#like. its one thing to have the constant lingering 'IS he a murderer

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Devout

Guardian Angel alternative POV, or Jason Todd is the Arkham Knight, and he can't stop himself from watching you, from clawing his way into the cracks of your life in a twisted, mangled mirror of what he used to be ~3.5k words

CW: Jason commits a few murders, some gore, stalking, some religious imagery for fun

Jason Todd shouldn't be watching you. He knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't be perched on the shadowy rooftop across from your apartment building, staring intently into your windows.

He knows. He knows. But he's doing it anyway– been doing it for weeks.

You haven't noticed once, so wrapped up in your own life, your peace of mind that no one would break the sanctity of your own home that you don't even consider closing your blinds.

He thinks you should know better. Gotham is tainted– he is tainted– yet you never spare a glance over your shoulder when he follows you down the street, never linger on that sixth sense that screams that you're being watched.

You pick up on his presence on the rare occasion, he thinks. The days you walk home quicker or the nights you actually slam your blinds shut makes him wonder if you do know you're being watched. But then you go back to normal, brush off every sign and every lingering feeling that something isn't right.

It almost makes him angry, sometimes, that you'd be so careless with your safety. But everything makes him angry now. It's a constant, tight grasp in his chest, the righteous fury he has against the world, against the city and its filth, against Batman.

The anger makes him reckless, or maybe he's just cocky. Maybe he wants you to know he's there. Jason doesn't let himself wonder why he does it. He might just be a masochist. He might just miss you. But he opens the faulty window to your living room that he knows squeaks and never quite locks right.

The first time he breaks into– visits your apartment while you're asleep, he doesn't touch a thing. He just takes in everything that's you, cleanses his fractured soul in the space he used to know like the back of his hand. The trinkets that sit on your counters. The paintings on the wall. The color of the blankets thrown over your couch.

He doesn't touch anything the second time, either. Or the third. The fourth time, though, he picks over the photos you keep on your shelves, the books you leave lying around. He moves them, just slightly. Just to see if you'll notice.

You don't. Not really. Not until the eighth time. He doesn't know why he does this either. He just does. He picks up your keys from where you usually keep them and moves them. It's something you can't deny. Something tangible and real and clear, an unyielding truth. He was here. He exists, and he can affect your life, change it with his hands.

(It's the first time he feels like he's truly alive since the asylum, the first time there's more than just revenge and watching you from afar, even if he feels like he's corrupting something that's only meant to be seen and not touched by impure, broken hands)

If your keys being displaced affects you, well, you don't show it for more than a few moments. And that bothers him. You might not know he's here– alive– and maybe he's not ready for you to, but he's still a part of your life, isn't he?

So he gets bolder. He doesn't want to scare you, not really. But he can't help but dig his nails into the parts of your life he can change. It starts simple, innocent. You were annoyed when you left your kitchen, out of sugar, just another thing on top of everything else you have to deal with.

And he wanted to help. Like he used to. It was easy to get a bag of sugar, even easier to sneak into your kitchen. He leaves just enough for a few days, just enough to get you through the week, enough that you'll think you misremembered how much was left.

And he should have left it at that. But he's never been good at doing things halfway, especially when it comes to you. So he fixes your apartment up while you're at work. Makes sure your window doesn't squeak, your shower doesn't rattle, your oven actually heats up. All things he's heard you try to get your landlord to fix.

He makes a note to give your landlord a visit as he's looping the footage in your cameras over, effectively erasing any evidence of who he is.

Honestly, he's proud of you for finally doing something about him, it's just a shame he has the skills to outmatch your attempts to figure out his identity. Not that any pictures of him would do any good. He's still nameless in Gotham as the Arkham Knight, and if he's not wearing a mask while he's easily picking the new lock on your apartment window, his hood and ballcap do the job of hiding his face just as well.

He thinks he could let it go on like this forever, just doing things for you in the shadows, never revealing himself. At least until he's routinely following you home from work one night, and he sees you get tugged into a dark, lonely alley. He recognizes the man that hauls you off the faux safety of the streets, the one that's lifting a shaky hand and a gun to wave it, demanding your possessions.

Murphy is a nobody in Gotham, just another gambling addicted alcoholic that takes work from whatever rouge is paying the most that week. Jason more or less only recognizes him because he lives on the third floor of your apartment building, but it's clear you don't know who the man snatching your things is.

The Arkham Knight resigns himself to stealing your wallet and phone back after you've gotten home, to keep himself out of your sights for as long as he can. That was the plan.

But there's a flicker in Murphy's eyes, a consideration– a passing thought that Jason can't ignore, one he's seen a million times. Maybe it's the idea that he could get more from you, or maybe he's realizing you've seen his face and wants to get rid of any witnesses, whatever it is, Jason isn't going to let it happen.

The Arkham Knight doesn't hesitate to drop himself between you and the gun. He breaks Murphy's arm without even thinking about it, effectively disarming him as he kicks the gun away from him. The sound of his bones breaking is loud, but Jason doesn't register it as something to be sickened by until he turns and sees the nausea and horror written plainly on your face.

Honestly, maybe he should be more disgusted with himself. He's just sent a man into shock, revealed himself to you in a way that's not at all comforting. But he doesn't care. No one was going to save you. No one but him. He protected you, and it's not like Bruce Batman– it's not like broken bones are uncommon in Gotham.

You take a step back. He steps towards you, drawn to you. He can't help it. He shouldn't. But his head is spinning, and he hasn't been this close to you since before the asylum. You look tired, older, but no less beautiful than he remembers.

"Who are you? What do you want," You snap at him.

Jason wants to praise you for your bravery, as fake as it is. It's a good tactic, to try and get him talking. He doesn't understand why you look so uneasy of him, though. He got you out of a bad situation, even if he's wearing military-grade armor and a mask that glows in the darkness of the alley, shouldn't you feel grateful? Safe? Happy?

He tilts his head, trying to read you. Would you feel better if he offered to walk you home? "I saved you," he tries, the modulator making his voice sound flatter than he intends to. The Arkham Knight silently curses himself. He should just leave. Should have shot your attacker from the roof without you ever seeing him. He's being emotional now, irrational under your gaze.

"You've been following me. You're the one who's been in my apartment," you accuse, eyes darting like you're trying to find an escape in the dead end alley.

He stiffens. Huh. Clever thing. You've always been too smart for your own good. A part of him wants to deny it, pretend he's just some passing good doer in a mask, pretend that he's some kind of knight, an angel here to shield you from harm.

The notion almost makes him laugh, "Have I," he prompts instead with all the air nonchalance. He wonders if you'll drop it then, actually thank him for stepping in and helping you. You don't.

"Yes," You say instead, voice low like it's a secret– a confession, "You have."

Jason finds himself impressed at your stubbornness, if not a little unnerved by your recklessness in confronting the supposed stranger you believe is breaking into your home alone. He has to give you credit for piecing it together, but who else, if not a freak in body armor, would be letting themselves into your apartment without a word just to fix what's broken?

He nods, unsure of what to do. You weren't supposed to figure it out, but you have. And now there's consequences.

The Arkham Knight turns his back to you, making a show of gathering your phone and wallet before standing and facing you again. He walks closer to you, each step measured and calculated. He holds your belongings out to you, a twisted, mirrored version of some kind of sacred offering.

He studies you as you grab at them, trying to tug them from his unyielding grip. There's bags under your eyes. He can practically see your pulse jumping under your skin.

You're less than a foot away, and Jason basks in that distance, how light he feels now that you're only an arm's reach away. He could brush his knuckles over your cheek, dip his head to take in the scent of your hair, kiss the hollow of your throat the same way he used to.

He does none of those things. Because you don't see Jason Todd. You only see a threat, a monster, some kind of demon that clawed their way out of the shadows and cracks that litter Gothams hallowed corners.

He cocks his head, letting go of your wallet and phone while greedily drinking down the color of your eyes in the dim light of the alley, "And if I have?"

"I'll go to the police," You tell him, defensive, and he wants to laugh as you shove your wallet and phone back into your pocket.

"They can't help you," he grits out, and it's the truth. No one knows who he is yet, what his plans are. Even if you told someone, whatever description you give won't be enough to find him.

"They can contact Batman," you bite out, and that does earn you a laugh. You really think Bruce can do anything? That Batman has any chance of standing between him and you? Batman couldn't even find– couldn't even save–

"He can't help you either," The Arkham Knight tells you. He gives into his desire to touch you then, partly in anger that you still believe in Batman and partly because he just misses you. He pats your cheek, but doesn't let himself linger. "Get home," is all he says before he grapples into the night.

He follows you back to your apartment from the rooftops and notes how you avoid getting too close to any more alleys. But, it's not until you're safe in your bed that he goes looking for Murphy– that he goes to finish the job.

The creep's nursing his broken arm in his dingy apartment when The Arkham Knight gets to him. He doesn't make it quick, but it is quiet. (It's difficult to scream when you're choking on your own severed tongue, after all) He brings down fire and fury and vengeance for daring to lay a hand on you and leaves nothing behind but a corpse.

Murphy's brutal death is swept under the rug by the GCPD, which Jason shouldn't be surprised by. Just another mob death, the tiny obituary in the paper reports. You don't even register the death in your apartment building. He doesn't blame you for that. Not when he knows he's scaring you.

He's getting careless, sloppy. He wants you to catch glimpses of him now, he wants you to know he's watching. It's sick. He knows that, knows it so well that it claws in the back of his throat when he breaks into your apartment to fix your fan.

He's guilty about it, sometimes. It's a pressing weight on his shoulder even when he's trying to help. So, he redoubles his efforts.

He sneaks into your room and stuffs six hundred dollars into the emergency fund you keep under your bed. He sends you flowers, fills your gas tank, finally visits your landlord, and pays off your rent for the next six months. (He's already bought you a better, newer apartment, he just hasn't figured out how to tell you that)

He knows it's all wrong, but sometimes, he doesn't feel guilty at all. He wants to do things for you, that's not a lie. He wants to do everything and anything you could ever want or ask for.

He starts letting you catch flashes of him outside your window, moves your things around just out of the sheer curiosity of what you'll do. He can't justify that, because it does nothing to protect you. But he does it anyway. The Arkham Knight needs you to know he holds a spot in your life, even if it's not as Jason Todd anymore.

He's getting bolder, much too comfortable. There's times you almost walk into your apartment as he's leaving gifts on your counter, times when you wake up and walk into your kitchen just seconds after he forces himself out your window.

He's going to get caught if it keeps going on like this. But he can't bring himself to worry or care. His plans are coming together, and while he doesn't exactly know where you fit into them yet, he knows he doesn't trust anything or anyone enough to leave you to your own devices once he unleashes his legions upon Gotham and her failure of a saviour.

He never seems to do the right thing when it comes to you, at least not since he came back. But saving you– guarding you against the vile filth of the world– that can't be wrong. He'd do anything to keep you as you are, untouched by all the cruelties Gotham has to offer. It's an unwavering, righteous mission he has commanded unto himself.

It's why he reacts the way he does when three men break into your apartment.

He was late. He always seems to be late when you're involved. He had just finished overseeing the arrival of tanks and men into Miagani Tunnel, just dragged himself halfway across the city for the slightest chance to catch a glimpse of you in your apartment, when he catches sight of it.

Your window– open. You never keep it open. Dread washes down his spine, and when he gets close enough to see the man pointing a gun towards the floor– towards you– he just reacts.

He shuts down, becomes nothing but instinct, and he brings hell on to Earth in your name.

He's clinical. He doesn't hesitate to shoot the man aiming a gun to your head through his temple. If the man were alone, he would have shot the gun out of his hand, but there's two other targets, and he needs to eliminate any threats to your life first.

He climbs through your window with the ease of a man who's done it hundreds– thousands of times. You haven't moved to get up. It concerns him, but he's angry right now, so, so angry he doesn't even consider ending this quickly.

Everyone tries to take something from him. He keeps losing. If he didn't come to watch– see you tonight, he would have lost you too. The very thought makes his vision blur red, his ears ring.

It's not a fight, what happens next. It's a death penalty. The Arkham Knight is a weapon, and he proves it with each hit. He's efficient, brutal, and purposeful with each movement. He doesn't flinch at the blood that splatters on his armor, doesn't stop even when fluids and flesh start to stick to the knuckles of his gloves.

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, until the only hearts left beating in your desecrated apartment are his and yours.

Then, and only then, does the blood pounding through his veins start to cool. It's only then, does he turn to look at you. He expects to meet your terrified gaze, but you haven't moved, still laying on the floor. It makes his heart clench. What's wrong with him? He just– while you–

He shakes his head, slowly tugging his gloves off and stuffing them into his belt. He walks over to you, kneels carefully to your side, and watches you breathe. He matches the slow rhythm of your shoulders rising and falling, and then he helps you sit up.

You're responsive to that, at least. The Arkham Knight presses his hands to your face, waiting for something. He doesn't know what, just anything. Some kind of sign. A message of what he's supposed to do. How he can make this all better.

When you finally open your eyes, they're hazy, not quite reactive. It makes him angry all over again. You got hurt. He wasn't here.

"Saved me again," you murmur, and his throat tightens. He failed you. Yet here you are, spouting words that make it sound like he's done something good.

He runs his thumb over your cheek, savoring the feel of your skin, soothing himself and you as he reassures himself that you're still here– still alive. But you aren't safe.

It's all he can think about. He saved you, but how long until you're in danger again? What if he's not quick enough this time? What if he's not there? What if– what if– haunts him. It weighs heavier than the nightmares that plague him when he finally has to succumb to sleep.

He makes the decision then and there to take you away from here, away from the rot and the fester to some place where it can never touch you again.

He picks you up, cradles you to his chest like you're made of shattered, stained glass and tarnishing silver, but nonetheless precious. You're talking, and he's answering, but he hardly registers what either of you are saying. His mind is working over plans, where he's going to take you, the guards he'll need to recruit to watch over you when he can't, which ones he trusts the most.

Jason only tunes back in when you point out that he could hurt you. It's funny, in a way. After everything he used to be to you, after everything he's done for you, he could still hurt you. He tips his head down to really look at you, the cloudy, exhausted look on your face, the heaviness of your eyes as you struggle to keep watching him.

He can't find it in himself to lie, so, he tells you, maybe he could hurt you. He tells you that he wouldn't like it. (And it's the truth)

Maybe you recognize that, because you drop your head to his shoulder and let your eyes fall shut. The Arkham Knight never wavers in his steps, mapping the path to the apartment he'd purchased in your name in his head. It's not perfect, not filled with everything you deserve quite yet, but it'll do the job for now.

Something in him simultaneously softens and hardens when your breathing goes even and slow against him, and he curls his fingers tighter into your skin. You're weak. Weaker than him. Too naive and too soft for what's going to come.

There's no other fate for you than this now. He'll have to take care of you, protect you from it all, from all the evil that festers in Gotham, even if that includes him.

He lets the mission engrave itself into his heart– into the fabric of his very soul and right next to his revenge. You're going to be safe. He is going to keep you safe, and he'll throw himself into fire to see it done.

[lanalace]

Our Last Hunt - Part 2

Yandere Caleb x Reader

[Chapter - 1]

Summary: Y/n made a mistake that changed her life forever. Once a fearless hunter of blood-sucking fiends, she is now becoming the very thing she once swore to kill. How can she live with herself? And how will her immortal brother—the one who raised her, trained her, and protected her react when he discovers she’s turning into a creature of the night?

Warnings: Manipulation, Murder, Dubious Consent, NSFW, Psedo-incest, Smut, Dead Dove Do Not Eat 🔞

Word count: 8.5k 🍏🍎

Chapter 2

The first thing Y/n registered was the insidious thrumming, a foreign vibration that pulsed through her veins, a sickening reminder of stolen life. Her skin still prickled where Caleb had touched her, a phantom sensation that sent a fresh wave of self-loathing crashing over her. She blinked against the weak morning light, disoriented, her limbs heavy and strangely energized all at once.

Fragments of the nightmarish feeding tore through her mind, the shocking heat of Caleb’s blood, like liquid fire scorching its way down her throat; the raw, involuntary moan that had been wrenched from him as her fangs pierced his flesh. The memory was a brutal violation, twisting her gut with revulsion. She had crossed a line so deep it was unspeakable, staining their bond beyond forgiveness.

‘I used him. I came grinding on my brother like an animal. I forced myself on him. My own brother. I let that— that thing inside me defile him.’ The shame was a crushing weight, suffocating her with guilt. She had crossed a line so unforgivable, stained their bond in a way she could never erase. ‘How can I even look him in the eye after that? I’m a horrible sister…’ She covered her face with her hands, it felt as if her life was falling apart again within the span of 24 hours. 

‘Gege surely hates me. He probably thinks I’m some disgusting deviant after what I did. Ugh! How could I even do something like this?’ She whined, desperately wanting to disappear, have the bed swallow her whole so that she didn’t have to face him. Alas, that was impossible. ‘It’s all my fault for going out without gege. Now I’m this… monster. I hate it.’

In her distress, her tongue instinctively traced the subtle sharpness that still lingered where her fangs had extended. They were retracted now, thankfully, but the phantom ache was a constant, throbbing reminder of her new reality. And then there was the sound. A steady, rhythmic pulse, insistent and clear, emanating from the room next door. Caleb’s heartbeat. She could hear it through the wall, a horrifying intimacy, a constant testament to her irrevocably heightened senses.

The scent of freshly made rice and sweet aroma of braised chicken wings drifted under her door, a domestic normalcy that felt like a cruel mockery. ‘Caleb.’ He was up, moving, preparing food as if nothing monstrous had occurred between them. A fresh wave of shame, hot and searing, washed over her. ‘How am I going to face him? I don’t think I can…’

That thought was rendered useless because the moment it came, Caleb entered her room, carrying a breakfast tray with forced cheerfulness. He smiled, a gentle, nurturing expression that felt… calculated, his galaxy eyes holding a strange, unreadable depth.

“Morning, sleepyhead. I made your favorite.”

The sight of the familiar breakfast felt repulsive, despite the heavenly sight. It was now tainted by the memory of the night. ‘I don’t deserve his care.’ she lamented as she kept her head down, her hair falling in a way that exposed her neck to him. 

Caleb’s gaze lingered on the bandage he’d placed on her neck after she’d passed out, his fingers brushing her skin with a possessive tenderness as he set the tray on her bedside table.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was soft, laced with concern. His hand felt warm  on her chilled skin felt so good, she almost leaned into it. Almost. But she remembered her place and stayed still, allowing him to assess her wound. The brunette’s touch lingered a fraction too long, a subtle affectionate caress that made her skin crawl.

Y/n mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around herself, as if to physically shield herself from him. “Tired. And… sick.”

He chuckled softly. “Of course, you are. Last night was… intense.” He paused, his gaze sharpening, as he replayed the events of the previous night.

 “You were so close to losing control, Y/n. You’d have killed someone if I wasn’t here to… guide you. We’ve got to get a handle on things. You're going to need me now, more than ever.” The words were gentle, almost soothing, but the underlying message was a chilling assertion of his control.

“We?” She said, trembling. “You want to help me even after what I did?” Her whole body began to quake as tears fell from her eyes. Caleb’s brows furrowed as the familiar scent of salt cut through the air. ‘She’s crying?’ 

Without warning, he gripped her chin firmly, forcing her to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed her damp cheek, her beautiful crystalline eyes were glistening. “Meimei.” His voice was unusually tight. “What’s wrong?” He questioned her. ‘What could possibly be troubling you, little one?’

Y/n’s face scrunched up before a pathetic sob left her lips. “Why are you being so nice to me?” She cried, her voice raw with self-loathing. Before he could respond, she rushed out, “After what I did last night…  I’m sorry gege. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to touch you like that. I swear!”

Something inside Caleb snapped.

He hauled her small frame against his chest, wrapping his arms around her trembling body and holding her so tightly it was as if he could fuse them together. “You silly girl,” he murmured against her hair, rocking her gently. “I could never be mad at you. It’s not your fault. It’s just your biology now.”

His voice softened to a conspiratorial whisper. “What kind of brother would I be if I turned away from you in your time of need?”

He slid onto the bed properly, leaning back against the headboard, pulling her closer, cradling her on his lap like something precious. Something that now belonged entirely to him. ‘My sweet, naive meimei, of course you would blame yourself. Did you forget how much I enjoyed you that night?’ he thought bitterly. How easily she twisted the night into something shameful when, for him, it had been a revelation.

‘Only you would be more concerned about potentially upsetting me rather than the fact that you are now undead.’ He closed his eyes and rested his chin on top of her head. 

“But I—I forced…”

“Ssshhh meimei.” He hushed her firmly, one hand stroking her hair, the other pressing her tighter against him. “Gege isn’t upset with you. You were hungry, that’s all.” 

He tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. He wanted to touch her like he did last night, he hoped for it— wished to feel her needy body come alive for him again. Alas, with her current state, he will have to take things at a much slower pace than he anticipated. ‘At least she isn’t fighting my touch right now. This is enough.’

“For now,” he murmured into her hair quietly.

“But—”

”That’s enough, meimei.”  Caleb said sharply, his tone brooking no argument. Y/n stiffened instinctively, understanding the warning. She knew better than to respond when he was like this. His voice softened a fraction. “I will never abandon you. Never.” He knew her well, knew that was really what she feared.

“No more crying, yeah?” he teased gently, wiping her damp cheeks with his thumb. “What kind of vampire cries?”

A broken laugh escaped her lips, small but real and Caleb’s heart swelled. He kissed the top of her head, a possessive gesture.

‘Soon,’ he promised himself. ‘Soon, you’ll realize I am the center of your world just as you are in mine.’

🍏🍎

A few weeks had passed since the turning. A semblance of routine had settled over Y/n's life, though it felt fragile, like a thin layer of ice over a deep, dark lake. Caleb was a constant presence, a concerned shadow hovering just at the edge of her personal space. He found endless excuses for casual touches – a hand on her shoulder as he passed, a lingering brush against her arm when he handed her a book. Small gestures, carefully calibrated not to spook her, but Y/n felt them nonetheless, each contact a subtle reminder of the intimacy they had shared and the chasm it had created within her.

To her relief, she could still enjoy human food. A warm bowl of ramen, the sweet tang of fruit – they provided a small measure of comfort, a taste of her former life— of normalcy. But it was just that: a taste. A snack. The gnawing emptiness, the true hunger, only blood could satisfy. And on that front, Y/n remained firm. She refused to drink directly from Caleb ever again, the memory of that night still a raw open wound. 

Instead, he reluctantly poured his blood into a porcelain cup for her, a ritual he performed with a sigh, his eyes lingering on her lips with a frustrated longing. He was becoming more agitated as the days rolled by, though he hid it well. He treasured the forced intimacy of their feeding, a connection Y/n desperately tried to avoid. But his need to keep her alive, his possessive desire to be her sole provider, ultimately outweighed his displeasure. Still, it never stopped him from offering himself to her every so often.

One evening, the familiar hunger gnawed at Y/n. Caleb approached, his eyes holding a familiar, possessive warmth. He offered his wrist, a silent invitation.

Y/n recoiled slightly, shaking her head. “No, gege.” Her voice was firm, despite the tremor in her hands.

Caleb’s brow furrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “But, little one, the direct way is the best for young vampires.”

