beyond the walls with domes resting on top. Such an odd shape for a roof. Within the city were many merchants and traders, calling out offers and the services they provided.

(Y/N) stopped briefly, watching two men ride past him on a sled pulled by a bulky horse. Harald chuckled and patted his back before approaching one of the sellers and offering his silver ring in return for three bowls of broth. (Y/N) took the small wooden bowl into his hands and brought it to his face, letting the steam warm his face before he drank and chewed on the chunks of meat floating in the broth. 

"What are they doing?" Leif asked and (Y/N) turned to look at him, following his line of sight toward two men in front of an old wooden building. One of the men sat on the snowy ground, slumped over and looking half-dead. The other man stumbled about before leaning back against the building and sliding down to the ground, head limply going from side to side. 

"Opium," Harald answered, pitifully looking at the men and shaking his head. "They say its smoke enters your body and steals your soul." 

"Why would they do it?"

"To escape this Earth. To talk to the dead." Harald shrugged lightly, finishing his broth and using his sleeve to wipe the snow and remains off his lips. (Y/N) hummed lightly, drinking the last of his broth and turning around at the sound of loud cheering coming from a large perched tent behind them. Harald grinned widely and nodded toward it, eagerly walking forward. The brothers followed him inside and (Y/N) took note of the multiple shirtless sweaty men of varying ages hanging about. Many with bruises. Wooden beams for lanterns and seating areas had been built within the tent. Toward the back of the tent, perched on a wooden stage of sorts, sat a middle-aged man drinking from his goblet. In the middle was an open area where two men connected at the wrist by rope swung at each other, blood dripping down their skin and bruises littering their bodies. Some men walked around the seating areas with bowls, taking coins from the spectators. 

"That's him," Harald whispered to them, motioning to the middle-aged man (Y/N) had noticed minutes prior. Harald walked along the sidelines as the fight ended with one of the men roaring in victory. Before Harald could get to his uncle, two guards stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Frowning at them, Harald scoffed. "Let me by. I'm Prince Harald Sigurdsson. I'm here to see my uncle!" The guards refused to budge, even shoving Harald back when he got too close. 

A gong sounded off and (Y/N) looked back at the middle, noticing two new shirtless men fighting each other. Suddenly, Harald handed Leif his sword and rushed forward, kicking the man holding the other down. The second man scrambled to his feet and stood up, only for Harald to whirl around and punch him. Turning to face his surprised uncle, Harald spoke despite being swarmed by guards, "What this fight needs is a Viking named Prince Harald Sigurdsson of Norway, great-grandson of Harald Finehair and blood relative of the esteemed Yaroslav the Wise!"

"Stop!" Yaroslav ordered, standing from his seat. He stopped and squinted down at Harald, hooking his fingers into the belt around his waist and raising a brow. "Harald?"

Shoving away the guards, Harald panted and greeted him. "Uncle."

"Look at you... What has brought you to Novgorod?" Yaroslav questioned curiously, eyeing the worn clothes on his body. Harald looked far from princely with his long snow-covered beard and messy hair. Unlike his nephew, Yaroslav appeared well-put together. He wore black clothes with gold designs embroidered on them. He had short curly black hair that swooped delicately over his forehead and a neatly trimmed beard. From everything Harald had told them, Yaroslav was a reasonable and hospitable man.

"It's a long story, Uncle. One told better over food and drink." Harald responded and a large smirk spread across Yaroslav's face.

Everything afterward passed by in a blur. They were taken to the finest inn in the city and given rooms where they bathed and changed into fresh clothes before being taken to a brightly lit room. Many colors covered the walls and the fabrics the people wore were eye-catching. (Y/N) supposed when one lived in a barren land, it was only natural to want to stand out. They sat at a long table with other guests, though Harald sat near his uncle. They were served a lot of food and given wine to drink. Harald spoke with his uncle and another man while Leif listened in on their conversation and (Y/N) occupied himself with the food.

"Greenlanders!" Yaroslav called out to them and (Y/N) paused mid-chew, turning his head toward the ruler. Yarslav grinned at them. (Y/N) wondered if everyone related to Harald was so friendly. "They have language at the edge of the world, don't they?"

"Last time I was there," Leif responded as chatter at the table ceased and eyes turned to look at them curiously. (Y/N) swallowed down his food and licked his lips, glancing at Harald. The prince smiled at him encouragingly.

"And tell us, what is it like to live so removed from civilization?" 

"Greenland is quiet," Leif answered again and shrugged lightly. Yaroslav stared at him, slowly nodding as his gaze flickered between the brothers and then to Harald. Not a good enough reply to quench the ruler's curiosity. 

"Quiet, and...?"

"Gives you time to think about things. At night, we would watch the norðurljós. Colors of all the heavens would light up the sky." Leif smiled, looking across the table at his brother, gaze turning fond as he spoke. The woman beside Leif watched him with a warm smile. "We heard stories when we were younger that they were the reflections of the Valkyries' armor. (Y/N)'s mother had a different story, though. When the moon is low, and the sea is sleeping, you can hear the songr of the hvlar swimming at the bottom of the ocean. And then, all at once, they explode from the darkness. Mouths open wide enough to swallow ships." (Y/N) smiled. He could still remember when his mother sat them outside to watch the dancing lights in the sky while she told them the story.

"I hated Greenland when I lived there," Leif confessed with a grimace, gaze falling onto the table. "Now I miss it. I miss the people I knew there." 

"I understand that," Yaroslav said with a hint of longing in his voice. Reaching for his cup, he lifted it in the air and smiled widely. "Welcome to Novgorod, where, unfortunately, quiet does not exist." Laughter scattered across the table and the guests raised their cups in turn. (Y/N) sipped on his wine and returned to his food, finishing his plate, and then hearing Yaroslav raise his voice at Harald.

"I cannot risk upsetting him or his crazy father just so that you can fight for something you never had!" He shouted and Harald looked away from him with a frown, leaning back in his seat as silence fell over the table again. Never taking his green eyes off Harald, Yaroslav continued more calmly. "As I see it, beloved nephew, you have two options: return to Kattegat and swear fealty to Olaf-"

"No."

"-Or do what Vikings have always done. Reivent yourself." His words made Harald's brows furrow but an interest blossomed in his eyes. 

Once Yaroslav finished eating, the dinner was considered finally over and most quests excused themselves to their lodgings. (Y/N) bid his brother goodnight and headed to his own lodgings, looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed that wouldn't make his muscles ache. Pushing open the door and stepping inside, he couldn't bring himself to be surprised when he noticed Harald sitting on the edge of the bed with his arms on his knees. With his gaze on the floor, (Y/N) couldn't get a clear view of his face. (Y/N) closed the door and stepped further into the room, slipping his dagger off his waist and setting it down on a chair before walking closer to Harald. He gently began running his fingers through Harald's soft locks, feeling Harald nuzzle against him and sigh heavily.

"My uncle is well within his rights to refuse me in favor of Canute. He claims the southern river trade route is blocked by a group of brutal nomadics called Pechenegs. Trade is what keeps Novgorod flourishing. He cannot risk going to war with Canute and losing his northern trade." Harald explained quietly, arms slowly slithering around (Y/N). 

"What will you do then? Reinvent yourself?" 

"Yes." Harald tilted his head upward, pressing his chin against (Y/N)'s stomach. Chuckling when (Y/N) gave him a puzzled look, he explained. "I cannot keep expecting others to help me. I need to work for it. I just need to find something that will sell for a good price."

"And what will you do then?"

"I will gather an army and take Norway," Harald answered confidently and (Y/N) hummed softly, tucking a brown strand behind Harald's ear. Harald smiled lovingly, leaning into (Y/N)'s hand and pressing a fluttery kiss to his wrist. (Y/N) shifted slightly, pressing the front of his feet to his ankles and carefully slipping out of his boots. 