“Please,” She interrupted, her gaze fixed on her hands. “Just… just put it in a cup for me.” ‘I can’t do that again. I can’t bring myself to… to bite him like that. It felt so wrong.’

Caleb sighed, a long, drawn-out sound filled with frustration. “You know I don’t like that, meimei...” He hated it, in fact. It lacked the intimacy he was craving. ‘She’s pushing me away. Doesn’t she understand what we shared?’

“I know,” Y/n mumbled, still avoiding his gaze. “But… I can’t help it. Please, Caleb.” She pleaded with him. Y/n wished to keep her relationship with him as siblings. She couldn’t bear to damage it any further. ‘I feel so ashamed. Every time I look at his neck… I just remember…’ Though his neck had healed up immediately, the memories still linger.

He relented, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Fine.” He turned away, a hint of wounded pride in his posture. He returned moments later with a small, ornate ceramic cup filled with his blood. 

“Here.” He offered it to her, his eyes searching hers. ‘She’s making this so difficult. Doesn’t she realize this is for us?’

Y/n took the cup grateful, her fingers brushing his. Even that small contact sent a jolt of unwanted awareness through her. She drank slowly, the coppery liquid satisfying the immediate craving but leaving a hollow ache in its wake. It wasn't the same as drinking directly from him. It lacked… ‘It’s enough. It has to be enough. I won’t let myself… need him like that.’

Days turned into weeks under Caleb’s watchful eye. He had long reported Y/n’s death to the guild, a necessary lie to protect their secret. But the past had a way of resurfacing.

One afternoon, as Y/n read, a sharp knock echoed. Caleb’s usual calm shattered. The door burst open, revealing Dalton.

“Caleb, I heard about Y/n. So sorry for your loss, brother.” Dalton began, his gaze sweeping over the living room before landing squarely on Y/n, who froze, the book clattering to the floor. His eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed with suspicion. “Y/n? But… Caleb said…”

Y/n shot up from where she sat. Her mouth opened to explain, to lie, she wasn’t sure. But her panic was evident. However, she never got the chance.

Caleb moved faster than she could see. One second Dalton was standing. The next, he was writhing on the floor, a terrible gurgling noise escaping his ruined throat. Caleb straddled him, hands blood-soaked, face twisted in something that wasn’t human. It wasn't the controlled precision she knew from their hunts. This was raw, untamed savagery. He kicked the door closed, his hand shot out, fingers like steel claws, and clamped around Dalton’s throat. Dalton gasped, his eyes bulging in terror as Caleb lifted him off the ground. A sickening crunch echoed as Caleb twisted his neck with brutal force. Dalton’s body went limp, his eyes staring blankly.

Y/n screamed, the strangled cry escaping her lips. She had seen Caleb kill before, but never like this. The sheer speed, the unrestrained violence… it was terrifying. ‘Oh my god. What did he just do? Dalton… he just…’

She backed away, hands flying to her mouth, heart hammering out of control. Caleb had ripped the life from Dalton with brutal, casual precision as if breaking a rabbit’s neck. Like it meant nothing to him.

It was horrifying.

They had hunted together for years. She had seen Caleb kill—but never like this. Never so… savagely.

Caleb turned to her, his chest heaving a heavy sigh, his eyes blazing with a primal protectiveness that bordered on madness. “It had to be done, little one. He couldn’t know. He would have told others. I had to protect you.” He dragged Dalton’s lifeless body towards her, his grip surprisingly gentle now. “Now, you need to feed. Practice control.”

Y/n stared, paralyzed with horror. She had hunted alongside Dalton over the years. He was a good man, a dedicated hunter. Her gut twisted. She remembered Dalton’s stupid jokes around the campfire. His family photos. His rough, easy laughter. But now he is just gone. And Caleb was the one that ended him. So brutally. Caleb let his control slip entirely, his features contorted in a primal rage. He couldn’t allow Dalton to reveal her secret, to threaten their carefully constructed isolation. He had to protect her.

Dragging Dalton’s lifeless body towards Y/n as if it weighed nothing at all, Caleb’s eyes, still blazing with a feral intensity, softened slightly as he looked at her. “He can’t tell anyone now, meimei. It’s for your own good.” Caleb approached slowly, crouching beside the body, his voice low and coaxing. “You need to practice, little one. To learn to control it. It’s better if it’s someone you know. Easier.” 

He positioned the body before her. The scent of freshly spilled blood was thick and cloying, triggering an instinctive hunger. He gently took her hand, guiding it towards the still-warm flesh of Dalton’s neck. The scent of Dalton’s blood, freshly spilled, hit Y/n’s heightened senses. It was sharp, metallic, and undeniably enticing in a primal way. Her fangs descended instinctively, a horrifyingly natural reaction. Yet, revulsion warred with the burgeoning hunger. She knew this man. He had a wife, two young children. She couldn’t do this. Looking at Dalton’s still face, the vacant eyes… “How can you say that?” 

‘I knew him. We hunted together— laughed at his terrible dad jokes around the fire. He had a family waiting for him to come home.’

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head vehemently. “I can’t. I won’t.”

Caleb’s expression hardened. “You have to, Y/n. It’s the only way to learn.” He coaxed her, his hand on her back, gently urging her forward. “Just a little. For practice. If you won't drink from me, you won’t know how to properly restrain yourself.”

“That will lead to deadly mistakes. It will land you on the guilds radar. You need to learn.” 

‘She needs to understand her new nature. And she needs to rely on me.’

Tears streamed down Y/n’s face as she reluctantly leaned down. “I’m sorry Dalton. I’m so sorry...” She whispered before sinking her teeth into someone she once considered a comrade. The blood smells sweet, but the moment it hit her tongue, it tasted wrong. It tasted metallic and bitter, almost rotten compared to the rich sweetness of Calebs.

She covered her mouth with the palm of her hand and tried to swallow, her stomach churning. ‘It’s not the same. It’s… disgusting.’ She gagged, her body rejecting it. Bile rose in her throat, and she vomited, expelling the tainted blood and even the small amount of Caleb’s blood she had drunk earlier. It was barely palatable, a grotesque imitation of what truly satisfied her. Caleb watched from behind her with a strange mixture of concern and something akin to triumph in his eyes. Even after everything was out of her system, she still retched a few more times before collapsing, her body wracked with shudders. 

Caleb was there instantly, gathering her into his arms, his embrace tight and possessive. Though the state she was in tugged at his heart, hating to see the one he converted in sure dire need of care. He allowed a small smile to grace his lips with satisfaction. ‘It was a hard lesson to learn but a necessary one. You won’t deny me anymore, will you meimei?’ He pulled her closer, nuzzling the top of her affectionately as he walked down the hall. 

Caleb carried her into his bedroom with slow, deliberate steps, as if the simple act of holding her was something sacred. The heavy curtains sealed the world outside, leaving only the two of them cocooned in twilight. Y/n trembled in his arms, her body weightless, her mind fraying at the edges from hunger and horror.

He set her down on the bed, lingering over her longer than necessary, his hand cradling her cheek. His thumb brushed the hollow beneath her eye, tracing the fragile skin there.

“You’re too weak,” Caleb murmured, his voice low and thick with something more than concern. “No cup this time. You need it fresh. Direct.”

Her heart twisted violently at his words. She shook her head weakly, trying to push herself back, but he caught her wrists in one hand, pinning them gently against the bed. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting hot against her ear.

“No more running, little one,” he whispered. “You need this. You need me.”

She tried to turn away, tried to close herself off—but Caleb was relentless. His body pressed flush against hers, a heavy, possessive weight, his thigh slipping between her legs, anchoring her. His free hand slid up the side of her neck, tilting her face back to expose her mouth, her fangs, her desperation.

“Let me take care of you,” he breathed.

Without giving her time to protest, he bent his head, baring his throat to her. The strong column of his neck pulsed just inches from her lips, the scent of his blood saturating the air between them—rich, dark, utterly intoxicating.

Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the pull. But hunger gnawed through her self-control, stripping away every barrier she had left. Her fangs ached. Her breathing quickened. Her entire body strained toward him before she even realized she was moving.

Caleb’s hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her skull, and with a low, commanding growl, he pulled her mouth against his neck.

“Now, meimei,” he ordered, voice trembling with restraint. “Drink.”

Her fangs sank into his flesh with a soft, wet sound. Caleb’s entire body jerked, a harsh, guttural sound tearing from his throat. His hand tightened in her hair, the other sliding down her spine, fingers splaying against the small of her back, pressing her even closer. His blood flooded her mouth—hot, thick, perfect.

Y/n moaned against his skin, the sound raw and broken. Shame and desire twisted inside her, a vicious tangle she couldn’t unravel. Every swallow sent heat blooming through her veins, spreading outward until even her fingertips tingled. Caleb’s blood didn’t just feed her—it claimed her, seeping into every crack and hollow space inside her soul.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice rough, wrecked. He shifted his hips, grinding her deeper into the mattress, keeping her caged between his body and the bed. “Drink, little one. Take everything you need.”

His free hand roamed her body in slow, possessive sweeps—tracing the line of her waist, skimming the curve of her thigh, sliding up her back to bury in her hair again. Every touch was a brand, a silent promise: You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.

Y/n clung to him, lost in the heat and closeness and the dizzying pleasure of his blood on her tongue. Caleb tilted his head back further, baring more of his throat to her, surrendering completely. His breathing was ragged, his muscles taut as if he were barely restraining himself from doing more—taking her, binding her even tighter to him.

When she finally wrenched herself away, gasping for air, her lips were stained crimson, her hands fisted tightly in his shirt. Caleb cupped her face, his eyes dark and feverish with a hunger that wasn’t just physical.

“There’s my good girl.” he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. “You see? No one else can satisfy you. Only me.”

He kissed her temple, then the corner of her mouth, slow and reverent, tasting his own blood on her skin. His body still pressed hers into the bed, his hold firm, inescapable.

Y/n shivered beneath him, overwhelmed by the bond coiling tighter between them. There would be no escaping him now. No pretending she could survive without him.

And deep down, a part of her— the part that still remembered the terrible, aching loneliness of her new existence and didn’t want to.

🍏🍎

Caleb carried her into the bedroom with slow, deliberate steps, each movement imbued with a strange reverence, as if the simple act of holding her broken form was a sacred rite. The heavy curtains sealed away the outside world, plunging them into a suffocating twilight that mirrored the darkness engulfing Y/n’s mind. She trembled in his arms, her body achingly light, her thoughts fragmented by the gnawing hunger and the lingering horror of Dalton’s death. Yet, a heavy silence clung to her, a refusal to voice the terror that coiled in her gut.

He sank onto the bed with her still cradled against his chest, the mattress giving way beneath their combined weight. He shifted, trapping her between his body and the plush mattress beneath her. His hand, surprisingly gentle, slid down the side of her neck, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse with a slow, possessive intent that sent a shiver of dread through her weakened body. Her pale face seemed to shrink within his grasp, almost lifeless.

“You’re so weak, little one.” Caleb murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against her ear, thick with a possessive undertone that belied his concern.

“No cup this time,” he breathed against her temple, his voice deepening, roughening with a raw urgency. “You can barely move. You need it fresh. Direct.”

Her heart lurched violently against her ribs, completely unwilling even in this dire state. She shook her head weakly, a pathetic denial. Putting her hands against his broad chest, she tried to push herself away, but his grip tightened, one hand snaking around her wrists, pinning them gently but firmly against the soft fabric of the bed. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting hot and possessive against her ear, stealing the air from her lungs.

“No more running, little one,” he whispered, his voice a silken command. “You need this. You need me.” 

The words were a chilling echo of her own desperate thoughts, twisting her dependence into something sinister. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t need him this way, that she could drink from a cup but her throat was so dry, it felt as if someone rubbed it raw with sandpaper. She couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped her lips as his words, it was all she could muster. 

She tried to turn her face away, to burrow into the pillow, to create some semblance of distance, but Caleb was relentless. His body pressed flush against hers, a heavy, suffocating weight that stole her breath, his thigh slipping between her legs, a subtle invasion that anchored her to him. His free hand slid up the side of her neck, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of her jaw, tilting her face back to expose the vulnerable line of her throat, her parted lips, the faint, tell-tale lengthening of her fangs, her raw, undeniable desperation.

“Let me take care of you.” he breathed, his voice a low caress that felt like a brand.

Y/n squirmed weakly beneath him like a trapped animal. She was fighting against the inevitable, she knew, trying to turn her head away from the suffocating nearness of him but Caleb’s fingers tightened on her chin, forcing her to meet his determined gaze. The violet galaxy depths of his eyes held an intense hunger that mirrored her own desperate need.  The strength in his touch was undeniable, not overtly cruel, just a reminder of his control. He wasn’t asking; he was claiming.

“Don’t fight me, little one.” he said, a low growl vibrating in his chest, a primal sound that sent a shiver of fear and a reluctant stirring of something else through her weakened form. “You know, you can’t.”

Without giving her fragile mind a chance to resist him further, he made a shallow, deliberate cut on the side of his neck, the bead of crimson welling instantly, a stark invitation. He bent his head, baring his throat to her, the strong column of his neck pulsing just inches from her parted lips, the intoxicating scent of his blood saturating the air between them, filling the dark room with an irresistible lure. She shudders violently, desperately wanting to taste him again.

Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, a silent scream trapped in her throat, fighting the primal pull that threatened to consume her. 'I can't... I'll lose control again. But... I'm so weak. And he... he smells so good!’ Her body trembled, a traitorous warmth spreading through her limbs. Her mouth opened, lip trembling as her fangs ached with need, her breathing quickened in shallow, ragged gasps. Her entire body strained toward him, an instinctual surrender that bypassed her conscious thought, shame a distant whisper against the roaring hunger.

Caleb’s hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her skull with firm tenderness, and with a low, commanding growl that resonated deep within her bones, he pulled her mouth against his offered neck.

“Now, meimei.” he ordered, his voice trembling with barely contained annoyance at her continued refusal. “Drink.”

A broken whimper escaped her lips, tears scalding the corners of her eyes as she obeyed, her body moving with a desperate will of its own. Her fangs sank into his flesh with a soft, wet sound that echoed in the suffocating silence of the room. 

Caleb’s entire body jerked, a harsh, guttural sound tearing from his throat, a mixture of satisfaction and something else, something akin to pleasure. His hand tightened in her hair, anchoring her, the other sliding down her spine, fingers splaying against the small of her back, pressing her even closer, molding her body to his. His blood flooded her mouth—hot, thick, perfect, a stark contrast to the vile taste of Dalton’s.

“Ah~ That’s it.” He groaned, his voice rough, wrecked, a tremor running through his body as he restrains himself from taking her this second. He shifted over her, seating himself fully between her thighs, his cock grinding up against the insistent heat of her core through the thin layers of her clothes, a blatant invasion that made her gasp. 

“Drink, little one. Take everything you need.” His other hand tightened on her captured wrists, keeping them pinned above her head in his large grip.

The heat of him, the weight of him pressing down on her, the suffocating closeness, the intoxicating scent of his blood was a sensory overload to her depleted body.  A blurring of pain and pleasure, of fear and a desperate, unwanted desire consumed her.

Y/n gasped, the hunger clawing at her insides now a maddening beast. It wasn’t just thirst, no. It was physical desire and it was tearing through the last fragile threads of her resistance. She was doing so good by ignoring the way Caleb was touching her.

‘Please… no. Not now.’ Her own body was betraying her, a traitorous warmth spreading through her limbs. A shameful wetness pooling in her panties as she moaned prettily under him as he continued to roll his hips against her. She was about to cum and by the way he picked up the pace, he knew she was too.

Y/n stiffened, her body pressed tightly against him as her hips jerked repeatedly, using him to ride out her orgasm. ‘So good. So good!’ She couldn’t speak, only drink and with each pull from his neck, she sealed her fate. Y/n was no longer of sound mind. Now, a very persistent euphoric fog clouded her mind, stealing her will to do anything but respond to her body’s needs.

Caleb smirked. He felt it, felt her final, silent surrender. A low, triumphant growl rumbled deep in his chest and released her from his hold when her body went limp. ‘This is how it was always meant to be. She needs me like this.’ He had her right where he wanted, happily feeding, wet, needy and so pliant for him. He bent his head further, exposing the strong column of his neck, offering her lips more of him. The scent of him intensified, rich, metallic, utterly addictive. A siren’s call she never had the strength to ignore.

When she finally pulled her mouth away, fully satiated, her lips slick with his blood. Her hands fisted tightly in his shirt, clinging to him as if he were the only anchor in a terrifying storm. Her eyes were blown, unfocused, a blood-drunk haze clouding her vision. Caleb cupped her face with blood-smeared fingers, his eyes dark and feverish with a hunger that went far beyond feeding.

“There’s my good girl.” he whispered, his voice thick with affection, pressing his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. “You see? No one else can satisfy you. Only me.” She didn’t respond. He knew she would.

“Tell me what you need, meimei.” he breathed against her ear, his teeth lightly grazing her lobe, dragging a low, involuntary whimper from her throat. He chuckled, bucking his hips against hers, earning him a louder, sweeter moan from her and she raised her hips to meet his. “Need more? Gege will make you feel so good.”

A weak mewl caught in her throat as Caleb pulled her in for a kiss. It was he twisted his hips against hers, the grinding pressure a blatant violation that sent a jolt of unwanted sensation through her weakened body, pulling a desperate, broken sound from her lips. Her gums itched as she nibbled her lip, instinct had long overridden fear, shame— everything. 

“Still thirsty?” he asked, his voice tight with anticipation that sent a shivers down Y/n’s spine. She wasn’t, in fact she was full, her hunger for blood gone. She wanted something else, craved something more and he could feel it.

“I taste that good, huh?” He chuckled.

“Gege, I… need more.” She begged.

He guided her mouth back to his bleeding neck, his hand tangling in her hair, holding her in place, a controlling caress. Y/n didn’t hesitate to take from him again as she bit down again.

The reaction was immediate, violent. Caleb’s entire body shuddered, a raw, broken groan tearing from him, a sound that spoke of both exquisite pain and a twisted pleasure. His grip on her captured wrists tightened briefly before he released them, his hands flying instead to her hips, squeezing hard, dragging her hips up into his, a blatant demand.

He rocked against her hard as she drank. Quick, hard claiming thrusts made his breathing ragged with each movement. He was going to cum.

“Ah~ just like that.” he gasped when she licked his neck, refusing to let the trailing crimson go to waste. His mouth found the sensitive line underneath her jaw, pressing desperate, open-mouthed kisses against her blood-tinged skin.

“So greedy, little one.” He chuckled, a low, possessive sound, the tension pulled taunt in his body. 

His hand slid under her shirt, splaying across her bare lower back, dragging her even closer, skin to heated skin, blood mingling with blood. His fingers dug into her flesh, not hard enough to inflict pain, but enough to leave her trembling, aching for a connection she both craved and loathed. 

With one final thrust, he came with a long, torturous groan.

“Good girl,” he rasped, his thumb wiping a smear of his blood from her cheek, a possessive caress. “My good girl.” He kissed her then—messy, desperate, a brutal mingling of blood and breath and a terrifyingly possessive hunger.

“But I’m far from done with you.” 

Caleb barely gave her a chance to breathe before his lips were claiming hers again. Rough and unrelenting, the metallic tang of his blood stained both their mouths. He kissed her like a starved man and when he finally pulled back, a strand of saliva and blood connected them. 

Without a word, he dragged her shirt up over her head, baring her to him. Her tits bounces from the suddenness and her pert nipples quickly became erect from the slight chill of the room. He took in a breath at this sight.

“Beautiful.” 

He cupped the succulent mounds of fat in his hands, palms flattening over every inch of newly exposed skin before squeezing them, committing her to memory, claiming her body by touch alone.

He lowered his head, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of her throat, pausing to lave his tongue over the bite mark, tasting the bits of dried blood that lingered on it. As his mouth focuses on her neck, his fingers circled and flicked her nipples, pulling and twisting just the right way to have her trembling with need for him.

Y/n whimpered beneath him, her fingers clutching helplessly at his shoulders. Every touch, every sweep of his tongue over the wound sent jolts of electric pleasure straight to her core.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Caleb whispered against her skin. “The bond pulling tighter? You’re meant to be mine, little one. Meant to need me.”

He nuzzled against the bite, pressing his lips reverently to the broken skin, then bit down just enough to reopen it — not to feed, but to taste. His tongue darted out, catching a bead of her blood mixed with his own, and he growled low in his throat, shuddering with barely restrained need.

“No one else.” he said hoarsely. “If you ever drink from another… I’ll feel it. I’ll know.”

His hand slipped between her tights and her underwear, cupping her sapping wet cunt firmly through the thin barrier of her panties and groaned. ‘So fucking wet for me.’

“I’ll feel it.” he rasped, pressing his fingers against her clit, circling it gently, dragging a desperate moan from her lips. “Your body…your blood… everything belongs to me now.”

Caleb slid her panties to the side, wetting his fingers with her slick before plunging two long, thick digits within her. Y/n gasped and let out one of the prettiest, airy sounds he had even heard. It went straight to his dick, twitching and hardening in an instant. Coupled with how incredibly tight her leaking hole is, he would surely be unable to hold back the moment he was fully inside of her.

“Like that?” His voice held a smile as he began to fuck his fingers into her. She cried out, taking everything he was giving her with broken moans as he stroked her, scissoring and stretching her unused pussy. Caleb’s fingers found the small patch of flesh that felt different from the rest of her, changing the angle, he targeted it, focusing on pulling another orgasm from her. 

Y/n squealed, gripping his shirt and looking at him with confusion and pure ecstasy swirling in her eyes. 

“That good, huh?” Caleb grinned wickedly, feeling her tighten and squirt a little as he doubled down on his efforts. His fingers moved at an inhuman pace and thankfully she was dripping for him, allowing for him free reign to do so.

“I can feel you clenching around my fingers so much, little one. You wanna cum for me? Cum for gege?” He teases, speeding up, bullying that soft spot in her. In an instant, she came, squirting and convulsing. Her silent scream didn’t go unnoticed by him as he stared at her pretty little face with a shit eating grin and he removed hand from between her legs. He was so impressed he was able to make her squirt. He licked his dripping fingers, sucking them clean as if he couldn’t enough, making the most lewd sounds she had ever heard. ‘Does she even know how good he tastes?’ He thought as he licked the corner of his mouth, swallowing the last bit of her.

“That’s two, meimei. Think you can go again?” 

He didn’t need to wait for a verbal response as he saw her surrender in the way her body shuddered. The subtle loosening of the tension in her muscles, the soft whimper she couldn’t choke back as he watched with her with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

He felt it, just as surely as he tasted her blood on his tongue.

And it broke the last fragile tether of his control.

A guttural growl rumbled from deep in his chest as he pushed her back, forcing her down onto the bed. His body loomed over hers, caging her in, his hands spreading her thighs wide without asking, without hesitation. He was granted the mouth watering sight of her slick covered coral pink folds.

“Fuck, look how pretty she is. Were you expecting this?” His voice breathy as he admires the clean shaven, slick glistening rose petals. Truthfully, he knew she didn’t but he could not help teasing her. He lowered his face between her plush thighs.

Caleb tongue, ever so gentle, licked the strip of her drooling slit. His eyes nearly rolled back from the sweetness as he moaned in delight, savoring her taste on his tongue. Y/n soft gasp arching her back away from his hot tongue. 

Caleb narrowed his gaze and in a split second, “Don’t even think about it.” his hands wrapped around the fat of her thighs dragging her back to his waiting mouth. His lip latched onto her tiny bud, circling it and sucking hard as the slick intensified. Y/n’s back arced off of the mattress, her body trembling within his hold as he pinned her hip to the bed. 

“Be fair, meimei. I’m thirsty too.” He voiced muffled as he tried to drown himself in her leaking cunt. She didn’t protest when he did, doing her best to stay still while he continued his ministrations. Y/n’s hands shot out to tangle in his locks, pulling his face close.

Caleb was in heaven. He always knew she would taste good but this far surpassed his imagination. He released her reddened bud, swiping his tongue from her opening to back to her clit, once, twice, before teasing her little clit with the tip. He moaned, the sound reverberating through her core making whimper with need. He kept teasing her like that, enjoying the way her body writhed of his tongue, her little flinches before she rolls her hips forward, offering more of her dripping cunt for him to feat on.

“Gege… pl-please…!” She tried moving her hips, her body racked with need. But Caleb held her down so effectively that she couldn’t move her hips an inch. 

He paid her no mind, taking his time devouring her at his own pace. He could tell she was close by her incessant mewlings and by the way her legs were trembling in his hold. He lapped at her opening, collecting her pooling essence on his tongue and drinking her in. ‘Fuck… she taste so good.’ Caleb mentally cursed, before burying his face into her folded. 

He had a prominent, raging hard on, wanting to replace his cock with his tongue. However, he retained himself, he was a patient creature, he would finish his delicious meal before indulging further.  His tongue digging into her core, lapping at her velvety walls as he curled his pink muscle, earning him a high pitched squeal from her while he shoveled her juices into his hungry mouth. 

Y/n came violently on Caleb’s tongue, back arched and legs quaking, shaking the bed beneath them. Her finger pulled roughly at her brother’s silky hair. He grunted from the light pain but his tongue didn’t stop his assault as he fucked her tight hole with it through her orgasm. He kept at it, ruining her until she laid there, panting and flushed all over. 

He pulled back to get a good look at her, her chest rising and falling as she huffed in exhaustion. He couldn’t keep the smirk off his face as pride filled him. Licking his lips clean, savoring the remnants of her release before wiping the rest of his slick shined face with the back of his hand. He was tempted to keep going, to eat her sweet little pussy 2 or 3 more times just for his own pleasure. 

“You taste absolutely divine. I can’t tell whether I like your cunt or your blood more.” He muse, his eyes gleaming with amusement.  Y/n said nothing, she didn’t even hear him, her ears were ringing from the rush of her orgasm. All she could do is suck in air and gaze up at him with half open eyes.

Caleb chuckled to himself, realizing she was far gone. He stepped off the bed, ridding himself of his clothes in the span of a second before returning between her legs, eager to finally become one with the woman he desired. He covered her body with his own, his face mere inches from her as he leaned in for a soft kiss.

“I am going to take you now.” He stated plainly.

”Take me?” Dazed out of her mind from the aftermath of cumming and still high from his blood. 

“Yes, little one. I am going to fuck you into the mattress until you re full of me. And then, I’ll do it all over again. I’m not going to stop until my name is the only thing you can remember.” He smiled deviously. Normally, he would never be this crass but he knew she couldn’t fully comprehend anything he said so he spoke his mind.

He wasted no more time, nuzzling her neck affectionately, leaving open mouth kisses trailing down her neck as he gathered both her wrists into one of his much larger hands, securing it while using the other to stroke his impressive length. Caleb’s member sat heavily in his hand at 9.8 inches one and as thick as her wrist. ‘Thank goodness you are already turned, if not, this would hurt you immensely and I’d have to stop here.’

The warm blooded hybrid glided his stiff cock along her over sensitive folds. A shiver him, releasing a breathy sight at the feel of her warm, wet petals soaking the underside of his cock. He bit his lower lip, stifling the next sounds he continued to move along the lips a few more times. Deeming his length wet enough, he pulled his hips back, lining up the mushroom head with her entrance, he grasped Y/n’s jaw, forcing it open.

“Drink from me, Y/n. Pleasure yourself as I take from you.” He says as his hand slips to the back of her neck and forces her teeth into his neck, one again. They both groan in unison, Caleb throwing his head back before sinking both his fangs and his dick in one foul swoop, moaning loudly around the column of her throat.

This snapped Y/n out her lust filled haze momentarily. She squealed and whimpered, tears falling around from the corner of her eyes. She tried to dislodge herself from his neck, feeling the brain fog coming back the more his blood seeped into her mouth. To no avail as Caleb’s hand held her firmly, pressing her face harder the more she tried to struggle.

Y/n glance over to him, panic evident in her eyes. He felt her stare but ignored it, liking and sucking along the skin in his mouth with fervor. He pulled back slightly before slamming into her again, hitting her cervix hard. He couldn't stop himself from grunting and whimpering near her in pure bliss from her tight snatch constricting around him so hard. 

Caleb released her from his neck and withdrew from her as well, sitting back on his knee’s. His pupils were dilated, black almost completely consuming his violet irises and he sat back to look down at her with a love sick smile gracing his features. 

“You’re so tight— so hot— Ah~!” He moaned pathetically when her cunt spasmed, trying every which way to adjust to his length. He looked down, gaze focused on the place where his dick is plunging in and out her pussy. The site of a pink tinged ring forming at the base of his cock made him dizzy with excitement.

“Gege… we can’t! Wake up!” She seethed through clenched teeth, she was in great discomfort but also great pleasure. Y/n tried her best to fight off the effects of his blood, but she was losing fast. She couldn’t even force herself to struggle with the way her body began to relax for him.

“Still want to fight, little one?” He chuckled, caressing her warm cheek. 

“That’s ok. Gege is just gonna have to fucked the resistance out of you.” He grinned as if he just won a first place prize. 

With that, he used his free hand to grip her waist and began to fuck her, setting a brutal pace. Y/n’s back arched, mouth agape’s and unable to vocalize her feelings at her brother rammed into her repeatedly, stealing her breath away.

It didn’t even take a full minute for the pleasure to envelope her completely. Caleb smirked down at her when she attempted to match his pace, raising her hips to meet his every thrust.

Loud slaps filled the room as skin met skin, his hips meeting hers in a rhythemantic symphony. It felt unbelievable intoxicating, having her so willing to fucking him back so desperately, her blood, wet on his tongue and her drinking from him anytime he coaxes her to. It was the epitome of euphoria. He could die in this moment and would not complain. 

Y/n came without warning, wrapping her legs around him and pulling his hips flush against hers. “F-fuck..!” Caleb came a little, her cunt clamping down around him, milking him for his seed. His thrusts faltered for just a moment before deepened his strokes, fucking her into the mattress just as he promised with renewed vigor.  

Y/n whined, completely spent and sore. She didn’t want to keep going anymore— she couldn’t but Caleb continued to ram her swallow flesh, his tip bullying her poor cervix open. 

She tried to twist away, trying to resist the tide of heat and hunger that was beginning to build again as Caleb rushed over her g-spot with every move. Caleb only growled, low and dangerous, pinning her hips with bruising force as he fell over her body again. 

“Don’t run from me.” he snarled into her ear. “You’ll only make me chase you. And when I catch you…” His teeth grazed the shell of her ear, sharp and threatening. “I’ll mark you so deeply you’ll never forget who you belong to, just. Like. Right. Now.” He punctuated every word with a sharp thrust.

His mouth returned to the wound on her neck, suckling gently, coaxing another slow trickle of blood, savoring it with obscene pleasure. Every pulse of her heart fed directly into him, connecting them in a raw, visceral loop neither of them could break.

Y/n sobbed, half pleasure, half in shame. Caleb squeezed her hips hard, rutting into her like a wolf in heat. He needed to cum. Every fiber in his being screamed to fill her up, marking her as his so that she can never deny his love for her ever again.

“I’m close, meimei. So, so close.” He grunted out.

“Give me one more. Just..mmm~ one more. Let’s cum together.” 

His hand that was on her hip moved to her engorged clit, using his thumb to circle it quickly, trying to match the speed of his hips. Y/n choked and tried to wiggle away again. 

“To-too much. Too much, Caleb, please!” His dick dug impossibly deeper into her watery cunt, not allowing her to move away. He was too far gone to hear her out, not that he could stop himself, not when he’s this close to coming with her most precious girl.

“Be good. You can take it.” he growled, his voice rough with primal hunger. “You pretend you don’t want this. But I can feel you.” Dragging his nose along the line of her jaw, inhaling the scent of her arousal that coated the air thickly. 

Caleb whimpered like a pup, hips stuttered and as he pistoned into her sloppily. After three long and hard thrust, he came inside her, grunting out her name as a blinding white light obscuring his vision. His orgasme trigger hers as her body betrayed her, arching into him, seeking more contact, wanting to be full of him.

Y/n collapsed on the bed first, the corner of her eyes darkening as she willingly succumbed to it, fainting beneath him. Caleb fell onto her, panting into the junction of her neck as he tried to ready his breath. Once he did, flipped their bodies, making sure to keep his cock warm inside her, laying her upon his chest. He could feel his cum leaking out of her and trailing down his dick but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

Caleb sighed in content, wrapping his arms around his lover in a warm embrace. ‘For the first time in my life, I finally  feel truly happy. Satisfied. I finally own you.’ He queened her. ‘After all these years, you are finally mine and now, you can’t hide it. Can’t pretend it didn’t happen.’ He thought to himself as he placed a kiss on the top of her head before drifting into a blissful sleep, knowing five things truths that ensure it would be restful.

‘There is no undoing this.

There is no hiding from the truth of their connection.

There is no going back to what they once were.

She is mine now, body and soul.

And I would never, ever let her go.’

[distantlcver]

HEAVY IS THE HEART

Knight!Sevika x Royalty!reader you're married to a tyrant and have a love affair with your knight ! ! violnce, murder, bloodshed, self harm

1 / 2 / 3

"Love, won't you be? Be as you've always been?" - Be, Hozier

The days after Sevika’s exile blurred into a slow, viscous thing.

At first, you fought— you screamed.

You threw yourself at the window, trying to pry the old glass from its frame with bare hands until they bled and the servants recoiled from the sight of you. When that failed, you tried the door, clawing, kicking. Anything to remind them you were still alive. Still angry.

The king’s solution had been simple:

Iron bars, welded across the window by midday, ugly and black against the pale stone. A cage dressed up as mercy.

After that, the rebellion faded into a quieter thing.

You passed your days in fractured pieces, stacking stones, unraveling the hem of your gowns thread by thread, counting the tiny cracks in the ceiling. Tracing the bars with your fingertips until the cold numbed them.

Meals came and went. Faces came and went. None of them hers.

It wasn’t the captivity that gnawed at you. It was the absence, the abandonment.

Sevika had left you.

Walked out of the throne room with no promise, no glance back. And as the days dragged into weeks and the weeks into a month and the month into another, it festered. The quiet knowledge that she hadn’t come, or even tried to.

You hurled your plates at the door once. Tore the sheets from the bed, another night in a frenzy you couldn’t name. It only amused the king.

He would visit sometimes, lingering in the doorway like a judge before an executioner. Watching you. Sometimes, he spoke. Ill words of gratification at your suffering.

“Not so brave now, are we?”

Sometimes, he only looked, as if marveling at how you crumbled. You hated him then. Not with fire, but with a slow, grim kind of inevitability.

You hated the way he spoke of Sevika in casual cruelty. You hated the way he acted as if it hadn’t gutted you both. You hated how easily he seemed to forget.

But even hate exhausted itself.

When you finally tried to run, making it only as far as the east stairwell before a guard caught you by the waist like a wayward animal—the punishments changed.

Your routine grew smaller. Tighter.

Now, each evening, you were summoned to dine with the king. A grand table. Silver platters. Crystal goblets. And a heavy iron shackle fastened around your ankle, the chain bolted discreetly to the chair.

A polished chain. A civilized prison.

"You see," the king said one night, sipping his wine, "I am merciful, despite your endless provocations." He smiled, all teeth, "I could have humbled you with public shame, paraded your betrayal before the court. But this is a finer punishment, don’t you agree?"

You stared at your untouched food, the chain’s weight a constant pull on your leg, and said nothing. Refusing him even the taste of your rage.

When the king grew bored, the handmaidens would lead you back to your chambers. They were soft-voiced, all careful fingers and sad eyes, and once, as they unfastened the shackle from your ankle, one of them whispered,

"Don’t lose hope, my lady. Even stars have to die before they can be reborn."

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t believe in stars anymore.

Months blurred together until eventually, you behaved. Quiet. Compliant. Tired.

The king watched your transformation with thinly veiled satisfaction.

The anger that once fueled you; the restless pacing, the smashed plates, the thrown words, burned itself down to a bitter, hollow ember.

You stopped fighting. Stopped trying. What was the point? Sevika wasn’t coming. If she had ever meant to, she would have.

You learned the rhythm they expected of you. You rose when summoned, ate when ordered, spoke only when spoken to.

You sat chained at the king’s dinner table night after night, smiling when he demanded it, silent when his mood soured.

You played the part of the dutiful captive because anything else was exhaustion.

Your spirit, once sharp and flaring, had dulled under the weight of stillness.

And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you began to believe it. That maybe Sevika had forgotten you. That maybe she had been nothing more than a convenient dream you had clung to for far too long.

So when the moment came, when you finally lifted your eyes to the king and asked, voice even and careful, for the privilege of walking in the gardens; you weren’t hoping anymore. You were simply surviving.

Supervised, of course. Guarded, of course.

He agreed with a smile so brittle you thought it might crack his face open.

"Only an hour- Wouldn't want you getting too greedy." He could never find it in himself to contain his ego.

The first time they led you out, the sunlight stunned you. It filled the garden like something holy, too bright, too wide, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

The guards kept close, their hands resting heavy on the hilts of their swords.

You wandered the path in small, muted circles.

A figure in a dream.

You dipped your hands into the pond and let the fish tickle your fingers. Digging your fingers into the wet earth, you leaned in deep, letting your elbows drown in the cold gravel gnawing at your palms. You lost yourself in the water, in the cold, in the warmth of the sun on your back, and in the breeze that lifted your dress and danced on your skin.

But what you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know—was that Sevika had been watching you long before you ever stepped into the gardens.

She became a ghost in her own right, methodical and merciless in her patience. She mapped the palace’s blind spots, memorized the shift changes of the guards, learned the rhythms of the servants’ footsteps through the stone corridors.

At night, cloaked in shadow, she watched the narrow sliver of your world from hidden perches no patrol ever thought to check.

You didn’t notice her.

Only little things: A scuff of boots on stone where none should be. The faintest flicker of movement at the corner of your vision when you pressed your forehead to the bars.

Once, you thought you heard your name. Not spoken, but breathed. When you turned, there was only the endless dark. You told yourself it was imagination. That you were losing pieces of yourself to this captivity.

You never once dared to hope it was real.

Sevika watched you in your rage, in your collapse, in your bitter surrender. She watched the nights you thrashed against your chains and the mornings you sat at the window without moving, hollowed out and paper thin.

And every time you broke a little more, it cost her something too.

She would have stormed the gates a hundred times over if she thought it would save you, but brute force would only have gotten you both killed.

So she waited. Cold. Coiled. Calculated.

But desperate all the same, gnawing her own heart raw night after night with the need to act.

When the rumor finally reached her, that the king had agreed to let you walk the gardens once a day under guard, it was like the breaking of a fever.

The opening she had prayed for.

One chance. One shot. No mistakes.

And this time, she would not fail you.

It happened two weeks into your new routine. A day like any other, heavy with heat, the scent of crushed lavender thick in the air.

You had just turned a corner near the outer hedges, the guards a step behind you, when the world shifted.

A sound

A grunt

The sharp crunch of metal meeting bone.

You spun just as one of the guards dropped soundlessly to the earth, blood already darkening the soil. Another stumbled back, sword half-drawn, but she was faster. Sevika moved through them like a storm, brutal and precise, her sword an extension of her rage.

Within moments, it was over.

The garden fell back into stillness, broken only by the low, pained moans of the ones she hadn’t killed. Blood painted the grass, pooling at your feet.

And then she looked at you.

The same way she had that night in the throne room—steady, burning, full of things she couldn’t say aloud.

She stepped toward you, blood splattered across her armor, and for a terrible, breathless second, you did not move.

"Come with me," she said, voice rough from disuse, "Now."

You shook your head once. Hard. The fury that had lived inside you these long months finally uncoiled, vicious and bright.

"You left," you spat, your hands clenched into trembling fists, "You left me here to rot. You watched. You didn’t fight. You didn’t even try."

Sevika’s face twisted with something like pain, "I couldn't," she said hoarsely. "They would've killed you if I'd acted too soon. I had to wait. Had to make sure I could get you out alive."

You swallowed, the anger burning through your veins like molten lead, "You should've fought anyway," you whispered. "You should've tried for me."

"I did," she said, stepping closer, "Every damn day. In ways you couldn’t see. I kept the wolves off you. I distracted them when they plotted worse things. I bled for you in ways you will never know."

Her voice broke then, rough and raw, "I would have burned this whole fucking palace to ash if it meant getting you out safely."

The silence stretched between you, aching and raw, "I don’t forgive you," you said finally, your voice cracking.

"I’m not ready to forgive you."

Sevika nodded once, solemn as a vow, "I don't need you to forgive me. I just need you to live," A single, shattered breath escaped you, and you reached for her.

Her hands closed around yours, rough and warm and trembling, and it was only then you realized she was as wrecked by this as you were, "Let’s go," she whispered against your hair, holding you like you were the last real thing in the world, "Please love, come with me." She begs.

You slipped through the garden gate together, running fast and silent through the winding shadows, hearts pounding in ragged tandem.

Behind you, the palace loomed, cold and empty, starved of your light. Ahead, the wild, vast unknown called to you like an old song.

Sevika tightened her grip on your hand as the walls faded behind you, breathless and fierce, "No more cages," she promised, voice low and reverent. "Not ever again."

And for the first time in too long, you believed her.

You didn’t look back.

The first night after your escape, you slept beneath the open sky.

The forest was dense and wild around you, the air cool and thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Sevika had built a small fire between the trees, careful to keep it low and hidden. She sat nearby, sharpening her blade with slow, deliberate strokes, though her eyes kept drifting to you as if checking that you were still there—that you hadn’t vanished like a dream.

You lay curled on a bed of moss and fallen leaves, the roughness of it scraping your skin, but you welcomed it. After so many months of stone walls and locked doors, every ache, every shiver, every breath of cold air tasted like freedom.

Above you, the stars burned sharp and endless. For a long time, you only watched them, your chest rising and falling with quiet, steady breaths. You had almost forgotten they were real.

Sevika set her sword aside and moved to sit beside you. She didn’t speak, didn’t touch you. She only looked up at the sky with you, the firelight softening the sharp planes of her face.

"They're ugly tonight," you said quietly, voice rasped from disuse. A crooked smile tugged at Sevika’s mouth, "You’re a liar," she murmured. You didn’t argue.

For a long time, you sat together in the hush of the woods, two broken things stitched together by stubborn hope and old anger.

Finally, without thinking, you leaned your head against her shoulder. She stiffened—for a heartbeat, no more—and then she tilted her head to rest gently against yours. A silent apology.

A silent acceptance.

The fire crackled low between you. Somewhere beyond the trees, a nightbird called out, lonely and wild.

"You really never stopped watching me?" you asked, so quietly you weren’t sure you had spoken aloud.

Sevika’s arm came around you, steady and warm, "Not for a second," she said.

And in the quiet that followed, you let yourself believe it. Not fully. Not yet. But enough to close your eyes. Enough to let yourself drift, not into dreams, but into something heavier, sweeter.

Into the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against your side.Into the promise of a freedom you could finally taste, because she was here and she was staying. For the first time in so long, you slept without chains, and in the arms of the one who had never truly left you.

A/N: ok- all done! :P

[springsylph]

Touch and Agree | Charles x Reader

charles smith x f! reader | no warnings | 2.1k | ao3 |

was trying to get back into writing but i was struck with an indescribable sadness once i thought about how useless charles must’ve felt after burning his hand in blackwater. so. i raise you unknowingly touchstarved reader versus Charles™

The horses have slowed to a trot by the time you press your cheek to the frosted window.

You hear Arthur shout some muffled declaration of success as he and Charles’ shadows curl around the front of the stable. The gang is likely aware of their return, senses now heightened by hunger and the frigid winds of Colter. But you feel the need to relay the message to the few still silently huddled in the corners:

“If you’ve been praying, today’s your lucky day.”

Tilly, arms crossed tight over her torso, is the first to pipe up from her spot near the fireplace. “Micah finally saw his sorry behind off the nearest cliffside?”

“Miss Tilly!” Grimshaw hisses, scandalized. The only thing stronger than Grimshaw's personal gripes are the exigencies of the gang. “No more of that. You know we need all the hands we can get.”

Karen, squished next to Mary-beth and a now slumbering Sadie on a wooden bench, scoffs. “Didn’t think we counted meat hooks as hands.”

That gets a snort out of John, who realizes too late that his body isn’t quite healed enough to handle said snort. A flick to the forehead from Abigail quiets him down in his cot before she turns to find you still gazing out the window.

“I’m assimin’ Arthur and Charles are back?”

You nod. “With one…two deer, by the looks of it.”

Your inhale is sharp when Charles pulls his catch over his shoulder with a jerk, beckoning Arthur to follow after him to mask his discomfort. The tension leaves your spine only after the last dregs of his shadow disappear into the stable.

Half-turned to Abigail, you mumble, “Does Charles look a little...off to you, these days?"

"Off," she repeats. The darkness under her eyes colors her words. "Off how?"

"You know," and you make as though to say something of substance before your eyebrows pinch together, "off.”

Abigail looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “If you’re waitin’ on Charles to scream bloody murder, it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than a burn to do him in.”

Another brick is slotted into a broken wall. 

“I’m just worried.”

“About?”

“Charles. I think his hand is botherin’ him again.”

Abigail’s sigh dusts the cold air with its warmth. “I…suspect most things might look a little off since we've been cooped up like this. But we’ve got O’Driscolls and Pinkertons on the prod." She looks at Jack, now sitting cross legged at her feet and fiddling with the corner of John's blanket. Abigail had given up on herding him toward the fireplace some time ago. She strokes a featherlight hand over his head. "No sense in stressing yourself out over somethin’ Charles would’ve told us ages ago. It's good that he’s up and movin' though, ain't it?"

Your momentum stalls.

It should be. It should be.

Blackwater has left none unchanged. If you weren’t dead, you were shot, and if you weren’t shot, you were waiting for it. Hands bound. Body trammeled by fear and constant surveillance. From anyone else, this haste would be a blessing. A miracle, even, in light of all that'd been lost.

From Charles, it reads more like a warning.

But you don't think your feet have been planted here long enough to question their habits.