"I hope you have a proper plan this time, Harald. We do not need a repeat of Kattegat." (Y/N) murmured, shedding the first layer of clothes and stepping around the bed. Laying down, he moved under the many warm blankets and snuggled into the pillow, watching Harald take his boots off and get comfortable. 

"I know, my love." Harald reached out and tugged him closer, rubbing his hands against the fabric of (Y/N)'s tunic. 

"Harald, we should talk about what I said back in-"

"We've had a long day, love," Harald interrupted quietly, kissing his forehead and pulling him further against his chest. Resting his chin on top of his head, Harald stared forward at the dim lantern keeping the room lit as his mind desperately tried to scrub away the words that made his heart ache. He'd found a love that made him stronger. He couldn't lose that. Not after the betrayals from Canute and his own brother. "Get some rest."

                    ➸        ➸       ➸       ➸       ➸       ➸

Stepping out into the cold, (Y/N) felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. For a split second, he could see the icy ocean in the distance and hear the roaring wind slipping between the sparse trees near their home. But those visions were replaced by bustling crowds and the sound of chatter. With a sigh, (Y/N) headed down a staircase, easily finding Harald amongst the crowd. He spoke with a man selling all sorts of furs. (Y/N)'s brows furrowed at the sight. 

"Sleep well?" His brother asked as he approached, voice gruff and slightly shakey. His head turned back in the direction of the old building where opium was given, gaze lingering on it for far longer than (Y/N)'s liking. Taking Leif's arm gently, he pulled Leif's attention off the building and onto him but Leif averted his eyes upon seeing the frown on (Y/N)'s face.

"Leif-"

"What is Harald up to?" Leif cleared his throat, tugging his arm free and quickening his pace to greet the prince. (Y/N)'s frown only deepened and he followed after him, eyeing the furs bundled up and scattered across the tables. Harald grinned widely when he spotted them, stepping away from the seller and extending his arms to either side of him.

"I have a new plan!" He declared, slinging his arms around their shoulders and bringing them closer to the tables. "I must fund my own army since Yaroslav will not back one for me. I intend to buy as many furs as possible here and sell them in Constantinople."

"And how do you plan to get there?" Leif questioned, looking at his brother and quirking a brow in question. (Y/N) only shrugged in response.

"I will worry about that detail tomorrow, my friend." Harald chuckled rather sheepishly, tightening his hold on the brothers again and dragging them away from the table and toward the large fighting ring tent. (Y/N) grimaced, hearing an eruption of cheers slip out from the tent. "Today, we must make money doing what we're good at." 

Just like the prior day, the tent had been packed with both spectators and fighters. The fighters all dressed similarly. They wore no armor and carried no weapons. The only article of clothing on them were loose pants, leaving the rest of their body exposed to their opponents. A quick way of painting one's body in purple and green. The next fighter had been the victorious one from the day before. He was a tall dark-skinned man with short dark hair braided back tightly against his skull. When he turned slightly under the lantern light, (Y/N) spotted the scars littering his body. He carried an air of confidence, searching the crowd for any fighter bold enough to step up to the challenge as another man, his partner most likely, stepped forward.

"Who wants to bet against Kaysan, the great African warrior?" His partner called out, cackling when no one stepped forward. Shorter than Kaysan and less muscled, the man had fair skin and big brown eyes filled with arrogance. His hair had been cut short and trimmed even shorter on the sides. He seemed particularly proud of Kaysan, exchanging smirks with him when the other fighters looked away. "No one wants to bet against Kaysan?"

When no fighters stepped up, the man looked toward one of his own, motioning for him to step forward. "Maybe some of you will bet against Kaysan now!"

"I'll bet against both of them!" (Y/N) blinked, head snapping in Harald's direction. The prince stepped forward, turning sideways to point back at Leif. (Y/N) scoffed softly. "Two against two."