You say nothing and return your still numb cheek to the window. Will it always be like this, you wonder? The second guessing. The wary eyes. There’s a certain degree of trust that you aren’t privy to yet. Somehow, it feels worse knowing that everyone is making an effort to be so kind to you despite it. You know plenty who wouldn’t do the same.

Better dead than dead weight. 

The creed still lingers. Subsisting on what little you've gleaned in the short time you've been running with Dutch's group. Perhaps that's the root of this peculiar sense of worry. Of pity. You and Charles don’t speak often—there's a general lack of overlap in duties, for one, and he mostly keeps to himself. But you've always been one for actions over words. Charles was frighteningly capable, and more than willing to prove it time and time again.

To him, the burn he’d suffered may as well have been a bullet to the leg.

Your only issue is that no one else seems to see it.

You’re tracing shapes into the windowpane when movement just outside startles you. Charles, bow in hand, stalks toward one of the smaller cabins before veering off toward the small stream that lies just behind the stables.

You're springing up and stumbling out the front door before your brain has time to temper your heart. Someone shouts after you—likely Grimshaw, from the way it rakes over your ears. But you ignore it in favor of grabbing handfuls of your skirts and pushing through the powdery snow.

When you round the corner of the stables, breath short and chest tight, you find that Charles hasn’t gone very far at all. He's leaning against a crooked tree, face all taut lines as his fingers fumble with the grip on his bow. A frown plays at your lips when you notice the path of his footprints, stretching a few paces farther before it loops back to where he stands.

“Charles?”

You think you hear him exhale through his nose before he meets your gaze with the same smile he usually does. Bright. Unwavering. A little squinty, since the sun is in his eyes. “You good?”

Right. The usual pleasantries. You've conversed with him in your head for much longer than you have in person.

“I’m uh, fine." You blink stupidly. "Are you?"

“Mhm. Right as rain.”

Your eyes can't help but slide to the bow he clutches just out of sight. He doesn’t look ashamed in the slightest.

“…I’m just holding it, for now. Till my hand heals up, at the very least.” Charles holds up the offending appendage. “Not like I have anything better to do."

It's hard to tell if he's intentionally skirting around the point, or if he really does think there aren't any better uses for his time. The frown you'd been fighting off finally gets the better of you once Charles returns to adjusting his injured hand on the bow's grip.

"I don't think you should be doing that," you insist. Because he really shouldn't be. At all.

"Afraid I can't do that," he replies. "I'm one of the few here who can hunt worth a damn in this weather. I get sloppy, we starve.”

“Is that what you think?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“It’s what I know.” He says it with enough certainty to make you almost believe him. “Go back inside and warm yourself up. 'Preciate you checking on me, but if you freeze to death, they’re gonna laugh knowing you came out here without any gloves on.”

You clench your fists. Feel the ice that's settled there begin to splinter under the pressure and breach the thick skin of your palms. Fine, then. You’ll speak to him in a language he can understand.

Though your march over is less than graceful, he parts with the bow with surprising ease. Charles’ warmth, much like the rest of him, is tailored to perfection. Your fingertips graze remnants of the finery on the parts of the parts of the bow that his hands have warmed.

His eyes flick over you. Placid. Confused, too, on account of the ever-tightening grip you have on what you hope isn't a prized possession. His vexation becomes clearer once you step away, full hands now hidden behind your back. You have to take an extra step back for your own peace of mind.

“Charles Smith,” you begin, “I’d like to strike up a deal.”

“A deal.”

“I won’t repeat myself. We’re losin' daylight here.”

Chin tipped upward, you don your favorite facade.

Confidence.

"You focus on takin’ care of that hand, and I won't tell Arthur and Hosea you've been messin' with your bow."

His face belies a slew of unvoiced expletives. But you know Charles to be the—somewhat—gentle sort, so there’s no need to brace yourself. Even if he isn’t entirely convinced, you can at least hope that he’s found a little amusement in all this.

“You said ‘strike a deal,’” he says slowly. “This smells like a threat.”

“Deal, threat, whatever strikes your fancy.” It didn’t matter so long as he stopped stretching himself so thin.

He seems to mull over your words for a bit, no longer leaning up against the tree. There is, however, a small chance that he’s trying to find the right assortment of words to get you off of his back.

“We’ve got two deer.” You continue. “If Pearson is as frugal as I remember, that’ll keep us all for about a week. Should be more than enough time to get your hand back in order, right?”

“Hm.”

There’s a moment where Charles’ uninjured hand begins to stretch towards you. You just barely remember to lean out of the way before he drops his arm with a defeated sigh.

“So no bows—”

“No knives or guns, either. Unless absolutely necessary.”

“—Then how’m I supposed to keep up my strength? Can’t just sit idle, you know. We’ve got people here who need taking care of.” He takes three steps forward, and you take three steps back. “We’ve all got weight to pull out here. I’m of no use to anybody if I’m sitting out over a little burn like this.”

There goes that nasty word again.

Use.

You can joke all you want, but that’s what this boils down to.

“Well, you…just need something to pull on, right? Keep your hands busy?”

You hold out your hand.

The corner of Charles’ lips twitch downward. "I’m keeping my knives on me—"

"Take it."

"…What?"

You laugh. Loud and exaggerated enough to shake the snow off the trees. "Some gentleman you are, lettin’ a lady’s hands grow cold.” You flex your fingers. “My hand. Take it."

You use the awkward silence that follows to explain yourself.

"I figure it's got a little more give than a bow. And it’s got enough resistance to scratch that itch. You ever feel like shooting, ask for me. Hopefully it’ll have you feeling stupid long enough for your hand to heal up."

He brings a hand up to block the sun from his eyes, and you find yourself strangely missing the gold it cast on him. "That's not something I should be asking of you."

"Works out great, don't it? You're not asking, I'm offering, so there's no problem." Or, at least there wouldn't be if things go the way you know they will. It's no well-kept secret that Charles isn't too keen on extra company during his downtime. No one faults him for it, either.

Any chance of him taking you up on your suggestion is slim.

The wind is thunderous where Charles is quiet, snaking through the empty trees.

"Whether you take it or not, I'm walking off with this bow. But I'm not about to let you run yourself into the ground."

You flex your fingers again, and they tremble.

Charles shakes his head, and you're sure you've won—

"Alright. I'll do it."

Well, that's not good.

Violently off track and suddenly very unsure of how to proceed, you drop your hand. Charles, evidently resolute in his decision, says nothing more as he approaches.

You stumble back a bit as his body nears, wishing that the head you house on your shoulders was screwed on a little tighter. You think it's begun to spin when he takes your hand into his own; gently, as if scooping up a wounded bird from the forest floor.

He opens his mouth, then promptly closes it, brows furrowing as he inspects your palm.

Something is loud.

It's your heart, you realize. Stuttering with each squeeze of his bandaged fingers. Consequences are not beneath you, it seems.

You allow him a few more experimental squeezes than you would've liked, but you can't quite shake the strange tremor that races up your throat the longer he holds you.

Nothing is said until he pulls his hand away.

“And I can do this, whenever?”

Your tongue is miles away. “I, uh. No.” Wait. Voice crack. “I mean��yeah. Yes. Whenever.”

Charles makes no note of your vocal blunder, instead taking one last look at the bow you hold before beginning to make his way back to camp.

He taps the hand at your side as he passes. Leans to talk right into your ear. “Keep these wrapped up for me, will you?”

He’s gone before you have a chance to tell him that you would’ve done it without his say-so.

(Damn it, you think. Palm tingling. I’m in some deep shit.)

[kakitetan]

Sebastian Solace x GN! Reader | Daily Life AU | The Plan

"Oh, you're back . Let me grab your file." Sebastian said, his back was turned.  

The only light in the room was his eyes and his lure . His fingers brushed through the files . He didn't want to say it, but he was thankful you had died . You had the crystal , you were so close . That worried him .. All these monsters, these obstacles, and even Painter . It's all there just to buy him time.  

"I just need to buy us more time, and this.. Filth has gotten way too close." He thought to himself. He clenched his jaw behind his lips, he knew you could barely see his face, but he didn't want to drop his friendly merchant persona unless he had to.

"There it is." His voice echoed, and he passed you your file. He clasped his hands together, you were still disoriented. He let out a sigh, "You don't have to read it, but don't waste my time."

Y/N's hands trembled as they accepted the file from Sebastian, her gaze never leaving his inscrutable features . The faint echo of his voice resonated through the quiet room, sending a shiver down their spine . Disorientation washed over them like a cold wave, making it difficult to focus on anything but the sea creature standing before them.

Sebastian clasped his hands together , he saw you shake your head . He raised his chin in defiance, staring at you in disgust . Humans are rather disgusting creatures, aren't they ? Sebastian's expression hardened, his lips curling into a sneer as he beheld Y/N's shocked face . With a dismissive flick of his gaze, he summed them up with contemptuous disdain.

"No .. I'm just really disappointed in myself..." He heard your voice crack.

He lowered his guard.

Did he hear that right? Or rather was this another manipulation tactic by the many other Urbanshade criminals that come and go?

Many expendables break down, whether it's anger, sadness, or no reaction at all. Just.. Shock. He's learned not to get attached to people; Sebastian didn't want to go through what he's already gone through. Not again ..

"You reaaaally like to waste my time , are you done yet? .. Let's get one thing straight, I don't care about you or your feelings. You're here because of your crimes. Let's see your file.." He turned around, shuffling back into the darkness.

The small light to his lure grew further away before his voice spoke up once more . "That's right, riiiight here."

"You were charged with second-degree murder, and caught red-handed." The file slammed shut with a harsh finality, his venomous retort searing into Y/N with a sneer. "Quite the charge, isn't it? It means nothing down here." He spoke with venom.

You stared at him, before looking back down at the file of what had killed you again.. Before opening your mouth to speak. Sebastian noticed your hesitation, assuming he had finally won.

"I did it because I had to .. I was in danger. Out of everyone down here, I'd think you'd understand." You spoke.

Sebastian felt a vein pop from that sentence.

All the bloodshed, the corpses he had torn apart. Sebastian's mind recoiled at the gruesome memories, each one more visceral than the last. The metallic tang of blood, the crunch of bone beneath his teeth, the slick feel of entrails spilling from ruptured abdomens, all these horrors twisted in his thoughts, swarming feelings of anguish, revulsion, and numbness. Bit by bit. He vividly remembered tearing into the flesh of other Urbanshade soldiers, biting into the tendons of the scientists, feeling every inch of the pain from the constant surgeries, and being cut open. He felt so much in pain, that he wanted to die from every waking moment of the medical procedures. His body was violated and reshaped against his will. Every incision, every probing instrument, every stitch pulled had been a fresh hell. The pain was a constant companion, a gnawing entity that refused to relinquish its grip. Even now, decades later, the echoes of that torment lingered, festering in the darkest recesses of his psyche.

"You SHUT UP!" His hands slammed onto the desk.

"YOU AND I ARE NOTHING ALIKE!"

"And frankly I don't give I fuck, even if I did understand! I was never filthy scum like you , you deserve to be down here. You should've been in MY place, I! WAS! INNOCENT! ... YOU! .. I hate YOU the most." He spat, before closing the file.

He turned his back, placing the file back into its organized spot in the darkness. He heard you mumble something under your breath, while he was putting the file away. His head perked, and his teeth became visible in annoyance. He was ready to tear you apart now, you were getting on his last nerve.

"And what was that?" He growled, this fucking pissed him off.

"I said come with me!" You shouted, and that caught him off guard. "I'll try again , just give me another try! I know I won't remember much, but I'll try until I make it , you'll come with me.." You were sobbing.

Sebastian hid in the shadows, slowly relaxing as he realized, you weren't mad, nor were you a threat. You were just stupid.

'Save those tears ' he wanted to say, but nothing came out.

It was like a lightbulb went off, he knew what to do, and he wanted to play along too . You were expendable after all, not just to Urbanshade, but to him too. His grin slowly formed back. He slithered towards you, gently picking you up, and carrying you back to the beginning. He looked down at you , you were passed out. This was routine. This always happened, every time ..

" Oh Expendable, I don't even bother to know your name.. You're a pain in the ass." He said, before lying you down. Surely someone else would find you in a safer area much as this one, and they'll do it over again, and again .

But this time, it'll be different. Oh yes. He had a plan.

He relaxed, and clasped his hands together, staring at your sleeping body.

This time, he'd help you escape. You're just a tool to him. Nothing more, nothing less. You were his stupid expendable, and his ticket to getting out.

He wiped his hands off his clothes in disgust after touching you, before slithering off into the shadows ... Sebastian had many years to memorize the corridors of the facility, so it was easier to navigate to Painter's room. The only thing is, it was rather boring and time-consuming... Sebastian eventually ended up entering Painter's office space, his .. Jail. More or less.  

"Sebastian! How are you? Did you miss me? Were you thinking of me? Did you find a way out?" Painter smiled , his screen flickered on, showing his animated face smile and nod in excitement.

"I might have just figured our way out." Sebastian clasped his hands together, with a rather devious sneer. "Follow my lead, okay?" Sebastian chuckled darkly.

So just like I said on my AO3, this was in my drafts. I'm still writing, but I've been struggling due to poor mental health. Art is my main hobby, and I didn't really expect my fics to kinda blow up like they did. SO IM LIKE... OKAY. THATS CRAZY. Anyways, enjoy some backstory where you tame Sebastian basically.

[chibsandchill]

Your little Hatchling

Pairing: Aemond x GN!Reader

Warnings: Incest (Aemond is reader’s uncle), death, blood, canon-typical violence

Summary: The greens won the war and Aemond has taken you captive, though nothing he does goes according to plan. 

Masterlist

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

If it wasn't for the way his hair shone in the pale moonlight, you'd never know he was there. He moved within the shadows as if he was one himself, always watching but never venturing out of their reach. Sometimes his leather jerkin would creak as he shifted, but it was so faint it might as well have been the wind. Or so you wished for that would be far more comforting than the truth. 

Perhaps that is why instead of staring at the outline of your uncle, you looked to the fluttering drapes as they swayed in the gentle ocean breeze. 

But then after weeks of silence, Aemond stepped forth into the light and broke his unspoken vow of silence. You imagined he would say something profound, maybe even a honey-coated apology with hissed terms of affection and a burning gaze, but instead he looked you in the eye and asked: 

"Do you like the ocean?" 

"What?" You croaked, for while the evening breeze was a welcome change from the stifling heat, it did nothing to soothe the burn in your throat. "After everything you've done-" 

"Do you like it?" He interrupted harshly. 

"No." You said. 

He seemed surprised by your answer; a brief widening of his eye, but with an ease gained only by growing up in a nest of vipers, he schooled himself. 

"You told me once, when we were still children," his voice was no louder than a whisper, almost overshadowed by the wind, "that you had never felt as at peace as when your father took you with him on Caraxes and flew over the ocean to Dragonstone." 

"That was before you murdered my brother." 

His jaw clenched but didn't speak whatever words his wicked mind had thought up. Aemond returned to his realm of darkness, and the next day you were given a new cell far away from the ocean and its haunted melodies. 

But even when you no longer heard the waves crashing against your prison, or smelled the salt, Lucerys' scream of terror lingered.

:-:-:-:-:-:

Constant heat and a sun that never fell reddened your face within hours of being placed in your new room. 

Dorne. 

He brought you to fucking Dorne. 

Dorne was where dragons went to die, where even the tiniest of vipers had enough venom to slay even the largest of beasts. Sprinkled in the sand dunes were the remains of Targaryen heroes and conquerors, as well as their dragons. Age turned everything to dust, and before long you would be strewn across the closest dune, forgotten beneath the waves of those who came before you. 

A speck of dirt in an altogether indifferent universe. Perhaps the Dornish would dance across the dune, celebrate another dragon pest removed, and another piece of justice served. 

The Dornish desert didn't allow for the dragons to hide themselves, it left no dark corners for him to stare at you from. It left him exposed and vulnerable, like a raw nerve or a wound left to fester. 

"Do you like sand?" He dared ask one night when the sun gave them a brief respite.

You ignored him. 

"You told me once in our garden-" 

"They were never our gardens," you were the one to interrupt this time. Age old bitterness barely scabbed over with forced indifference burned at the word our, as if anything in the Keep had ever been yours. For a brief time, that little corner of an overgrown garden in the eastern wing had been yours. Every morning you’d meet there, under the shade of the apple tree and you’d tend to your garden. But like all things, even that small piece of heaven was eventually discovered and it was no longer ‘yours’. 

'Bastard' the court whispered as you walked past. 'Whore' or 'whore's child' if they were feeling kind. 

"They were to me." 

You scoffed. 

"It was never the sand," you found yourself saying even as you wished you'd have ignored him, "I wanted to see the people brave enough to defy us." 

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

You were moved again, but this time Aemond gifted you with a bronze-skinned woman from one of the nearby villages. Her name was Ela, and she brought colorful desert flowers that she ground into pastes which she slathered on your burnt shoulders, and with potent smelling leaves she fashioned into exotic teas and with what remained she managed to make sweet smelling perfume. The fragrance was dabbed onto your throat every day before Aemond’s visits. 

"Why are you doing this?" 

His one eye blinked in surprise. You had yet to initiate your rare and rather brief talks. 

"I don't know." He lied. 

"The truth, Aemond, is the least I deserve." 

"'Tis a sin to lie." 

"Murder is also a sin, but you still slaughtered thousands. Why do you insist on dragging this out? It won't make a difference in the end." 

Aemond looked away. "It will."

"It won't." You spat. "This changes nothing but the hatred in my face as I watch you die." 

"Hm." He angled his face away from you. His beautiful face took on a haunted expression."Yes, I suppose that's right. Do you remember when I was born? The few times father spoke to us, he regaled us with tales of how happy you were, how you claimed me. I was your little hatchling, the dragon your father never allowed you to have. Yours was the first face I saw, the warmth of your arms the first I ever felt. I dreamed of your smile when you were gone." 

"It was your father," you corrected with no small amount of venom, "that denied me my birthright." 

"You still defend him," he mused, "even after all his lies. I wonder, why do you not grant me that same kindness? Everything I have done, I did for us." 

Disgust twists your face into something you barely recognize. When did you go from the little child who always smiled despite the insults, who would trail after their lord father with a tattered dragon toy, and who dotted on their hatchling, to this being driven by nothing but hatred and  never-ending lust for blood he'd gladly give if you but only asked. 

Perhaps that's why you didn't ask. You feared the truth of his answer as much as you feared the day when his face no longer made your stomach turn. 

"We could have ran." You argued. "You had the largest dragon alive, who would dare oppose you? We could have flown East and conquered whatever lands our ancestors forgot. No, Aemond. You can blame only yourself for this." 

 "Your father would follow." 

"I understand the concept is wholly unfamiliar to you, Aemond, but that is what a good father does. Care. And you stabbed him in the back for it. Aemond the one-eyed Coward, slaying his uncle in the streets whilst he was unarmed and escorting a child of three summers, struck him down as if he was nothing and left him to die surrounded by people who hated him." You taunted him, enjoying every layer of self-hatred and anger that flashed over his face. You knew not if it was the mention of the neglect he suffered at the hands of his father that broke his mask, or that he had stooped so low as to become a kinslayer. No longer was he Aemond the one-eyed Prince, Aemond the studious and quiet prince. Now he donned new titles, none of them flattering. Years spent in the gardens together had taught you every single one of his insecurities, his fears and every aspect of his pain. 

He moved closer with cat-like grace but with none of their caution, swiping away your tears with a caress of his finger. The promise ring felt cold against your rosy cheeks, the hand-carved rose and thorns curling around the digit was an unwelcome reminder of your affection for him. 

"I had no choice." He whispered, voice thick. 

"There is always a choice." You muttered. 

"My life was not his to claim." Aemond moved closer, fingers threading through your hair. He pulled, forcing you to look up at him. You grit your teeth at the sharp sting, but you welcomed the pain, it burned away at the ember of love that sparked in the depths of your burnt heart. "It has always been yours. My love, my eye, my life." 

"Then you know how this ends." 

"I've always known," he pressed the side of his face against yours, his breath fanned over the shell of your ear. "Do you know why I killed your brothers?”

“Because you’re craven.”

Aemond stood to his full height before removing the leather patch covering the precious stone he had instead of an eye. The sapphire sparkled in the candlelight. He shook his head. “Because he took something that didn’t belong to him. I tried to forgive him, my mother told me he couldn’t possibly understand the consequences of his actions, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t forgive.”

The memory of Vhagar emerging from the clouds was burnt into your eyelids. Everytime you closed your eyes you saw it. Heard the cracks of her wings as she flew closer, the snapping of her jaws as Aemond taunted you, and the look in Lucerys’ eyes as he pushed you off Arrax. You had never seen such terror in a person’s eyes before, or heard someone scream like he did. Parts of him and Arrax washed up on the beach for weeks.

You averted your eyes. “And Jace?”

“When you ran to me, you fell and cut your hand on Lucerys’ blade.” His voice was soft, the softest it had been since Blood and Cheese tore the last chance you two had of a shared future. “Do you remember what Harrold Westerling begged of you?”

‘We have to stop the bleeding,’ he urged you, heavy armor clanging together as he fell to his knees next to you and Aemond. His voice sounded as if it was underwater, distant. Not there. Not with you and Aemond. ‘The maester is on his way but you have to stop the bleeding or he will die. Press here, your highness.’

“Yes.” You whispered. 

Aemond kept a vial of the blood the Maester removed from his face on dark twine around his neck. There was some solution in it that kept it from drying. He used to show it to you when you were younger, and when he was anxious he’d trace the glass with his fingers. His mother hated it. She didn’t understand it, didn’t understand the significance of what you had done to save her son. 

“Then you already know why, raqiarzy. And Daemon,” despite the vile things your father had done for your family, Aemond’s voice had yet to lose the admiration that clung to them, the childish idollation he had never quite managed to shake, “was plotting my murder. I had already lost my eye, I would not allow him to steal what little I had left to offer you.”

You laughed, but it’s twisted, broken in a way you had never heard a human laugh before. It rattled deep in your chest, and despite the pain and the tears brimming in your eyes you were unable to stop.

“You’re pathetic, Aemond,” you managed to force out. 

The hurt in his eyes was impossible to miss. “I only ask that you grant me my one last wish before I go." 

Disgust marred your face. Aemond had taken everything and yet he came to you with demands, conditions for a death that was long overdue. Where was your father’s wish when Aemond ordered common thugs to hold him down whilst he snuck up behind, when he drove Vhagar’s tooth into his lungs? 

"What's that?" 

"A kiss." 

"You disgust me.” You spat.  

His one eye met yours again and his lips curled into a crooked grin.You tried to think of your father, of Rhaenyra and Syrax, Lucerys and Arrax, Jacerys and Vermax, of the hundreds, if not thousands of soldiers, burnt by Vhagar before you managed to slay the old beast, of the smell of burning flesh and screaming children as their mother’s were ripped from them, instead of how beautiful he looked in the moonlight. As Aemond leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours in a motion so heartbreakingly familiar you dreamt of a world where you had died with your family. Still, your heart raced as his skin met yours, warmth spreading from the spot as fire met fire. He had taken everything from you, and yet you could not stop yourself from returning the gesture, leaning into his touch and were your hands not bound you would trace the sharpness of his jaw, and he would do the same. 

“Liar,” he whispered. 