"Harald," Leif called quietly, lightly shaking his head and glancing around as the crowd grew louder and tossed their coins into the bowls the collectors carried. 

"Come on," Harald breathed, walking toward them and clapping his hands over Leif's arms. "We need the money."

"You need the money." Leif chided and frowned. 

"We're not gonna fight for the entertainment of these people, Harald." (Y/N) told him, gaze hardening. Harald looked at him, taking in the disappointment on his face. Pursing his lips, Harald nodded and sighed, looking back toward the three men. 

"I have a better idea!" Harald called and approached Kaysan's partner, smirking at him. "If this man accepts my bet of 100 hryvnya, I'll fight against both of his fighters." Harald looked back at the brothers, meeting (Y/N)'s eyes. His lover shook his head at him but Harald ignored it, giving him a small smile instead and looking back at the man. Kaysan chuckled softly under his breath as Harald and his partner shook hands. Harald walked off to get dressed and Kaysan powdered his hands, rubbing them together and walking by the two brothers. 

"Don't worry," He smirked lazily. "I'll try not to kill your brother."

"I can't promise he'll return the favor," Leif murmured and Kaysan chuckled before strolling back toward the center. (Y/N) folded his arms over his chest, feeling every muscle in his body tense. The crowd shouted Kaysan's name and poured more coin into the bowls. If Kaysan had so many fans, it meant he fought pretty often. And won. Harald's carelessness would get him killed, (Y/N) just knew it would.

Harald returned and powdered his hands, looking at the brothers with a confident smile. When the gong sounded off, he reared up his fists and charged first, punching the second fighter in his stomach and then connecting his fist to Kaysan's jaw. Kaysan stumbled back from the hit and Harald turned, swinging at the second fighter who blocked most of his hits. Grabbing the man by the arms, Harald turned and threw him to the ground, causing Kaysan to trip over him. Taking advantage of the moment, Harald kicked Kaysan in the face and stepped back, waiting for the men to get back onto their feet. 

Kaysan stood first, snarling as he swung at Harald. Harald dodged and blocked, landing a hit on Kaysan's side before pressing his forearm to Kaysan's chest and pushing him back against a support beam. Kaysan swung at Harald's stomach and Harald grunted, baring his teeth and punching Kaysan's cheek. He turned in time to see the other fighter close to him and ducked before the punch could land. Harald grabbed the man's leg and tossed himself onto the ground, rolling over and forcing the man to fall back. As he moved to stand, Kaysan charged, kneeing him in the stomach. Harald fell back, grunting softly and quickly moving onto his hands and knees. Kaysan grabbed his long hair and pulled him up onto his feet, grasping the sides of Harald's face and bringing his head down while also bringing his own knee up. (Y/N) grimaced when Kaysan's knee connected to Harald's face. 

Breaking free of Kaysan's grip, Harald dodged the punches thrown by both fighters and caught Kaysan's forearm, tossing his leg up and nearly hitting Kaysan in the groin. He punched Kaysan's face again but before he could turn, the other fighter, wrapped his arms around his waist and heaved him up, tossing him down on the ground. The weight of Harald forced the fighter to fall as well and the two men took big gulps of air as they recovered from the fall. Once orientated again, Harald moved forward and got on top of the fighter but the fighter quickly rolled over, shoving Harald off of him and right next to Kaysan. Harald tried scrambling back but Kaysan loomed over him, large hands reaching for Harald's throat. (Y/N) wrapped his fingers around his necklace and winced, almost looking away when Harald was picked up by the throat and tossed back down on the ground. With that, the gong rang again, signaling the first round was over. Leif reached back, taking the cup of water someone offered him for Harald.

Harald staggered onto his feet, drenched in sweat. His hair stuck to his face and trickled down from his lips. Harald walked toward the brothers, panting heavily and chuckling breathlessly. "See what you're missing?" Harald laughed, taking the cup and drinking.

"You're gonna get yourself killed." (Y/N) muttered, running his thumb back and forth over the bones and listening to the hollers from the crowd. He didn't miss the way one spectator shouted for Harald's death.