Aemond closed his eyes, leaning in, about to press his lips against yours when he gasped and froze. Over his shoulder you spotted sun-kissed skin and dark hair. Ela. Crimson covered the black blade in her hand.

In a poetic sense of justice, Aemond falls to the ground, a steady puddle of blood growing under him. Horror is clear on his face and he tries to reach for you, but he has grown weak since the war ended and so he falls limp. You fall to your knees next to him just like that day in Driftmark, wrists easily slipping out of the bonds. Aemond stutters out your name, a thin line of blood running down his chin. 

“Shh,” you coo to him before flattening your hand against his face. “It’s okay, valzȳrys.”

He managed a weak smile. 

“I thought I’d never hear you say it.” 

It was always going to end this way, but that does not lessen the pain wrecking through your body, or the sobs you let out as he started fading away. Your fingers shook as you traced his face, wiping away his tears like he did yours. 

You chuckled. “Neither did I.”

You didn’t plead with the gods that they save him, you wished only that they take you with him. In life you could never be, but in death perhaps you could find peace. 

“I love you.” He said, and then his eyes fluttered close. 

In a flurry of panicked moves, you press your lips to his. Your first kiss. Your last kiss. You felt his lips twitch against yours but he was too weak to respond. There was nothing romantic about the way you moved against him, of the desperation you poured into the kiss, or the tears that fell from your eyes like waterfalls. 

His hold on your hands slacken and that’s when you know he’s gone. Aemond would never let go of you. 

Ela stands in front of you as fierce as her ancestors, and you have never loved them more than at this moment. Weeks of serving you had not killed her spirit. She had robbed Aemond of the last thing he had, but you could not fault her. She saw what you couldn’t admit even to yourself. No matter what he did or how he hurt you, you’d never be able to kill him. His death was never meant to be at your hands. 

“In the front please,” you ask of her, your one last request, though your eyes never left Aemond's face.

Ela nodded and walked over. Her dark eyes met yours and you nodded in response. A flash of pain, and then your blood mixed with Aemond’s again. There was nothing personal in how she stabbed you. The dagger tore through you with ease and it’s over in seconds. She then ran out of the chambers, leaving the dagger still in you. You waited until you didn’t hear her rushed steps anymore before you laid down next to Aemond, lifting his still warm hands to entwine with yours in the way your family never allowed.

“I love you.” You whispered.

Dying was peaceful in the way life never was. 

[thesharktanksdriver]

Salt Water Tears

Made this awhile back. I’m not sure it’s it’s good or not but decide to post it anyways cause it’s taking space up in my notes

Poseidon might be out of character but screw it

Warning for abuse, misogyny and murder

Love and hatred are powerful emotions that both the gods and humans alike

It is something that both experience to such a gripping degree

It can lead to both good and bad

Hate can lead to war but also change

And love can lead to something beautiful and can tear down even the mightiest of empires

It’s intriguing how both emotions despite being opposites can intertwine together like a coil

It’s especially to Aphrodite as the blond goddess spies on others love lives for fun

It’s fun to her as she sees as love can either consume and destroy someone from the inside out

Progressing slowly into that coil

Normally she watches over human stories for the gods don’t have much going except for affairs and the once beautiful feeling dying

But there is one tale of love and hate that has always stood out to her

Whether that be for its tragedy of an ending or beautiful start she personally isn’t sure

But whenever it came to the god Poseidon it was sure to be something interesting

And the tragedy of the only person he loved is certainly an example of that

You were born to a small village to a peasant family

In the grand scheme of the world you weren’t special

You didn’t have power or status but you did have one thing many people lacked

Respect for others and nature

Yeah, doesn’t sound like much but in your village where brutes ran wild without so much as a ounce of intelligence or care for anything around them it was a lot

It’s why you always lingered near the beachside where no one would visit

It was the only respite from your family who was already pressuring you to be married off

A fate you wished to evade as long as you could as to keep your freedom

Your mother was a constant reminder of what you feared

A worn down woman, one who felt no love for herself and abided by your hateful father

A man who didn’t know any love for anything but his own pride and image to the other men in the community

To be completely honest it sucked

You wished to have a different fate, to be able to explore the vast open sea like that of legends

Or travel to distant lands you’d heard whispers of

Not being confined to a home and used as an object to satisfy someone else’s desires

So there on that beach you let fantasy reign over your mind

Staring out towards the deep blue ocean with longing

Letting the salty air tussle your hair

Sea foam staining your dress

Picking up shells and feathers from the birds that you feed scraps of food to along with the colourful fish

Picking out the trash that somehow ended up in the water

Saving a few fish in the process

It’s odd but you feel as if the things that most consider just to be food to be your friends

Listening instead of telling you to shut up, that a woman should remain silent and submissive

You envy the fish

It’s yet another day of heading to the beach when you find someone there

Standing amongst the waves is a man

Blond hair that reminds you of the golden sand

Blue eyes that looks like the depths of the sea

He looks at you

You stare back

It’s kinda awkward for a bit as the crashing waves fill in for the silence between the two of you

You take a step backwards and you see him move as well

“I can leave if you’d like? I don’t want to bother”

“Your the one cleaning the beach. Why human?”

At him saying that you can’t help but feel a sense of confusion wags over you but you brush it off

Opting to instead just answer him

“It’s wrong how they treat the earth. it’s the least I can do considering I can’t change them”

He stays silent at that answer just watching you

Trying to see if your lying

But there is only truth, a guilty truth for it being the only thing you can do in this situation

He grunts and walks straight into the ocean

Beneath the sapphire waves as your left dumbfounded at what you just saw

Until realizing that he was likely a god

Specifically Poseidon

What the-

You return to the beach a few days later and find it empty as usual

Despite that you feel a presence occasionally watching you

Not threatening so to say but there

Watching with curiosity as you fish out glass bottles and old bits of torn cloth

It’s not much but you do your part

Along the way you pick up shells and string together small bracelets for yourself

All the while that feeling continues

And this becomes slightly normal until he appears again

This time though he approaches and your left cautiously letting him get closer

He stays a few feet away but it’s significant compared to the last time you met him

Let alone now knowing he’s likely a god or some other type of higher being

Now, you weren’t overly religious compared to a few others in the village that had pledged themself to worshiping the pantheon

But now having him in front of you is kinda having you question if you should go to a temple and pray

“I’m curious of you. Indulge me in this”

Your eyes widen a bit but you nod, soon finding yourself wrapped in conversation with the blond man

Talking with Poseidon is a bit of a challenge at the beginning

He is the epitome of a perfectionist, and rather cold to the point that you don’t know if something is pissing him off

Viewing himself as a perfect being despite how he had some glaring issues

Mainly being his arrogance and pride

But you suppose that’s how anyone would end up with such unimaginable power

But after many days of trial and error you find common ground with him

Mainly on topics such as the ocean and his family

It’s odd hearing myths you grew up hearing come from the perspective of someone actually there

Yet interesting nonetheless especially as you tell him the version you had heard through the grapevine

He seems to find some amusement in hearing the slightly skewered version of events from the humans perspective

Often times adding some snide remark about it that makes you laugh

The way in which you casually roll off the insults to both yourself and your entire race seems to catch his attention

He might’ve been confused, or maybe even angry to an extent but he didn’t bring it up

Especially as you asked of how the ocean worked

Its world and freedom that came with it

You can’t help but try to imagine the pictures he paints of the kingdom he rules

Colourful collections of underwater flora of sorts called coral

Or the deepest reaches of his domain where Apollo’s light can’t penetrate

At some point though it shifts from exclusively asking him things to him inquiring about you and your life

Why you kept coming here in the first place let alone felt obligated to try and keep the waters clean

Especially when in his eyes humans were all greedy and selfish

Nothing but bottom feeding scum

With all that reason it shouldn’t make sense as to why he’s so curious but you don’t comment on it and tell him the answer

From the moment you were born you were created for one purpose alone

Marriage

Before you could even open your eyes your father could see the money he could make off of selling you

Your mother couldn’t care less after being worn down over time

She could barely care for anything anyways when she was focused on pleasing him

Couldn’t even take care of you when you had gotten to the age of being able to walk and make conscious decisions

Leaving you to your lonesome in a place that would eat you up in not time

So with that you focused on survival

Ending up scavenging the forest for extra food to fill your empty stomach

Learning to see nature’s beauty in the process

Finding the beach that you’d come to see as an escape

A real home compared to that empty house full of nothing but violence and the possibility of getting screamed out

Growing up into a beautiful young woman didn’t help in all this

Getting the leering eyes from men twice your age within town

Your father’s greed growing as he realized he could capitalize off this even more

You can feel your freedom slipping away by the days now

Sand through your fingers into the inevitable fate of a loveless marriage to a pig of a man

One who would break you to his own satisfaction

Wanting to see the fire in your eyes be smothered by his own hands

With all that Poseidon asks something afterwards that makes you smile

“I insult you and your face, why aren’t you mad”

“I don’t mind when most of what you say is tinged with some sort of truth. Especially since your the only one who treats me as something other than an object”

During his visits after this he changes a bit

He sits closer to you on the sand

What used to be a few feet separating the two of you now becomes that of a foot

You don’t comment on it out of respect

Especially since the conversations between the two of you become longer

A few times you barely got back home in time to avoid a verbal battle with your father

You couldn’t come to care about that though

Especially as the conversations become more deep

Actual emotion leaking through the cracks and allowing you to see something in him that you hadn’t seen before

Even a few times giving you the honour of seeing a small smile

It makes something in you flutter at that

You bury those feelings though, it was absurd to think of him that way

A god

When your you

So you continue on without addressing it

It doesn’t help that he’s started gifting you stuff as well

Starting off as some pretty shells you craft into jewelry

To strings of pearls he says he wanted to get rid of

It sends mixed messages in your head

Especially since he continues his hating human talk

(Though he notably stops making comments about you)

And it stays that way

A limbo you found yourself pondering about until one night it all changed

The moon hung high up in the dark blue sky as you sit beside the sea god watching waves crash endlessly onto the shore

Foam coming up to gently nip at your toes, something that makes a small smile come to your face

The stars shined within the endless sea that was the sky held up by atlas

Yet another tale the tyrant of the sea had told you of during these taken

As of the moment he weaves pearls into your hair

He’s insistent to do so despite you telling him that it wasn’t necessary

But he is not one who listens often and this is a case of this

“Marry me”

“Huh?!”

Yeah so he just blurts that out

You certainly didn’t expect it, though anything from him is

“Did you not hear what I said? Marry me”

“I understand what you said I’m just confused”

“How could you be confused about what I said? It’s quite simple even for a simple human brain”

You deadpan a bit at that but quickly refute with “I’m confused cause I’m human and your asking that. You know I’m not a god”

“It’s not much of a problem”

“But I’m not-“

“I can make you one”

You go silent at that, watching as his eyes stare down into your own

Emotions bleeding out of those deep blue abyss’s

“Won’t your family be upset?”

“I don’t care”

“B-“

“I said I don’t care. If anything they’d be more confused than anything that I’ve found someone”

“I…” you pause for a moment

You love him, you know you do but your still afraid of being confined away

Loosing your freedom to a person you loved would be worse than that of a stranger

“Would I be able to travel. To see the world even if we are together”

He scoffs

“Of course you can. I’d give you the world if I could”

Whatever hesitation you had melts away

He sees this and holds his hand out

You take it

“Meet me here tomorrow. I will take you away from this place”

You nod, tears lining your eyes as a smile lights up your face

Going home you feel joy for once

Hopeful

Bbbb

When you go home that night your met with your father glaring you down

Before you can even walk through the door he’s yelling profanities

Accusing you of being a whore

That your a disappointment

As usual

Your mother is in the corner, staring yet not intervening even as he grows more angry

More violent to the point your getting legitimately scared

You may be a grown woman but you know he’s stronger

Your entire childhood is an example of that

Words are thrown between the two of you

A haze of anger blinding you as it did him

And then it happens

At first you can’t comprehend what had happened

Your mother screamed and look terrified

And then a pain entered your gut

You look down to see red staining your chiton

Staring back you see your fathers expression

He even seemed surprised by his action

Yet he holds up the blade again

Intent clear as to finish the job, it was too late to turn around now

You run

Bolting out the house and into the darkened streets

Through the old beaten path of the woods

Down into the sandy beaches you found to be a real home

But in that panicked state you found yourself in you end up tripping into the sand

Just by the waters edge as he catches up

The look in his eyes shines with intent

It’s almost immediate that Poseidon feels that something is wrong

There’s something that goes down his spine, a feeling of dread he’d never felt before

And somehow he knows it’s about you

In an instant he’s back at that beach, a place that was just for you and him

Now sullied by the sight of a man holding your form beneath the waters surface

He forgets to breath for a moment before that man is dead

Blood staining the sand as he kicks his disgusting form away

Your dead already

No breath filling your lungs except for the salt water he held domain over

There is no saving you

And that breaks something in him

Gently he takes your body into his arms, water absorbed into your clothes along with sand clinging to you

Those pearls in your hair are still there, glimmering in the moonlight as he holds you close

He destroyed the village

A large sudden wave completely decimating the inhabitants before they could even wake

He held no sympathy

How could he when they had only wronged you your entire life

Perhaps that’s why he hates humans so much

Because in the end they are selfish creatures that drain the light out of anything good

They lie

Cheat

And manipulate just to kill whatever spot of light is left in the abyss of shit they call a world There is no one left to tell the tale of that village

nor any landmarks left to signify it was ever even there

It’s name is only left on ancient maps, most of which are destroyed by time or by his own hand

It’s a petty act but one that is the only satisfaction he can get anymore

He sits alone in his throne room, the other throne long made for you is stashed away

Kept for his eyes alone that oftentimes can’t linger on it for more than a few seconds

He only allows himself to break on those lone nights when the crushing weight of it all come down on him once more

He hates that he cries, a perfect being such as himself shouldn’t do so

Yet you make him do it

A feeble human who had captured his cold heart

Only for it to be destroyed once you are taken

He never talks of your real name, only ever referring to you as “Amphitrite”

No one deserves to utter your name

Not even himself after he failed you

But Aphrodite knows

As does Hades who mourns his brother’s loss

Love and hatred coil around one another

Whatever respect he had for humanity forever died that day, leading him in a downward spiral of hatred

It’s amazing what love can do, isn’t it?

[fraugwinska]

Chapter 14 - Anachronism

Anachronism (noun) 1. a person, thing, or idea that exists out of its time in history, especially one that happened or existed later than the period being shown

Tags & Warnings: Depressive thoughts, Violence, Murder

Day 1

“I see, okay, cool cool cool... But - when will you be back?” The princess asked, her hair still frazzled from the night. Granted, he had woken her up, but really, as the founder and owner of the Hazbin Hotel, she shouldn't sleep in like that – 6 a.m. wasn't that early when you had business to attend.

“Ah, well, my dear, that's the tricky part – I can't say for sure. Could be a day, could be a week – but there's something urgent that needs to be dealt with. So I regrettably cannot postpone this leave of absence.”

“Hold on, shithead.”, Vaggies voice penetrated his ears, rough and deeper than usual. She joined Charlie at the door, and Alastor smirked at the chagrin in her face. “You're supposed to help the hotel. You have obligations here, as much as I hate it, but we don't run on well wishes.”

Alastor tutted at her, his smile never fading. “Well, what better time to make use of our darling (Y/n)? That's what assistants are for, won't you agree? She is more than capable of taking over my workload until I return.”

Vaggie snarled at him, but Charlie put her hand on her shoulder, watching Alastor with a worrisome expression. “Well, I suppose she could, but even so, what about safety? Alastor, if the hotel is in trouble we are...”

“...not without protection. I'll know when things get out of control here, and shall return if my assistance is needed. Does that sound fair?”

The princess and her pet exchanged looks, he could practically hear their wheels turning. Aggravating, those two. He tapped his foot, impatiently.

“Okay then... well, yeah. I guess that works for...”, the blonde girl said at last, slowly and with a lingering hesitancy, but it was enough for him.

“Wonderful, now, I'll take my leave, let you ladies freshen up in peace. Ta-ta!”

He didn't give them time for a retort, his urgency driving him to travel with his shadows rather than by foot. He needed to get away, the sooner the better.

He needed to get a grip.

And that wasn't going to happen around her.

He only stopped when he felt the freezing air of the outskirts of the pride ring. Shadow travel was fast, insanely fast, but traveling this far exhausted even him. When he finally materialized, he was greeted by the peaceful darkness of the void.

The void.

The great nothingness.

Alastor's first memories of hell started with the void, the constant, roaring humm that filled the air after he fell. He didn't know why he returned to the very place he'd begun his afterlife, but he had learned to not question his instincts. At least until some time ago. He stared at the ever growing darkness and felt the pull. No sinner or hellborn had managed to venture into the void, the barrier around the seven rings of hell. Alastor was sure it wasn't possible either way, but his first day in hell were spent listening to it's call while he reformed his body and explored the new, wide set limits of his power. This place felt like an old friend, a retreat where he could clear his mind and level himself, just like the day he died and woke up here.

Alastor had always prided himself to be one of the rare few sinners who landed at the void. Normally, as he learned through his decades in hell, sinners would fall close to bigger cities, near civilization, closer to their peers. He knew that Zestial, one of the more ancient overlords and acquaintance of his also fell at the outskirts of the ring. He normally hated sharing a trait he deemed special, but he respected Zestial too much to be offended.

Now he had time and space to really think. The hotel was too full, full of noisy occupants, full of pestering ears, full of her scent and her confusing energy. He had stayed all through the night, hypnotized by the radiation of her energy she still emitted, even in slumber. And he had struggled, more than he had anticipated, to peel himself from her room came morning, to detach his gaze from her sleeping face, with that unholy smile that he was sole owner of still on slightly parted lips.

The void called him, and he greedily listened to it, using the sounds of the emptiness to calm his accelerating beating heart.

Day 2

He hated that he felt. He hated the fragility of them, their infuriatingly weakening effects they had on the mind. His back started to hurt, so he conjured himself a seat, a round and soft one.

There were feelings he accepted, even welcomed. Joy, for example, in the right context and circumstances, was a rather gratifying feeling he often embraced when he slaughtered his victims. Or danced to a good tune, which happened less than the other. Anger, controlled and in moderation was also useful.

But then there were the crippling ones he detested. Sadness was one of them. He despised the way it made the chest hurt and the mood sink, how it made him long for past days, the days where his mother was alive. But that was something he had always been able to control, trained himself to masterfully surpress to the point where he didn't even have to try.

And the new one he couldn't get a hold on. That strange, new feeling that left him weak, confused and vulnerable, started by a mere touch of gray skin.

Desire. For the first time in his life he felt the need to want somebody . He wanted , and that want drove him to actions he wasn't used to, and the more he got, the more he desired, an endless circle, a cycle he was trapped in. Desire was an abhorrent child of love. Ha. Love. The only love he had ever needed died just months before he became of age. Never again did he feel something like it, nor did he want to. Love was a liability. It easily, naively opened doors that should better remain locked for not to fall prey to predators. And Alastor surely wasn't prey .

But now, there it was. Desire. Infecting him like a common, disgusting virus with no antidote. He desired her. He had to make this conclusion, as much as he wanted to deny it. He just didn't know if he desired her power, or something more.

Day 3

Alastor was hungry. But no food would satiate this feeling of craving. He craved her. No. No, he reminded himself. That was preposterous. He didn't crave her, he hungered for her energy. That one, tiny taste of her power had left him wanting more, had him addicted like the most potent drug. His shadows felt the yearning too, they were restless and swirled agitated around him. Especially one. He had Ozul bound, and his shade let him know how much he hated it. Relentlessly he tugged and pulled and twisted himself, but he knew without Alastor's permission, he wasn't going anywhere. He had become bold, that one. Which was truly unfortunate, since he was the oldest of his shadow companions. The original specter.

He hasn't slept at all. The coolness a refreshing chance from the heat of the city and settling down in his bones. Still, he had yet to have a revelation – his mind fought with him. Hunger fought with him. A longing he needed to be for power, and not... trivialities. Another strong tug made him growl.

“Stop it this instant, you fool.”

Ozul hissed at him. He hissed. Alastor's fury was instant and intense as he forced him back with a yank. It whined and struggled against his grasp.

“m̵̳͋̀ĩ̷̻s̸̡̻͊͘s̵̝̏ ̵̤̻͋̌g̴̢͍͐e̸͎̿̎m̴̖̆.̶̨̅̿ ̸̟̩́̉w̸̬̏à̷̼̎n̸̡͉̈́͝t̷̫̟̂͝ ̷͔͎̄̿t̷̥͑ơ̸̡ ̸̺̤́s̸̛͚͖è̷̳̯͑è̶͖͎ ̸͙̭̀g̴̠͖͌ė̷͈̯m̶̭̭͑.̷̦̐” (miss gem. want to see gem)

“You are acting like an insolent child.”

“y̷̼̓o̸̮̎u̸̯̺͂͂ ̴̘̠̃̎m̸̘͕̅ḭ̴̺̎s̸͚̙̐s̷̬͊ ̷͍͕̈g̴̦̑̊e̴̼̣̽m̶̙̺͑̽.̵̳̿ ̴͙͐̓y̷̢͕̏o̶̲̮͝ủ̴̝ ̵͛̀͜m̴̮̖̐e̴͉̋ ̸̝͇̉̂s̵̠̄ǎ̸̞͕̏m̴̲̪̍̽ȇ̷̛ͅ” (you miss gem. you me same.)

His antlers sprouted like weed as his body exploded with crushing cracks and hurtful rips. The other shadows roared in pain and anxiety, swirling around the feet of their master.

“ɨ ɖօռ'ȶ ʍɨֆֆ ǟռʏȶɦɨռɢ, ɨ ǟʍ ʏօʊʀ ʍǟֆȶɛʀ ʏօʊ աօʀȶɦʟɛֆֆ, աɛǟӄ, ɖɨֆօɮɛɖɨɛռȶ...”(I DON'T MISS ANYTHING; I AM YOUR MASTER YOU WORTHLESS; WEAK; DISOBEDIENT...)

In his rage, he slashed at his own shadow, tearing the ground with every word he spat. Ozul dodged his claws, his teal maw and eyes glowing brightly at him in a grimace of pity. He didn't miss that woman. She was nothing more than a servant. Just another soul he owned. A chip in the long game. A tool to be used. To be exploited. Disposable.

His clawing stopped, his arms heavy and aching. Ozul stared at him, and he stared back.

Disposable.

That word tasted sour and rancid on his tongue. He took heavy breaths, taking in the stinging pain of his elongated limbs that he grew far too quickly.

Disposable.

What would he do if he harnessed her power and she would vanish? Her spirit broken? Her will cease to exist? Why does it even matter? Why does he care? Does he care? Ozul slithered to him, slowly, carefully. Alastor let him creep up his arm and onto his shoulders. He closed his eyes and let visions of Ozul play on his mind. He saw her, dutifully reading what he provided her, sighing now and again. He saw her watching out the window, waving him goodbye as he left his mansion for some errand. He saw her at his doorstep in the middle of the night, a cup of warm milk in hand meant for him. He saw her cold, disgusted glare at Vox's incredulous remarks about him. He saw her hand on his cheek, golden eyes fixed on his as she managed to snap him out of his transformation.