Tugging at his own necklace, Harald's grin widened. "I've got my lucky charm." He reminded him, chugging back more of the water and cringing at the taste of metallic. Leif eyed the other two fighters as they drank and gathered themselves again.

"Watch the left of the big one. He's slow to defend." Leif quietly told him and Harald hummed, handing back the cup and taking in a big gulp of air before turning around and walking back toward the center. 

Once the gong sounded off, Kaysan attacked first and Harald dodged his first punch, only for Kaysan to throw another punch at him with his other arm and hit the side of his face. Harald notably staggered more, the exhaustion of the first match beginning to take hold. Luckily, Harald recovered quickly and dodged the next punch, rearing up and repeatedly punching Kaysan in the face before shoving him back to have some space when he backhanded the other fighter. He turned back to Kaysan and attempted to throw another punch but Kaysan blocked it and shot his arm forward, grabbing Harald by the throat again and sneering down at him. The other fighter came up behind Harald, repeating his move of wrapping his arms around him and tossing him to the ground, only this time he landed on Harald. With the man on his back, Harald elbowed his side only to get kicked down by Kaysan. The other fighter moved fully onto Harald's back and slipped his arm around Harald's neck, forcing his face up for Kaysan to kick. But Harald used his weight to push back against the fighter on him, rolling over and causing Kaysan to miss. Before he could land some hits on the smaller fighter, Kaysan kicked his side again, hitting him hard enough to force him away and onto his back. 

As Kaysan approached, Harald threw a punch at his groin and Kaysan instantly leaned over in pain, giving Harald a clear opportunity to punch his square on the nose. Kaysan fell back from the force and Harald rolled onto his belly but before he could get up the other fighter crawled toward him and grabbed his ankle. Harald easily kicked his face and got up, letting the two men gather themselves and stand. The other fighter moved first, stumbling forward with a bleeding nose. Harald wrapped his arm around the man and used it to hold himself up and kick Kaysan in the stomach with both feet. With his arms still around the fighter, he used his weight to turn and slam the man onto the ground. Getting on top of him, Harald punched him again and again until there was a sickening crack and Harald got off the heaving man. 

With his fighters losing, Kaysan's partner looked at his last fighter and motioned for him to get into the fight. (Y/N) glanced toward the man at the gong but he remained still, even as the new fighter grabbed Harald from behind and tossed him toward a support beam. With the fight turning into three vs one, Leif shed his coat as Kaysan got on top of Harald. Harald raised his arms up to block Kaysan's repetitive punches while the new fighter checked on the other man.

"Fuck!" (Y/N) hissed when Leif charged, tackling Kaysan off bloody and bruised Harald. He got a punch in before standing to face the third fighter and grabbing his arms. Leif shoved him back against a support beam, taking the side of his face and slamming it against the beam again. When the man fell to the floor, Leif wrapped his arms around his neck and rolled onto the floor so the man was on top of him. Wrapping his legs around the man's body, he squeezed his forearm around the man's neck, and then seemingly out of instinct, he snapped it. Kaysan and his partner quickly fled the tent, whether out of fear or not wanting to pay, (Y/N) couldn't tell nor force himself to care. Harald scrambled onto his feet and pulled Leif up.

"We won, Leif!" Harald laughed, holding Leif by the shoulders and lightly shaking him. Leif panted, breath going in and out in short bursts. His widened eyes stared down at the dead man at his feet and (Y/N) picked up Leif's coats, approaching them and handing them off. Leif slipped them on and quickly walked away, looking disoriented and panicked.

"(Y/N)-" Harald began, reaching out toward him but (Y/N) ripped his arm away when Harald's fingers grazed it. One would've thought Harald had burned him. Harald's throat tightened when (Y/N) didn't even look back at him as he walked away from him and exited the tent.