Disposable.

What a wretched word.

Day 4

For the first time since being the radio demon, Alastor truly felt cold. The edges of hell lacked the heat humans so foolishly attributed to the place of eternal damnation. Not that hell wasn't warm. It had it's seasons, and temperatures rarely fell so much as to truly give it's inhabitants a chill.

But he felt freezing. He had thought it would be comforting. Alastor was always warm, like an old cathedral radio that ran for too long, emitting a steady heat, whether he was wearing a coat, a shirt, or nothing at all. But the cold had crept into his innermost being, numbing his body to the point where it hurt to move. But it did not numb his mind. The hum of the void felt no longer serene, but noisy and disturbing. He stared into the void for hours without finishing a thought before the next one began. He felt trapped in his own train of thoughts. A prisoner of his feelings he didn't want. He felt he was failing to manage himself like he used to. And most of all, Alastor felt lonely.

His legs cracked from lack of usage as he stood up. Rosie. He needed to see Rosie. He couldn't be seen like this, by anyone, so he shadowtraveled again, his unstable state making him stumble into a shelf in Rosie's backrooms. He pulled himself upright and sent a shade to get her. Mere seconds later, she was storming through the door.

“What in the world?! Alastor, what happened? You are cold as ice!”

The demoness caught him by his arms, holding his deteriorated form upright.

“I need your help, my friend.”

Rosie only nodded, guiding him to the nearest chair.

“Of course, my dear.”

Day 5

Alastor slept for more than 16 hours. A testament of his friendship with Rosie, that he was able to leave himself this vilnerable in her care. His sleep, however, had been haunted, blurring the lines between reality and fiction, depicting scenes of his life and intertwining them with mementos of her, phasing fast in between horrific, enigmatic and blissfull.

He awoke with a raging headache, the morning sun already turning into full bloom of a mid-day heat. Apparently Rosie had managed to drag him into her personal suite above her emporium, resting him on her biggest chippendale settee. The blanket he was draped in was made out of finest cream cashmere and smelled new and unused. His darling friend really knew him well.

“Oh my stars, you're awake! I almost thought you'd gone into hibernation.”

Rosie entered the room, a tray with a teapot and two cups in her hands. Alastor recognized the green and gold pattern – it was the china he had bought her after his last visit. He quickly sat up, straightening his jacket (which Rosie hadn't removed and he was grateful for).

"I apologize for my unseemly display yesterday, my dearest Rosie.” He waved away the blanket, bringing it up just enough to return his coat to it's intended fold. She took place in a matching seat across from him, her flowing dress and skirts billowing with every movement, and offered him a cup, filling it with deep brown liquid.

He was too exhausted to even ask for a cup of coffee - he somehow had a feeling it wouldn't taste right anyway. But the tea smelled spiced and earthy, which was unusual for his companion, so he decided to trust her judgment and drink it.

They sipped their tea in quietude, but he knew that, just like himself, she had the need to break the silence. He also knew she was carefully, consideringly waiting for him to speak. A feat only she possessed to get out of him things he would otherwise choose to remain untold.

Rosie was another exception, very similar to her . Rosie was his oldest friend, a confidant he didn't expect to have when he became an overlord. Rosie had gained his trust, not by the usual tit-for-tat hellish society loved to practice, but by proving him time and time again, from te very beginning, that she didn't feel the need to use him for anything, instead just enjoying his presence, no strings attached, so to say.

So Alastor spoke, and started to tell his story.

He told her about the night in the Lava lounge, sparing no detail, describing the way she dealt with Vox, the satisfaction he felt watching her on stage. He told her about his percieved solution of her puzzle, what he deducted to be the answer – that she had fallen for him, and his intent to use it to his advantage. He knew she would disapprove of the predicament of invading (Y/n)'s privacy, more so catching her in one of most private moments, but he needed to paint the full picture. He told her about the jeweled copy, how he thought that it would act like a container of her energy just to be proven wrong. That instead, it had guided him to her, and at his touch she had spilled with flowing power like a freshly broken spring, flooding him with it to the point of loosing control over his thoughts and body. How she, miraculously, brought him back through carefully chosen words. That he fled to relieve himself of the overpowering force he was still filled with. How he found himself regretful of the way he harmed her and returned to apologize. About how she instead tried to take the blame, to monopolize the guilt and how he refused her. He told Rosie about her wish for him to keep her company, and that he took her plea to stay the whole night, only to leave before she awoke to get space to sort this whole mess out. When he finally recounted the past four days at the void, the tea in his cup was cold and stale.

Rosie had listened quietly, not once attempting to interject. The tick-tock of the mounted wall clock in the corner of the room marked the ending of an age until she set her teacup down. Alastor swallowed dry, waiting for her assessment. A deep, measured breath left her nose and she leaned back in her seat, her expression seemingly in deep contemplation.

Something else played in those coal dark eyes, and Alastor didn't like it one bit. Was that pity? Was it condescention? Rosie wasn't prone to neither.

“Oh, Alastor...”, she started, shaking her head. “For all the astuteness, intelligence and eloquence you possess, you truly can be a righteous blockhead.”

Alastor's eye twitched.

“While I cannot deny that it seems the little dove has indeed feelings for you – you gravely misinterpreted my little puzzle. I must say, I now come to regret not being any clearer, I feel I took part in the way things escalated to this. “, she sighed with a frown. Then, she looked directly at him, a small, crooked smile on her lips. “But what's done is done. Let's try it again, my dear, and this time, stop denying yourself the path to the true answer – you are better than that. Think, Alastor. Think about what you've told me before answering: What is the protective lie, and what the obvious truth?”

Alastor stared at her.

He didn't want to say it. He didn't want to think it. He didn't want to accept it.

Rosie's smile widened, reading him like a well-known book. The protective lie: That she was just like any other soul he owned. The obvious truth: That she wasn't the only one who fell victim to forbidden feelings.

Day 6

He knew he had to return. The last day was spent in Rosie's company. He knew she had been holding back a lot of things she wanted to say, for the sake of him coming to terms with his uncomfortable new insights. Instead, she gave him space to initiate conversation when he decided to, making herself busy in her apartment. She only told him she closed the shop for the day, and to not worry about missing business, since she could do what the hell she wanted.

In the evening, after a fabulous meal Rosie cooked (serving finest intestines in a hearty stew), she broke her self-imposed silence to ask him

“I don't want to pry, sweetheart, but what do you plan to do?”

Alastor dabbed his mouth with a napkin, removing the last remnants of the tasty demon flesh.

“In all honesty, Rosie, I am at odds.”

Rosie tilted her head at him, her face that of incredulity. “Really, what would be the harm in entertaining the idea that you are fond of a beautiful, talented, devoted girl?”

He remained silent, his wide smile fading into a barely curved line.

“You know as well as I do I am these things are foreign to me, impossible even.”

“And yet you feel something for this girl. You may have never for another, but now, for her, you do, Alastor. Would a parched man in a desert deny himself of drinking when he finds an Oasis?”

Alastor sighed. Rosie was nothing but a true romantic at heart, but he? The concept of fondness, of courting and romance had always abstract and revolting to him. Yes, he felt things for her, but they could be fleeting, a lapse in judgment, a loss of control he was deeply uneasy to sacrifice.

She had dropped the issue, but the question still hung between them as she went to bed.

Now it was morning, and he prepared himself to face her again. That night he decided to keep his distance, to slowly detach himself from the need he felt when it came to her. Knowing her compliance and steadfast determination to please him, she wouldn't question or fight him if he'd dismiss what happened without much explanation.

When he told Rosie, she gave him a disapproving look, sadness in her voice as she told him that he was  a fool and on his best way to hurt her favorite dove deeply. He knew she was right, of course, but he needed to do what he deemed best. It was better this way.

So, he bid her farewell, this time walking the distance from Cannibal Town back to the hotel. He heard Ozul whine and fizz in apparent discontent, but he too, had to accept his masters decision.

He entered the hotel quietly, his cat companion dozing at the bar. What luck, he thought, glad to not be stopped by rude comments or displeasured banter. He made long strides, taking the stairs up to his radio tower. He felt the need for soothing blues. On the third flight of stairs, he almost crashed into Angel Dust who rounded the corner from the other side. The spider jumped at the sight of him, clutching his over-exaggerated breast in overly dramatic shock.

“Jesus Christ on a stick, Al!” Alastor sneered at the cursing demon. “Fuck, popping up like the worlds most haunted jack-in-the-box. 'Ya almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Why, my effeminate fellow, that would only mean you'd have a heart in the first place, how joyous that would be?” He grinned widely at the scowling expression his little remark resulted in. “I'd love to stay and chit-chat, but I have a lot to catch up with.”

He started walking past him, when he heard Angel's muttered response.

“Not much to catch up with, buckboy, since Rocky had to shoulder all your fucking work like the boss-bitch she is. You betta make sure 'ya thank her on 'ya knees.”

He didn't reply, keeping his pace. Yet, he couldn't help but notice how quickly his smile threatened to slip with the reminder of his gem's adversities.

... He had made himself comfortable on the extravagant sofa, pouring himself another glass of whiskey and downing it without the usual enjoyment and moderation. He still felt tense, and the alcohol wasn't working in taking the edge off. A few hours back and he still was cooped up in his broadcasting room, unsure on how to proceed. He was about to pour his third glass when he heard three knocks on the hatch.

Three slightly angry knocks.

He moved to open the door to maybe Vaggie, who always had an excuse to be agitated with him, readying to tell her off, when the faint smell hit him.

Not Vaggie. It was her.

He took a deep breath. Showtime.

With nimble fingers he pulled the hatch open, revealing his beautiful assistant looking up to him with burning eyes like two golden suns. His darling girl. His precious gem.

"Ah, hello, kitten! You look absolutely dashing this morning."

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[stationintern]

drarry prompt: bus ride

okayyyy let's go. also inspired by the @goblinmatriarch prompt about running into someone when you're already late and having to decide whether to make your appointment or follow your heart

Freddie’s great. Really, he is. Or, he was. Draco’s not sure– the years all blend together.

He’s on the bus to Freddie’s house, and London passes by the window in a blur as he allows himself to get lost in his thoughts. He hasn’t always taken the bus. He used to Apparate, back when he was young and excited and had less to think over. He’s happy, isn’t he?

He and Freddie each bring something special to their relationship. Freddie has a rather large cock and isn’t in any rush to move in, which is ideal since Draco values his personal space. Draco has the kind of skills in bed you can only get from a few years of self-destructive sexual promiscuity, and the kind of humour you can only get from another few years of re-assimilation into the society you were once exiled from, which requires the ability to laugh at one's self a good amount.

It’s been three years, and maybe the whole not-moving-in thing should be a concern. They aren’t really… moving forward in any aspect of their relationship, and at first that was preferable. Now, Pansy’s got married, Blaise and Anthony are on their third vow renewal (in the Bahamas this time), Greg is expecting a child, and Draco feels distinctly behind the times. Maybe he should start looking for something more serious? Is this what he wants? A long-term boyfriend who has never been interested in anything more, liked him enough to push him towards it, pull him in. Why hasn’t Draco felt the need to go deeper?

There’s no way to be sure, so now he takes the bus. 

It slows to a stop and Draco doesn’t bother to look up from his novel– the one he’s perpetually stuck in the middle of, a mask and a wall to hide the horde of questions running through his mind every time he chooses to ride public transportation– until there’s a shifting in the seat next to him. The bus is nearly empty, so there’s no reason for someone to choose the seat next to him, and if he’s learned anything by now, he’s learned that being singled out means that he’s been spotted– never as a naturally handsome, intelligent looking man, but as Draco Malfoy, and there’s hardly a situation where that could be positive.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

“You’re on the bus.”

“As are you.”

Potter looks the same as ever– younger than he should, ridiculously hip, hauntingly handsome. Sometime over the last decade he’d got himself an eyebrow piercing, and since then Draco has had to make a conscious effort to avert his eyes whenever his ex-archenemy-turned-coworker is near. 

They have an unspoken understanding these days, ever since they realized they both work for the same nonprofit. The Youth Entertainment Coalition formed around five years back, and Draco was assigned to the Literacy Department. Its goal being to avoid the same kind of teenage radicalism that presented itself during the war, and Draco was a shoo-in for a leadership position. He was young, apologetic, and had extensive experience when it came to being radicalized, so of course he would know how to combat it. His department began opening twenty-four-hour bookshops and game rooms, creating a safe space for teenagers to come research and meet people different from them at all hours. And they may not have any set-in-stone evidence of its effect, but no wars have broken out, so they count that as a win.

The only downside of the job proved to be Potter, who made it a point to linger around their shared office building whenever he could. His presence became a constant reminder of everything Draco could have been: good. They don’t antagonize each other, they only speak when necessary, and it works quite well. No murders have occurred… yet.

“Why not just Apparate?”

Why not just Apparate to his boyfriend’s house? He used to.

“I like to collect my thoughts,” Draco replies, “In a third location. Not at my house, not at my destination. Sometimes it’s nice to have somewhere in-between the two.”

Potter shifts again. Draco still hasn’t truly looked at him. If he did, he’d have to look at that fucking piercing, and Potter’s eyes, and he’d end up with so much more to think about than before. There’s simply no time for that.

“Why are you taking the bus?” Draco asks.

“The same reason, I guess. It’s nowhere,” Potter replies, “Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.” Draco agrees, “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“From where?”

“Blind date.”

“A good one?”

“Not at all. He sucked.”

Draco takes a sharp breath. Of course, Potter is into men. Yet another thing Draco does not have time to think about.

“You’re gay now?”

“Now? I’ve been gay.”

Draco finally takes the leap and looks over at Potter, who gleams in the afternoon light- with his unapologetically toothy smile and consistently round glasses perched low on his nose. It’s ridiculous, how handsome the man is. Draco has done pretty well ignoring it, but there’s only so much a person can take. It’s simply not fair, how someone can be so good-looking and morally upstanding. 

“And the Prophet?”

“Haven’t picked up on it. Where are you headed?”

“Chelsea,” Draco says, simply. He could say ‘my boyfriend’s house,’ but he doesn’t, unsure of why.

“Mm. I’m sick of blind dates.”

“As is anyone whose ever been on one.”

“It makes me lose faith in my friends, you know? Like, I don’t know where they find these people.”

“The gutter, most likely.”

“I just want to meet someone organically, but it gets to this point when you’re an adult… where it feels like you’re just out of people to meet. Am I making sense?”

“Yes,” Draco gets it, “It’s hard to get to know people. You have to rehash everything, let them in. It’s easier to just stick with the people who’ve been there, who know you… intimately.”

“Exactly,” Potter breathes a heavy sigh of relief, sinking low into his seat and spreading his legs obscenely, “You know, I’ve wanted to get to know you. For a while, actually.”

Draco’s blood freezes like ice, “Me?”

“Yeah,” Potter says, knocking shoulders with Draco, “But, like, how was I supposed to approach you? You were always around, but in the office you have this… face. Like, don’t speak to me about anything other than my bookshops or I’ll explode.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Whatever. Why would you want to get to know me?”

“You’re interesting.”

“In which way?”

“All of them.”

Draco’s mouth hangs open for an embarrassing amount of time while he processes that response, “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Yeah. You can… get to know me. I suppose.”

Draco’s not sure what kind of spirit has possessed him, but apparently it’s hell-bent on making his life more complicated than it was before.

“Are you free tonight?” Potter asks.

The bus slows to a stop, and Draco’s knows that this is where he should get off. He's already running late, and this is his stop. But, curiosity and dissatisfaction propel him into action. He holds up a finger, pulls out his phone, and brings up Freddie’s contact.

I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it tonight.

Draco knows that he’s walking a fine line here. Standing up his boyfriend to hang out with someone he’s attracted to and wants to get to know better. But, deep down, he knows that Freddie won’t care. He probably wouldn’t care if Draco broke up with him right now with a text that simply said ‘we’re over.’ All in lowercase, no less. 

Freddie has never been prone to loud emotions, and nobody's emotions are louder than Draco’s. Something’s been missing for a while.

It is time to move forward. It is time to get to know new people, even if they’re old enemies. Maybe that’s the best part of it all– getting to go over their shared history and recontextualize it, see what was behind the wall of hatred they kept safely in between them for all of those years.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and looks over at Potter, who is staring at him with a boyish raise of the eyebrow and tilt of the mouth, full of anticipation– something fresh and interesting and completely unknown.

“Yeah,” Draco replies, “I may not be new, but I’m definitely free.”

if you liked this, feel free to leave a comment or kudos over on ao3!

[last-herondale]

We Could Have Been Everything

Loki x FemReader

Warnings: Cursing, heartbreak, lying

This is angst. Pure heart break 💔 I apologize in advance.

A/N: i had this idea of a scene where y/n is just utterly heart broken by Loki but she refuses to let him have the last word.

Enjoy…? 🤘🏼

Masterlist

It was pouring buckets outside. This planet was known for its constant downpours and thunderstorms. Loki figured it was as good as any place to lay low for a bit. He had messed up, as he always seemed to do. Pissed off the wrong people, made enemies on the wrong planet. All of that he could handle with grace and finesse, but there was one monumental hiccup that he never expected.

You.

He sat alone at a small diner, staring down at a cup of what he hoped was coffee, but with this planet he couldn’t be sure. He had been jumping around from planet to planet for months now, hoping for one of these spots to be promising for a new home. But he was always disappointed. Every place seemed to be missing something. He amazed himself by how nitpicky he could be, even in this time of uncertainty.

But he knew what was missing, or rather who was missing. But he pushed those thoughts far from his mind. He made his decision. It was for the best, at least that was what he had tried to convince to himself. Leaving you behind on Earth was the hardest thing he ever had to do—but he had to do it.

The image of you flashed in his memory as it always did. He sighed and pushed his mug away as he put a few local currency on the table and left. He didn’t bother with an umbrella, he could always use his magic to make himself dry later. Right now he wanted to feel the cold, fat rain drops hit his skin. He wanted to feel anything but what he had felt the last few months.

As he made his way through the streets towards his rented room, the sky turned a dark grey as the sun dipped low in the horizon. The streets were quiet— nearly silent compared to the traffic on Earth. Loki had come to miss the constant roar of traffic in New York. He missed watching you stir at the sound of sirens, tangling the sheets under your legs and your rested your head on his chest.

The feel of your bare skin on his. The scent of you—

Loki was knocked back by a strong force that took him completely by surprise. He landed on his ass, his pants soaked from the impact. He looked up with a murderous rage, his eyes glowing green as he saw a figure before him. He pulled back his upper lip in a snarl, his mouth ready to yell out all of the worst profanities—but the figure stepped closer and the outline became horrifically recognizable.

His expression went slack.

“Y/n?”

You glared down at him, your hair was wet and it clung to your face. Every inch of you was soaked from the rain, but your body was burning with rage as you looked down at him. He scrambled up, his expression in utter shock from seeing you here.

“How? What are you—“ you slapped him hard across the face. Your hand stung from the impact but you kept your composure as he looked at you with shock, one hand holding his cheek.

“Do you really think that you are in any position to ask questions?” You hissed, jabbing a finger at his chest. Words seemed to fail him. He wanted to explain himself, to explain why he left— but he was too happy to see you again. Even if you seemed dead sent on beating him to death, he could not hide the spark of hope that ignited in his chest.

“Just…let me explain -“

“FUCK. YOU!” You yelled at him. He flinched at your words but shut his mouth as you continued to yell. “You leave me a letter— a fucking note, Loki! Is that all I get? After everything? The best I get is a fucking sticky note?!”

Loki bit his lip. He remembers the words he wrote clear as day.

I’m not good for you. Please Forgive me.

It was not one of his prouder moments, but he knew that if he lingered to long on what he needed to say, he would never be able to leave you.

“And then you just leave? Like a fucking coward— you skip town?? Try to hide in this shithole system? Do you really think it’s that easy for a god to disappear, you piece of shit? Did you think it was okay to have me worried sick for months not knowing whether you were alive or dead? Did I really mean so little to you?”

“You meant everything to me!” Loki shouted. He took a step closer to you but you kept your finger jabbed against him to keep his distance. He frantically searched your eyes, feeling his tears bead on his face.

“I had to leave—don’t you understand? Everywhere I go, I make a mess of things. Always running—always fighting. That’s not a life I wanted for you.”

“That was not your choice to make!” You yelled. You pushed your hand away from him and began to pace the sidewalk a bit as you threw your hands up in exasperation. You turned back to look at him, your eyes a mixture of anger and sadness.

“You do not get to come into my life like this—make me feel this way for you—make me fall so in love with you—that I can’t breathe when you are away from me“ your voice shook as you said this. Tears rolled down Loki’s face and they mixed with the rain.

“You don’t get to decide what I want my life to be. I wanted to be with you. I wanted to be the one that was there with you every step of the way—no matter what may happen. You made me want that. You made me want it all— then you just fucking ripped it all away.”

Loki looked absolutely defeated. He took a step closer to you, waiting for you to push him away. He deserved it, he knew. Everything you said was right, and it killed him inside. You didn’t flinch from him, and he took a few more steps until he was inches away. He watched a few drops of rain fall from your face, getting caught up in the beauty of you.

“I’m sorry— I’m so sorry, my love. I never wanted to hurt you, I just needed— to protect you.” He said in a low whisper. His throat was raspy with emotion as he looked into your eyes. “Im not worthy of you.”

Your eyes softened a bit at his words. You leaned in a bit, and Loki caught the scent of your perfume and inhaled like an addict. How he longed for you these past months. He thought you might kiss him, hit him again, whatever. He would let you do it to him willingly.

You stopped until your foreheads were touching. The two of you savored the contact for a minute before you spoke. “I believed in us. I believed that we could do anything together— be anyone we wanted to be, together. I had hope—so much hope and love for us, Loki.”

“And now?” Loki asked quietly.

You shivered once, not because of the cold or the rain. You broke apart from him, watching his face fall as you took a step back from him. Your heart ached, as it had for the past few months in thunderous waves of pain.

“Now I don’t believe in anything.” You said flatly.

Loki felt his chest deflate as his heart shattered. “Y/n-“ he tried to beg before you cut him off.

“I just came to make sure you were alive. Nothing more. I know I shouldn’t, since You’ve made it clear how much you care, but what can I say, old habits are hard to break.” You said bitterly. You let yourself take one last look at Loki, seeing him so disheveled broke your heart. You finally looked away from him.

“Goodbye, Loki.”

He called your name loudly as you disappeared without a trace. He fell to his knees sobbing, clutching his chest as if his heart didn’t just evaporate from his body.

[spaceyaceface]

Don't Go Where I Can't Follow

Sebastian Sallow and Ominis Gaunt (Platonic) (Or not idk read it how you like)

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Feelings of guilt, murder, almost murder, angstttt oh my god, hurt/comfort

Summary: Sebastian can't give up. Not even after he's killed his Uncle. He's determined to save Anne, and won't take no for an answer.

Or, a brief exploration into the broken(?) friendship between Sebastian and Ominis after everything happens.

A/N: A bit of a deviation from my normal content. No MC to be seen here besides a brief mention. I really liked writing this, though, because it's hard to imagine things go "back to normal" after the catacombs.

They’d all given up on him. On Anne. Even she had made that clear in that damned letter, running off to Merlin knows where. What did they not understand? He couldn’t afford to give up; not when he knew he was so close.

Solomon had destroyed the relic, and Anne had done the same with the book. For a while, those blows had devastated him. 

But they hadn’t been able to burn what lingered in his mind. 

He’d read that book, over and over, practically memorized it—and he found it was enough to start on. Enough to keep him going. 

No one agreed with him. They were too afraid of the power that laid just past their fingertips. Ironic, for the new fifth year he had befriended. Hadn’t they been trying to master powerful magic themselves? What was it that had them so afraid this time around? The fear they felt—both them and Ominis—is what stopped them. It was foolish. Why fear it, when you could control it?

Because he’d felt the way that sort of magic flowed through him. He understood the reins he had to hold, the deep well that was stored so deep, just waiting to be accessed. 

There had to be a cure in those depths. Had to. 

He no longer asked for help in his studies. Why bother—all he’d get was a no, an argument. Another person telling him he’d gone too far, when he knew he was just scratching the surface. 

He’d made new habits. Ones that involved him sneaking around the castle, even in the light of day. Ones that had him skipping classes—none of them mattered more than his sole focus. He skipped meals. Spoke to no one. An endless loop of searching, searching, searching. 

He’d find it. The answer. It was out there. 

People stared at him wherever he was seen nowadays. He supposed he couldn’t blame them—he looked quite different. His hair had grown longer. Eyes more sunken. When he looked in a mirror, he saw himself looking more and more like Anne, and it only spurred him to try harder. 

There was one pair of eyes that never looked upon him—simply because they couldn’t. They belonged to the person Sebastian avoided the most. 

Because there was a pain that lingered there—one that hurt more than others. One that reminded him of those moments after he killed his uncle, a twist of the stomach that’ll leave him breathless if he lets it. 

He’d labeled that feeling as betrayal. It didn’t seem right, but he decided it was close enough. He’d felt betrayed by Solomon, and betrayed by Ominis. Surely that was the thread that connected them. 

But Ominis hadn’t betrayed him completely. Not like his uncle had. No—Ominis had decided not to turn him in. His loyalty had won out for that much—maybe that was why it had hurt even more. That there was some loyalty—some trust—that remained. It just had limits. 

It was probably cruel of him to use his old friend’s space in a way he would have so very disagreed with. But Ominis hadn’t been back to the Undercroft after everything had happened, and Sebastian didn’t know of any other place to continue his research. So he defaced the walls with pages torn from books, with writings and notes connecting them. 

He was scribbling something down on one of the pages when he heard the door open behind him. 

It seemed that Ominis had finally returned. 

Sebastian tensed, standing silently. Ominis’s wand let out its constant red glow, and Sebastian knew his friend sensed him, confirmed further when his pale friend faced toward him. 

“Sebastian.” 

It was strange, hearing his name in someone’s voice. It struck Sebastian that it had been quite some time since someone had spoken directly to him. 

“Ominis,” he answered, frowning. 

“I need to talk to you.” 

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

“You’re not yourself, Sebastian,” Ominis said. “You haven’t been for months.”

“How do you know that?” Sebastian hissed. “You’ve given up on me. Everyone has. I think you’ve all just forgotten what I’m like.”

“Sebastian—”

“But I don’t give up so easily,” he continued, stepping closer to the blond. “Even if Anne is done with me, I’m not finished. Not until I find a way to heal her.”

“I haven’t given up on you,” Ominis spat. “Why on earth do you think I’m here right now? And do you think I want to see Anne healed any less than you do? This isn’t the way to do it, Sebastian. Don’t you feel any of it?”

“Feel what?” he growled. 

“Guilt,” Ominis answered. “Remorse. I know it’s eating you whole. Don’t you regret any of it? Haven’t you lost enough of yourself already?”

Sebastian laughed bitterly. “Lost myself? I haven’t lost anything. At least not anything worthwhile.” 

“Are you as blind as I am?” Ominis shouted. “What about your mind? Clearly that’s not with you. Your uncle is gone. Your sister.”

Anger anew ignited inside him. “This is for her! All of it!” Sebastian roared. 

“She doesn’t want it!” Ominis yelled. They were across from each other, a few short feet apart. “She doesn’t want you, not sick with this madness!”

And that’s when Sebastian realized his wand was raised. 

It’s pointed directly at Ominis’s chest. There was a familiar taste on his tongue—like iron, but more bitter. It’s the taste of words uttered once before, words that had taken a life. 

His wand clattered to the ground. Before, this time, instead of after. Out of fear instead of regret. The sound echoed from the walls, and it sounded too much like those catacombs. 

He’d almost done it. Again.

He looked back up at Ominis, and to his surprise, there was no horror there. No fear, from his best friend being ready to kill him. Instead, there was nothing but anguish, tears flowing freely down his face. 

“Please,” Ominis said. His voice was soft. Trembling. Nothing like the shouts from moments before. “Please, Sebastian. I know this path. I’ve followed you, for better or worse, for all my life. But I can’t come with you if this is where you go. I’m begging you, don’t go where I can’t follow.” 

“Ominis…” The word came out as a twisted, strangled noise. 

He wasn’t sure who rushed to who, or if it was a perfect meeting in the middle. But suddenly, Ominis was embracing him, and Sebastian clung back like he was drowning. A sob made its way up his throat, and hot tears came tumbling down on his friend’s robes. 

Those things he had locked away, refused to let himself feel, came forward with full force. The loneliness. The sting of his failures. The guilt. That was what he had felt, every time he had looked at his friend. A guilt and shame so deep and lasting, he feared it would destroy him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, over and over again. Because his friend had warned him, he had seen the end from the beginning, and Sebastian had ignored it. “I’ve lost everything. Everything.”

“Not everything,” Ominis said, pulling away enough to talk to him. “I’m right here.” 

Sebastian leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against his. “You’re the only family I have left.”

Ominis seemed at a loss with that, tears anew flowing out. It took a few moments for him to croak out a few words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I need to stop,” Sebastian said. “I need your help. I can’t do this, not alone.”

“You won’t be alone,” Ominis promised. “Not anymore.”

One feeling came forward, warmer than the rest. One that he decided he would cling onto, with everything he had. 

Hope.

[emiravmallister]

location: at a gathering in oldtown. the night before septon demir is to be buried after his murder @amirofmanderlys

the small gathering after dinner should have felt like a comfort. it was only family, only those of the old way, only people she had known her whole life. and yet, emira felt uneasy.

the air was thick with unease and quiet conversation, the dim candlelight casting long shadows along the walls. it was a somber thing, this gathering. there was no laughter, no music, no ease. it wasn’t meant to be, of course—tomorrow, they would bury septon demir. but emira hated the way the room felt stifling, how the weight of what had happened settled so heavily on them all.

she spotted amir across the room and, without hesitation, made her way toward him. she didn’t care if it was obvious—she had spent enough time lingering in tense, stilted conversations with others, making the expected rounds, offering polite words she didn’t quite feel. she needed something familiar, something steady, and amir had always been that for her. he stood slightly apart from everyone,his expression unreadable. there was a steadiness in him she admired—envied, even. she could be a storm, wild and untamed, but amir was the tide, constant, unwavering. and right now, she needed that.

settling beside him, she exhaled softly, her fingers instinctively reaching for the edge of her veil, toying with the fabric as she stared into the flickering light of a nearby candle. “this doesn’t feel real,” she murmured, her voice quieter than usual, lacking its usual dramatic flair. “even now, sitting here, it doesn’t feel like he’s really gone.”

her gaze flickered toward amir, watching the way the candlelight cast sharp lines across his face. she wanted to say something else, something more, but the words tangled in her throat. instead, she managed a small, humorless smile. “you’re not allowed to go far tomorrow,” she said, trying for something light, something easier. “i mean it, amir. if i have to endure one more solemn-faced lord asking me how i feel, i might throw myself into the sea.”

it was easier to joke than to admit that the idea of walking through oldtown into that sept without someone at her side made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

[raverinalavara]

Hope

Eventual Remus x Reader, past Sirius x Reader (potential in the future again idk) I would love to take this into a story, give me your thoughts <3

The night air was biting, colder than it should have been for early autumn. Or maybe that was just how everything felt these days—cold, sharp, unrelenting. Remus pulled his threadbare cloak tighter around his shoulders, his steps heavier than they should have been. The moon had only just begun to wane, and the ache in his bones lingered, a constant reminder of the monster lurking beneath his skin. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The Weasleys had sent a patronus. You were at the Burrow. You, with your fiery spirit and unyielding strength, who had survived more than anyone should have had to, were breaking. And Remus would be damned if he let you do it alone.

His heart twisted as he thought of you—James’ little sister. The last tangible link to his best friend, gone in a flash of green light. The pain of that loss still tore through him, raw and unhealed, but now it was tangled with worry for you. You had always been strong, but strength had its limits. Losing James, Lily, Peter, and now Sirius, even if in vastly different ways… it was too much for anyone.

Sirius.

Remus’ jaw tightened as his thoughts turned to the man he had once considered a brother. Sirius Black, the spy. The traitor. The murderer. The one who had taken everything from you. Remus’ anger at Sirius was a simmering thing, not the roaring fire it had been in those first days after the Potters were killed. Now, it was a quiet, steady burn, mingled with guilt. Guilt that he hadn’t seen it coming. That he hadn’t protected James and Lily. That he hadn’t been there for you sooner.

And now you were at the Burrow, with your children. James’ niece and nephew. The idea of you crumbling while trying to hold it all together for them made his chest ache. You were his last connection to the life he’d lost, to the family they’d all built together. He couldn’t fail you, not like he’d failed the others.

He stumbled slightly as his foot caught on an uneven patch of ground, shaking him out of his thoughts. The Burrow was just ahead now, its crooked silhouette outlined against the starry sky. A warm glow spilled from the windows, a stark contrast to the cold loneliness that seemed to follow him everywhere these days.

He paused at the gate, his hand tightening on the latch. For a moment, he considered turning back. What could he possibly offer you? He was half a man, broken and battered, with nothing to his name but scars and regrets. But he shook the thought away. He didn’t have to have the answers. He just had to be there.

Because that’s what James would have wanted. That’s what you deserved.

Taking a steadying breath, Remus pushed the gate open and made his way toward the house, where the faint sound of voices and the soft cries of a baby drifted into the night.

You needed him. And no matter how broken he was, Remus Lupin would never abandon you. The warmth of the Burrow was overwhelming after the chill of the night. The smell of Molly’s cooking lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of baby powder and the earthy tang of children who had been playing too hard. 

The Weasley home felt alive in a way that Remus hadn’t felt in weeks—chaotic, loud, but alive. Yet, the weight of the call that brought him here grounded him, keeping him from feeling comforted by the familiar atmosphere.

He stepped into the sitting room and froze for a moment, taking it all in.

Adhara’s bright laugh cut through the air, the kind of laugh that belonged to a child who didn’t yet know the depth of pain the world could hold. She darted around the room, her dark curls bouncing as she chased the twins and Ron in some chaotic game. For a moment, the sight tugged at his lips, almost forming a smile. But then his eyes fell on you.

You were sitting on the worn couch, completely still. Too still. Your face was pale, almost waxy, with tears sliding down your cheeks in silent rivers. The baby in your arms—Leo, he reminded himself—was squirming against you, his soft cries heartbreaking in their persistence. He wasn’t wailing, but his fussiness carried a quiet desperation. He wanted something, needed something, and you… you weren’t there.

Molly hovered nearby, her hands outstretched as if she wanted to take the baby, to help, but she hesitated. “Come now, dear,” she was saying, her voice soft but strained. “Let me take Leo for a bit. You can rest, love.” But you didn’t respond. You didn’t even look at her.

Remus’ heart twisted painfully. This wasn’t the fiery, fierce woman he knew. This wasn’t the sister of James Potter who had stood with all the strength of a lioness when her world had been falling apart. This was someone crushed under the weight of it all, and it tore at him in a way he hadn’t thought he could still feel.

Molly noticed him first, her eyes lighting up with relief. “Oh, Remus, thank Merlin you’re here.” She stepped aside, giving him room.

He crossed the space slowly, his footsteps barely making a sound on the worn floorboards. When he crouched in front of you, he saw just how far away you were. Your eyes weren’t really seeing anything, and the tears kept falling, unchecked.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice gentle as if he were approaching a frightened animal. “I’m here now.” At first, you didn’t respond. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before resting lightly on your arm. “It’s me,” he tried again, his tone steady and reassuring. “I’ve got you, Y/N/N.”

Your eyes shifted then, flickering down to him as though his voice had finally broken through the fog. For a moment, he thought you might say something, but instead, your lip quivered, and a soft sob escaped your throat.

Leo’s cries grew louder, his tiny hands clutching at your shirt. Without a word, Remus gently took the baby from your arms. You didn’t resist.

The weight of the baby in his hands was unfamiliar but grounding. Remus cradled Leo to his chest, shushing him softly as he rocked him in a way he’d seen James do with Harry years ago. “It’s all right, little one,” he murmured, his voice steady. “You’re safe.”

Leo’s cries began to quiet, his small body relaxing against Remus’ chest. Molly let out a small sigh of relief, her hand brushing briefly over Remus’ shoulder in thanks before she turned her attention to you.

Remus didn’t look away from you, though. “You’ve been so strong for so long,” he said quietly. “But you don’t have to do it alone anymore. I’m here. Whatever you need, we’ll get through this. Together.”

Your tears came harder now, and your hands trembled as they reached out—not for the baby, but for him. Remus shifted slightly, leaning closer so you could cling to him, and he wrapped an arm around you while still holding Leo securely.

For the first time in a long time, you let yourself cry. The tension in your body slowly melted away as Remus’ steady presence anchored you. His warmth, his scent—earthy and faintly tinged with tea and old parchment—brought a sense of safety you hadn’t felt in what felt like years. Your son’s soft snores against Remus’ chest were a lullaby, blending with the sound of giggles as Adhara and the Weasley boys played in the background. It was chaos, but it was comforting.

You didn’t remember deciding to come here, to the Burrow. It was all a blur—an instinct, maybe, a desperate need to be somewhere you weren’t alone. But as you leaned into Remus’ side, his arm steady around you, you realized how glad you were that you had.

Remus had always been there for you, for as long as you could remember. Through childhood scrapes, adolescent heartbreaks, and the all-consuming loss of the war, he was a constant. The last of your best friends. And now, when you felt like you were shattering, he was still here, holding the pieces together.

Sleep pulled at you, heavy and insistent. You resisted for a moment, not wanting to let go of the fragile awareness that you were safe, but eventually, you gave in. With your head resting against Remus’ shoulder and his steady breathing in your ear, you let the exhaustion take over.

Once your breathing evened out and your grip on his arm loosened, Remus glanced down at you. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips, though it was tinged with sadness. You looked so small, so fragile like this, but at least you were resting. You needed this.

Arthur appeared in the doorway, his usual kind expression etched with concern. He gestured for Remus to join him, but Remus hesitated, glancing down at you and the sleeping baby still nestled in his arms.

“It’s all right, dear,” Molly whispered, coming over to gently ease Leo out of his grasp. “I’ll take him upstairs. You go on and talk.”

Remus hesitated only a moment longer before carefully shifting you so that you were lying more comfortably on the couch, a blanket tucked around you. He followed Arthur into the kitchen, where Molly joined them a few moments later, her steps soft but purposeful.

“She’s not in a good place, is she?” Arthur said, his voice low but steady.

Remus shook his head, his expression heavy. “No, she’s not. I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s always been… strong. Resilient. But this—” He broke off, running a hand through his graying hair. “She’s been through too much.”

“She doesn’t need to go through it alone,” Molly said firmly, setting a steaming mug of tea in front of Remus. “None of us are going to let her. She and those babies need support—real support.”

“She’s lost so much,” Remus said, his voice soft but filled with a quiet determination. “James, Lily, Sirius… even Peter, in his way. And now she’s trying to do this—raise two children—on her own. She’s barely holding on.”

“She doesn’t have to do it on her own anymore,” Molly said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The three of us—we’ll make sure of it. She’s family now, and family looks after each other.”

Arthur nodded, his hand resting lightly on Molly’s. “You’re right. We’ll be here for her, whatever she needs. And for those children. Adhara and Leo are already part of the chaos here—they’re as good as Weasleys now.”

Remus let out a soft chuckle at that, though the sadness never left his eyes. “I can stay for as long as she needs. I owe her that much, at least. She’s… she’s the last of my family too.”

“Then it’s settled,” Molly said, her expression resolute. “She’s not alone anymore. We’ll get her through this.”

The three of them sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their unspoken promises filling the room. In the background, the sound of children’s laughter echoed through the house, a reminder of the life and love still worth fighting for.

The first thing you noticed was the sunlight streaming through the window. It felt warm against your face, a gentle contrast to the cold that had seemed to follow you for so long. The sounds of laughter and clattering dishes drifted from the kitchen, mingled with Molly’s voice calling the children to order.

You stretched, realizing you’d slept the entire night. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you didn’t feel completely hollow. The weight on your chest hadn’t vanished, but it was lighter, more manageable. You rubbed your eyes and sat up, glancing around to get your bearings. The Burrow, with its mismatched furniture and warm tones, was a comforting sight.

“Good morning.”

You turned toward the voice and found Remus standing in the doorway, a soft smile on his face. He looked tired—he always did these days—but there was a calmness in his eyes that steadied you. He stepped closer, holding a mug of tea in his hands.

“You slept through the night,” he said gently, setting the tea on the small table beside you. “How are you feeling?” You paused, considering the question. “Better,” you admitted, your voice a little hoarse. “I don’t know how, but… better.”

Remus nodded, lowering himself into the chair across from you. “Good. You needed it.” There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, his tone quieter, more serious. “I owe you an apology.”

You blinked, startled. “For what?”

“For not being here sooner. For not seeing through that mask youve clearly been wearing,” he said, his eyes meeting yours. “You’ve always been so strong, so good at pretending everything’s fine. I should’ve known better. I should’ve checked in, but I…” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I let my own grief get in the way. I let you down.”

The weight of his words settled over you, but instead of anger, you felt something else—relief. That he was here now. That he understood. “You didn’t let me down, Remus,” you said softly. “I wasn’t exactly reaching out, either. I thought I had to do it all on my own. That if I just… kept going, I’d be fine.” You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to your hands. “But I wasn’t. I’m not.”

Remus leaned forward, his voice steady but warm. “You don’t have to do it on your own anymore. Molly, Arthur, me… we’re all here for you. And I promise, I’ll be better about being there. For you, for Adhara and Leo. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightened, and you nodded. “Thank you.”

“And you?” he asked gently. “Can you promise me the same? That if it gets too much, you’ll tell me? You’ll let me help?”

You met his eyes, seeing the quiet strength and unwavering loyalty there. “I promise,” you said, your voice firmer this time. “We’ll be there for each other. No more doing this alone.”

He smiled, a small but genuine smile, and for a moment, you felt lighter.

From the kitchen, Molly’s voice rang out, calling for breakfast. The sounds of children’s laughter and footsteps grew louder, and Adhara appeared in the doorway, her face lighting up when she saw you. “Mummy! Uncle Remus is making breakfast, and we’re helping!”

You laughed softly, the sound unfamiliar but welcome. “Are you? I bet it’s going to be delicious.”

Adhara nodded enthusiastically before darting back to the kitchen. Remus stood, offering you a hand. “Come on. Breakfast awaits, and Molly will have my head if I don’t get the sausages off the stove.”

You took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. For the first time in a long time, you felt steady.

After breakfast, you found yourself pacing the Burrow’s small sitting room, your nerves prickling with unspent energy. It wasn’t that you weren’t grateful for Molly’s hospitality or the comforting chaos of the Weasleys—it was just that being still gave too much room for your thoughts to creep in.

Remus, ever perceptive, caught on quickly. “You need to get out,” he said, stepping into the room with a small, knowing smile. “Come on. Let’s take the kids to the park. Some fresh air might do us all good.”

Adhara’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, and even baby Leo seemed more settled after the morning’s meal. Before you could protest, Remus was already gathering coats and shoes, his calm demeanor coaxing you into movement.

The park was quiet, a patch of green nestled on the outskirts of the nearby village. The children’s laughter filled the air as Adhara raced toward the swings, her curls bouncing with every step. Remus walked beside you, Leo cradled in his arms, his presence steady and grounding.

For a while, the two of you sat and watched the children play in silence. Adhara’s squeals of delight and the sight of her running with the other kids brought a faint smile to your lips, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Remus said softly, not looking at you.

You flinched slightly but nodded. “I can’t stop,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “James and Lily… losing them was crushing, and not being able to take Harry—it’s unbearable. But Sirius…” You trailed off, your hands clenching into fists at your sides.

Remus finally turned to look at you, his expression open and patient. “What about Sirius?”

You let out a shaky breath, your gaze fixed on the children in the distance. “I can’t wrap my head around it. I keep going over it in my mind, trying to find the moment I missed it. The moment he changed. How could I have been so blind? How could we have been so blind?”

“He fooled all of us,” Remus said gently.

“But he didn’t just fool us, Remus,” you said, your voice cracking. “He betrayed us. He betrayed James and Lily, betrayed their trust, their lives. And now I have to live with that. I have to live with knowing that I loved him, that I trusted him, and he…” You broke off, wrapping your arms around yourself.

Remus shifted pulling Leo back onto the blanket the two of you sat on before placing a steady hand on your shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Isn’t it? I was supposed to know him better than anyone. We were building a life together—our children, our home. And now… how do I move on from that? How do I tell my children about him? About what he did?”

Remus’ hand squeezed your shoulder gently. “You tell them the truth, as much as they’re ready to hear at that time. And you remind them of the good things. The Sirius we all loved was real, even if he was hiding something darker. You’re not responsible for his choices, and you don’t have to carry the weight of them.”

You turned to face him, tears brimming in your eyes. “I can’t go back, Remus. Not to Potter Manor, not to the house Sirius and I bought. I can’t stand being in those places. Every corner of them reminds me of what I’ve lost. Of him.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze steady. “Then don’t. You don’t have to go back. Stay here at the burrow, or come stay with me. We’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to face this alone.”

For a moment, you said nothing, the weight of his words settling over you. Then you nodded, a small but genuine motion. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“Always,” he said simply, his hand still resting on your shoulder.

In the distance, Adhara called out to you, her voice bright and insistent. “Mummy! Look at me!” She was on the swings, her little legs pumping furiously as she tried to go higher.

You managed a small smile, wiping at your eyes before waving back. “I’m watching, sweetheart!” Laughing sadly and wondering how everything would ever be ok again .As the children’s laughter filled the air once more, you felt a faint flicker of hope. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to take the next step.

The creak of the front door was the first thing you noticed as Remus pushed it open, his hesitation palpable. He stepped inside, holding it open for you, his expression sheepish. “It’s, uh… not much,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s home.”

You stepped inside, taking in the space as he fidgeted beside you. The house was small but cozy, with scuffed wooden floors and walls lined with mismatched bookshelves overflowing with tomes in varying states of wear. A threadbare armchair sat near the fireplace, a stack of books and a half-empty cup of tea perched on the table beside it. The faint scent of parchment, tea, and something herbal lingered in the air, and it immediately felt familiar.