(Y/N) caught up to his brother, his heart cracking when Leif flinched. "Come, Leif." (Y/N) whispered, rubbing his hands against Leif's arms and guiding him back toward the inn. Leif's breathing slowly returned to normal but his gaze remained distant. Guilt clouded his eyes. (Y/N) headed toward Leif's room, opening the door and closing it behind them. 

"I... I killed a man." Leif breathed out, slumping down on his bed and burying his face in his hands.

"You saved Harald's life." (Y/N) pointed out softly, taking a seat beside his brother and rubbing circles along his back. But they both knew it hadn't been the act itself that had shaken Leif. It'd been the way he lost control of himself, just like their father did. For a man who spent most of his adulthood hoping to prove he wasn't like his father, flipping the switch so easily meant everything he worked toward was a mere mask. It meant a day would come when he'd fully lose himself to blind rage and bloodlust. 

Inhaling deeply, Leif pulled his hands away from his face and (Y/N) noticed the unshed tears in his eyes. "I did not need to kill him... it-it just happened so quickly-"

"I know, Leif." (Y/N) cooed, wrapping his arms around Leif's shoulders and pulling him close. Placing a hand on the side of Leif's face, (Y/N) kissed the top of his head and murmured soft comforts into his ear. He sat still on the bed, allowing his brother to weep for as long as he wanted. For months, Leif had been swallowing his grief and letting it eat him up inside. (Y/N) waited until Leif grew tired before letting him have a moment alone. 

Stepping out of Leif's room and heading toward his own, (Y/N) heard the distant clap of thunder. When he entered his room, he spotted Harald sitting on one of the chairs and tending to the countless bruises and cuts on his body. Harald gently dabbed at his skin with a piece of wet cloth, wiping away the dust and blood on his body. (Y/N) stared at him. No part of him wanted to help Harald with his injuries. 

"A friend of my uncle's has given us two thousand hryvnya to get him to Constantinople. I've already bought the furs. All we must do now is-"

"Leif killed a man for you... and you're talking about furs?" (Y/N) remained rooted in his spot by the door, watching Harald pause his movements and look up at him. Harald swallowed, squeezing blood and water from the cloth before setting it on the table and standing up. 

"I understand you're upset-"

"Upset? I'm exhausted, Harald. I've been away from home for almost a year, I've been forced into two wars, and my brother isn't well. You... You are so..." (Y/N) pressed his quivering lips together, tearing his eyes away from Harald and shakily exhaling. The disappointment and sadness washed away, becoming muddled with anger and exhaustion. A small chuckle escaped him. "You and your brother are the same, Harald. All you desire is power. You've spent your whole life wanting a throne that was never yours."

Clenching his jaw, Harald spoke, "My great-grandfather was Harald Finehair. My family has sat on the throne for many years. Olaf promised the throne would pass to me and it has been given to a boy instead. The throne belongs to my family, (Y/N). It does not belong to the son of an oathbreaker."

"It belongs to your family, yes. But not you. You were born too late. You never had a claim to it." (Y/N)'s tone turned icy and filled with irritation, teeth grinding together as his eyes shot back to look Harald in the face. The prince stared at him, disbelief settling on his face. "The throne would've been yours long ago if you had a proper claim."

"Not true."

"You think all this has happened for no reason? Canute's betrayal? Olaf's betrayal? Why else would the Gods stop you from sitting the throne? You were never meant to be king, Harald!" (Y/N) snapped abruptly and Harald flinched slightly, lips parting. His eyes flickered between (Y/N), his hands growing clammy and his throat tightened. Harald shook his head repetitively, collecting his shirt and coats. His gaze remained downcast when he walked forward, arm brushing against (Y/N)'s as he walked past him. The door slammed loudly behind him, nearly rattling the walls. (Y/N) felt himself deflate, staggering forward toward his bed and collapsing onto it. Curling into himself, he stared at the fireplace, listening to the fire crackle and the thunder grow closer. Pain and guilt flooded his veins like a wave. But he couldn't deny the trickle of relief.