“It’s perfect,” you said softly, stepping further into the living room.

He blinked, clearly not expecting that response. “Perfect?”

You turned to him, offering a small smile. “It feels like you. It’s warm, quiet… filled with books. It’s a place I can imagine you finding peace.”

Remus glanced around the room as though seeing it for the first time. “I just… I know it’s not much,” he said, his voice low. “I mean, you grew up in Potter Manor. And after that, you had that place with Sirius. This must feel—”

“Like home,” you interrupted, cutting through his self-consciousness.

His brow furrowed slightly. “You don’t have to say that to spare my feelings.”

“I’m not,” you said firmly, stepping closer to him. “Remus, do you know the last time I felt comfortable somewhere? Truly comfortable? It was when we were all crammed into that dingy little flat during Auror training. Remember? Sirius hated it because there was only one bathroom, and James kept knocking over that ugly lamp you insisted on keeping.”

“The one shaped like a dragon?” he asked, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“That’s the one,” you said, smiling back. “It wasn’t about the house, Remus. It was about the people in it. And this—” You gestured around the room. “This feels like you. That’s all I need.”

He watched you for a moment, his expression softening. “Well, I suppose it’s yours now too. For as long as you need it.”

You nodded, your eyes misting slightly. “Thank you.”

He gestured toward the small hallway off the living room. “There are three bedrooms. I cleared out the smallest one for the baby’s things, and there’s another across the hall for you and Adhara.” He hesitated. “It’s not a lot of space, but—”

“It’s perfect,” you said again, cutting him off. “Really, Remus.”

For the first time in a long while, you saw him relax, the tension easing from his shoulders. “All right,” he said softly, a hint of a smile returning.

Adhara came bounding into the house then, Leo balanced on Molly’s hip behind her. “Mummy! Uncle Remus has so many books! Can we read them all?”

You laughed, brushing a hand over her curls. “I’m sure Uncle Remus will let you borrow a few.”

“Of course,” Remus said, smiling at her enthusiasm. “But one at a time, all right? No toppling stacks taller than you.”

Adhara nodded solemnly, as though she’d been entrusted with the most important task in the world.

As Molly handed Leo to you and began fussing over whether there was enough food in the house, you glanced around the little home again. The faint weight of grief still pressed on you, but in this moment, that flicker you felt at breakfast was back again. 

Hope.

[aces-and-kings]

Hurt

The salty sea air clung to Thorstyr's clothes as he staggered back to the Mizzenmast Inn, having spent the evening drowning in whiskey. The dimly lit hallway seemed to sway and twist, playing tricks on his blurred vision. He fumbled with the key to his room, cursing under his breath in that thick duskwolf accent. Finally managing to unlock the door, he stumbled inside, the room spinning around him. How had he gotten back to Lominsa? How long had he been back? Hours? Days? His crew? Nay, every last one of them, dead or scattered to the wind. Llymlaen spare him. Tired. So gods damned tired. Too tired for so many questions.

His heart weighed heavy with memories that he couldn't quite sort out from one to the next. He had seen so much in his life, faced so much, but the ache in his chest felt insurmountable. Thor was a man of action, always pushing forward, but tonight, tonight he was the King of Pity.

With a frustrated roar, he swept his arm across the small table near the door, sending bottles and glasses crashing to the floor. Whiskey spilled, mixing with the shards of glass. He barely felt the sting of the cuts on his hand as he stumbled further into the room, knocking over a chair and kicking at anything in his path.

"Damn it all!" he shouted, his voice raw with pain. "What's tha fuckin' point!?"

Thor's fenrir statue, usually a symbol of pride and freedom, crashed to the floor, its once strong form now shattered like his own spirit. He sank to his knees, the room spinning around him. Tears mingled with the alcohol on his cheeks as he clutched at his chest, feeling the pressure of the entire world pressing down on him.

His life had been a constant struggle for acceptance and belonging. The rejection he faced from his own father still haunted him, even after all these years. And then there was his love life, or lack thereof. Wounds that refused to heal, a hole in his heart that no amount of whiskey could fill.

"Why do ah even bother?" he slurred again, each syllable dripping with bitterness.

In his drunken haze, Thor found himself grappling with his identity, his place in the world, and the ever-lingering question of whether he was doomed to be alone. He longed for someone to understand him, to see past the rough exterior and the scars, to stay, to show him he was more than the monster he felt himself to be. It seemed an impossible dream. He froze and glanced down, eyeing his bloodied palms and the glistening reflection of light upon the shards of glass embedded in his skin. These hands had inflicted so much harm. Right or wrong, they were the hands of a murderer. Garbage. Putrid. If he'd condemned himself to this fate of wallowing piss drunk alone in yet another inn, what was the point? He was dying inside, if not dead already.

Another sudden surge of anger, an emotion that often masked grief for the big brute, and Thor swept his arms across the dresser, sending toiletries and mementos flying. Among them was Red's letter. He clutched it tightly in his hand, covering it in an ironic crimson as his heart wrenched with every beat. The betrayal of someone he'd thought was a friend washed over him like a wave. That Semex could do such a spiteful thing, there really weren't words. What purpose had it served? It only caused Thor greater loss, and Red, more pain. "...bastard."

The room bore witness to the meltdown, the destruction reflecting the turmoil within. Thor was a storm, wild and untamed, and in his drunken rage, he felt a momentary release from the loneliness that shackled him in place.

But as the whiskey dulled his senses, exhaustion offered a countermeasure. The room swayed less violently, and the anger gave way to a deep weariness. He slumped against the wall, the letter still clutched in his hand, and allowed himself to succumb to sleep.

In the morning, he would wake with a splitting headache and a room in shambles. For now, in this moment of despair, he let himself feel vulnerable. He let himself feel lost. Each and every ache, a reminder, no matter how big or small, that he was still breathing. This wasn't the end, no, not yet.

And in that moment, as the sea breeze whispered through the cracked window, Thorstyr surrendered to the darkness, finding temporary relief in the oblivion of sleep.

[aladaylessecondblog]

Fallen Star, chapter 2

Hey guys, guess what I did instead of my Nano quota today (which I'm now working on late as usual)?

No spiciness this time so I can post it here.

Tw: hangover, so there's puking

Metal over rock...

Sadara groaned, and sank further into the bedroll, hoping to cover her head and block out the noise. The constant pulsing of the Heart of Lorkhan was matched perfectly to the headache pounding in her skull. Like an echo of it, almost...

"Ugggh...."

She sat up, and for a few moments everything was spinning. Her stomach was churning, too, and her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. She went for her waterskin and took a few sips, rubbing her eyes and trying to make the headache recede with a healing spell.

It didn't work.

When she started to rise to her feet, a wave of nausea overwhelmed her and sent her right back down. It rose higher, and with no other options she crawled hurriedly on her hands and knees to the edge of the rock and vomited, straight into the lava below.

Her breathing was labored for several minutes, and she vomited once more before it seemed to be over. She moved back to her bedroll and searched through her bags for a healing potion, and quickly guzzled it.

It didn't help either. Usually it at least took away the headache to some degree, but this time it didn't touch a damned thing.

Sadara groaned, and sat up with her back to the rock. She opened her journal, scribbled for a moment--and then realized she couldn't focus long enough on small letters to get out anything coherent without a lot more pain.

So she wrote in big, bold letters: BY AZURA, WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Indeed...what HAVE you done? What were you hoping to accomplish by spreading your legs for the demon of Dagoth? Whatever he was, that is not what he IS.

Azura's voice rang out as if her name being written had summoned her presence.

"I wasn't thinking, I was drunk," Sadara murmured, closing her eyes. "My lady...I can see...I can see parts of Voryn, if I could just..."

There is no hope for him. There is no salvation. The sooner you accept that, the better. Grief for the lost may hurt, but the pain will be all the greater when he takes the opportunity to stab you in the back.

The pounding in her head grew momentarily worse before beginning, finally, to fade. She wrote out the "events" of the previous night as a distraction of sorts, something to occupy the anxious energy in her mind.

I am not without mercy. I see the tears for a lost friendship, the ache for what might have been. But this is not the time to indulge in such things, and every moment you linger hoping for what WAS will only endanger what IS. Leave him, obtain Wraithguard from that fool Vivec, and return only to put a merciful end to the demon you once called friend. To release the Heart from its prison.

She wished it was as easy as that. Perhaps if she were only Sadara, it might have been. But she wasn't just herself now, she was--or maybe had always been--Nerevar, and those memories could not be so easily brushed aside. A rush of emotion accompanied any thought of Voryn as he was, staunch friend, true ally...to the end that they, she--no, Nerevar--had brought.

Thoughts whirled in an endless confusing typhoon as she stood and tried to reach for memories, for wisdom, for ANYTHING that would help her to figure this all out. Yes, one part of her said, he deserves to die, he should die, for all the suffering he's caused. No, another part said, you might yet mount a rescue, you owe it to him to try.

The taste of vomit in her mouth grew intolerable. She took some dried mint from her bag and started to chew at it. Then she walked to the edge of the rock, and looked down at the Heart.

And this, she thought, this is the reason for everything. Certainly it would punish the three who had murdered her, but what would happen if she did what Azura wished her to do? All those who relied upon the Heart would lose what they had gained. Voryn and the Sixth House would crumble away into dust, and the Tribunal would lose their godhood entirely.

Certainly, they had earned it.

Her next thought was Baar Dau. She'd learned a lot of it during her rescue of Mehra Milo...how it had been stopped. The talk that it was only love of Vivec that kept it in the sky.

"While they worship him, he has power, however slight..." She murmured under her breath. "...how many people would die if he could no longer hold it back?"

He deserved to die, but those who followed him did not. The internal struggle was a horrendous one; she felt tugged in two directions. Kill him for his treachery, spare him for the sake of the innocent. Take his power for the murder he dealt her, let him keep it to save those who could not save themselves.

Scraping metal, over rock...

It was even worse with Voryn.

Footsteps...

Spare him for what was, kill him for what is. Have mercy, wreak vengeance. A chance, none. A mer, a monster.

Hands suddenly took a gentle yet firm hold on her shoulders. Nails pricked at her skin through her robe. Sadara stiffened, and for a moment she was stricken with fear.

"A beautiful sight, is it not?" Voryn's voice rumbled.

"It's...overwhelming, almost," she replied softly, uncertainly. "I remember seeing it as I died...but that was the only thing that persists...besides you telling me I was a simpleton for expecting to be rescued."

"The daedric princes are fickle masters, aren't they? Hmm. 'Yes, you are star-blessed, my chosen, my special champion...but when you need me most, I shall abandon you!'"

She was silent for a moment. A finger from his right hand moved up, to stroke at her neck, and she tensed at that as well. It would have been so easy to forget everything, to simply enjoy it, but with her eyes on the Heart she managed to avoid falling into that trap.

"Dagoth Ulen called me Azura's Fool," she went on in the same quiet tone. She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from saying she wasn't sure if he wasn't right. Perhaps it was best to stay off the subject of Azura for the moment. "Certainly I have been the Emperor's. I was minding my own business, trying to make enough gold with my lute to secure a place to sleep for another week. Then they'd snatched me up, and..."

She was pulled back, against his chest. The top of the back of her head momentarily pressed against--his mask, she realized quickly.

(He was warm, but she felt no heartbeat)

"...and dragged me all the way here. I thought for certain there was some mistake, but then...later I was told by some skooma-addict that the Emperor himself thought I was the Nerevarine."

A chuckle sounded off.

"If the Empire were not responsible for so much ill, that might almost be enough to earn the Emperor a swift death. As it stands..."

"As it stands, he's an old man. By the time you could get to him, he would likely have died of some ailment of the body." She felt a smile forming as she added, "Imagine it. You enter the White-Gold Tower assured of your victory--only to find that the Emperor has died. Purely to spite you."

He broke into laughter, and she joined him.

Then for the briefest moment there was silence again. Voryn's arms wrapped about her shoulders, embracing her.

"You are still afraid of me," he said, in a tone she couldn't quite identify. It wasn't anger, that was all she knew. "Why?"

"It's not you I fear," Sadrith lied quickly, "It's...Azura. You know what she, what all of Morrowind, would have of me."

She could no longer look at the Heart, and instead looked up at Akulakhan's head.

"No one crosses a daedric prince without being punished for it, and the daedra...can be very creative in how they inflict pain." She swallowed, and having apparently not chewed the dried mint well enough, coughed as it went down a bit rough. "Nerevar served with pride...but--I've been raised in the Empire, and we are taught to fear the daedra."

"It pains me to agree with them on anything," Voryn's voice was low as he spoke, "Our people sadly consider her to be one of the 'Good' daedra. But what good can come from one who would demand everything and give you nothing but sorrow in return? How often, I wonder, have Azura's faithful cried out to her for a savior? How many times has she denied them?"

"Eight," Sadara spoke up. "I saw eight failed incarnates in the cavern where I was given the Moon-and-star. They all had some story to tell. Reasons for why they could not do what...is expected of the Nerevarine. Several told me they made it to Red Mountain, but...they all fell, in one way or another. Each had something to give me...armor, or weapons..."

She trailed off.

"Even in death, she still holds them prisoner," Voryn said with contempt. "Waiting, waiting for some pawn to come along that their lady can manipulate. It would pain me to see you made into that pawn."

"As it pains me to see you suffer in solitude." She couldn't turn around, could only keep looking forward. "Voryn...I wish--"

"It is useless to wish for things to be different than they are," he said, "I am changing Morrowind, for the better...and Telvanni meddling or no, you will be with me to see it. THAT, I am glad of."

"What do you--you mean Divath Fyr, and his corprus cure?"

Perhaps he could sense her wavering, and had some plan to guarantee her cooperation?

"You always were a vain creature, Nerevar," Voryn went on, "So perhaps I cannot blame you for doing what you did."

"Your Sleepers certainly didn't agree."

What am I doing?

She shut her eyes.

"You need not fear my anger. Perhaps I can see the wisdom in what you've done now. After all..." As he spoke, his right hand that had been at her opposite shoulder moved up to her face. "It would be a pity to mar a thing of beauty, even with the bounty of the divine disease."

Touch. Real touch, soft, tender...

Gods, it was wonderful to finally have her face caressed, to feel what she had only ever seen in art.

You must stop, she thought.

Images from the previous night assaulted Sadara's mind in a wave. The wall, his arms, his lips, the moment. If she could but convince him, pull him from the darkness and bring him into the light, it need never stop. She could keep that gentle closeness.

And if he doesn't? What then?

It was a painful thought, to think that she would have to fell him twice. What agony it would be, to have to see his limp and bleeding body a second time. If she did as expected, she would certainly save Morrowind, but...

...but would be left with nothing, and no one. She could already hear the words Azura would say to her, even, a reminder that destiny was not often a kind master.

To be Nerevarine is to BE alone.

But oh, how she wanted more...

[nsilocastillon]

Time operates differently in space; the hierarchal peace and war of galaxies is a complex ideation that relies on the state of the atmosphere surrounding those existing in their corner of an endless void. Planetary death, sterilisation, catastrophic episodes — time is as unavoidable as fighting against necroplanetology; a study of corpse planets, it is an inevitability; death is a constant. When a new abyss is ripped into existence, it reminds Castillon that she has little control over the ticking of the death clock, but she controls this.

Dorian Holloway has made his bed, and he will lay in it. In the time that the moon has moved a few inches on its orbital path, a thousand planets have already met their extinction. Dorian Holloway is a man so terribly dead. And with it, he reaps. It is not his first murder, but it dares to be his last.

Skin bares brightly against the lowlights, glistening — not silver but crimson; an eclipse as the shadows of a woman that isn't her shrouds him, enveloping. Nsilo is looking now at the paling water on mars, glacier-like and piercing; drowning, drying out from the arid heat that burns the skin of the inhabitable plain. She lingers at the doorway, daring to leave, daring, daring. Daring to tear the wet appendage from his mouth, digits that caress in a manner of provocation included; he slicks his skin with the blood that is hers (and simultaneously not hers); presenting virulent intentions that he knows are suffering and spite and —

Supernovae. Gone are the gleaming stars that glaze the man, killed in the touch that is not hers; it is destruction; self and beyond — a nuclear fusion of incompatible elements. A sun needs to set as the moon rises; that is the order of things. It is the worship of two forces in countenance to one another, staring at the earth that blackens between them; ever wrecking itself.

In the nova, there is so much blood — a firework that pleads to belong, but they only feature in the dark; their beauty is a lie, a second long thing — another thousand planets, tearing one another apart. Implosions of self; of unwilling intent that ends life.

Dorian Holloway is teetering on the precipice of death. Where Nsilo denies capturing the smile, or leering at the moon earlier in the night, those anchors in the sky that revolve and revolve until they might split off their axis and end the life of the other — she cannot look away now, the stoicism that borders on lunacy, a slow tip of the head that has fangs threatening to pierce through her lips. A noise that jealousy will not claim right to, absurd to think that the sun runs at any deadly heat; it is burning, but in a way that ice is a slow thawing. Dragging out over time, where limbs tremble in desperation to live, and survive. Dorian Holloway will not survive this.

Goodbye Icarus. You will never see the sun again. In his death, he moans — a noise rivalling a scream, agonisingly vying for the sun to cradle him closer. There is no mistake in the tip of wings set aflame, or the burst of blood when it boils from the pores. There is no mistake. Castillon can hear the bones shatter under the force of gravity's pull before they are ashen, decorating the substratosphere in ghosting memories. She feels the fragility of bones under her grasp when she crosses the room, a rocket puncturing through atmospheric entry. The pressure of a skull is easily crushed in the pressure of space, time — gravity's constant mercilessness.

Dorian Holloway will watch death, as this is all he's wanted. Who would challenge the sun by any means; millions of years of existence, undefeated. This woman who Nsilo glares at will not take from it; her Icarus claimed. She does not want to watch him wander further from her burning touch; from her flaming death, but she will not look away blindly. So she will not tolerate either.

Castillon has forced him away, to mount the woman baring fangs, knees crushing biceps that try protesting the presence, like she has no right in the severance of limbs.

Enjoy this. It no longer matters who she is thinking of. She will justify all acts as she always does when victory stands to appear like losing; she doesn't lose.

The sun beams as it always does when it burns — tearing nails across the fracturing of a skull as mutilated flesh peels from the concaving face; made so ugly in its artistry. Eyes pop under the strength of buried thumbs that provoke gurgled screams to echo off the walls. Nsilo drowns the sound with a hiss; the sizzling of burning flesh in the violence of interplanetary warfare.

In a quiet rage, the decapitating neck from bloodied shoulders sounds so much like a roar of a black hole. Silent. But, fully capable of deformation in the most grotesque of senses. Blood sprays Nsilo's person and the walls of the lounge as it ruins the Venician. It's over quicker than Castillon willed to watch Dorian's hips grind against the woman he foolishly got his rocket up for. He knows the cost of veering too close to oblivion; the black hole is unforgiving, as is the sun — a supernova, and a meteorite that will pepper him in scalding hot debris.

When the woman is crumbling dustfalls under Nsilo's brutality; a frenzy that has her instantly in front of Anemoia's manager. Fistfals of dust that trickle from between her fingers. A hand opens to violently grip his chin, and delirium slowly fades behind the composure that Castillon shutters into place. She would have handed him the woman's filthy head, had Dorian's victim not been reduced to nothing.

Would you like to choke on her now, Dorian Holloway? She squeezes his chin in threat of another crack, a touch that is tainted by the scene; the first of the night. Punishment enough, to also be his last. She says it all in her mind — before she pulls him forward by his belt, so she can be sure he is present; that he is listening; that he knows.

The sun and the moon — they belong, on other sides of night and day: "Get back to your job, 'Rian." And, whilst she wants to burn the mess from his body and scar him until he will thank her for putting her own there. He might do better to crawl around, licking up the ash if he wishes to live another night — or maybe that will be the real end: "Clean this up,"

She knows, he is never leaving this room.

Dorian Holloway is definitely dying tonight. He should have foreseen the consequences of a game he is set to lose ⸻ should've counted his cards, prayed to his luck stars. But what can the moon do but desire? The rings of Saturn cannot shine more than him. He knows Nsilo is no Earth ⸻ she is more beautiful than the ocean bellows, unreachable in ways Mount Everest could only hope to be. A shipwreck in the seas of Mars. A plane crash in the skies of Neptune. Aphrodite from Venus. He did not orbit her atmosphere, could not reach a hand to her burning lights if he tried. He is too far away ⸻ a space cadet adrift. The moon, longing for a glimpse of the sun ⸻ turning, turning, turning, never laying eyes on the beauty of life. It pains him to admit he may never land on her grounds. He will burn forever in his desires, wishing and wanting and unsatisfied.

But the moon shines for all who wish to see, does it not? ⸻ Achilles and his men, Odysseus and Penelope. She might be Cleopatra and he, the snake, but the apple can taste sweet as poison on his tongue. If he makes himself Zeus, who is she to deny him? Thunder bringer. He knows the game; is bound to it by invisible ropes he wishes not to free himself from. Choke me with them, he wants to say, choke me until they mark my skin, until I'm a piece of you. The moon shines for others too. Perhaps Nsilo should be reminded of that.

Helen and Paris ⸻ ships in the night.

Pools of blue remain focused on the sun ⸻ Icarus and his wings, Dorian can feel the wax melting against his skin ⸻ but his fingers swiftly unbutton his shirt, remove it all together. This is the game she wishes to play, is it not? Houston, we are venturing into a meteor shower. His craters merely makeup to solidify his beauty. Who doesn't want the moon? Beautiful beautiful beautiful ⸻ Pretty boy, is that all you can be? Guilt dares not touch him; it knows it has no place on his fingertips. Only gold do ⸻ dark red when he trails the dripping path on his chest, bring it up to his mouth. Moans when the fingers touch his tongue. Eyes on him, stargazing his infinite constellations. His smile is the full moon ⸻ bright, big, open, fleeting. Flesh and teeth meet when he lunges forward, hand tangling in the hair of a woman who tastes like rot. He should know better.

No. He knows better; in the depths of his body, the marrow of his bones, carved just outside his soul ⸻ He should not be provoking a black hole like so. Nsilo is the universe ⸻ collapsing, burning, eating all in its entrails. She is everything. But autumn has passed and another circle is about to be finished, Dorian does not fear the seasons. He does not fear the sun. It is ever present, is it not? Even now, when the moon dares to move in front of it, demanding its attention, she does not leave. It brings him a wicked joy when his eyes lock onto her, hand pushing the woman's head to his neck. He should not, but the pressure continues until fangs are piercing his neck and he is loudly moaning for Nsilo to hear. An eclipse does not last forever, and Dorian Holloway fears he might not as well.

It is thrilling, to watch her, knowing another's touch plagues him. Stains him. He wants to be eaten alive today. He wants her to see ⸻ needs her to smell his lust, know he is willing to let this random, insignificant woman to fuck him. The astronaut has found a planet that isn't her ⸻ Dorian wants Nsilo to be aware of that. He needs her to take action. To grip him by his neck, pull his hair, bend him over. He wishes to bite her neck, drink from her like he is a starved man pulled out of a falling spaceship. His eyes seem to say, look what you have done. But his mouth only begs for more, hips instinctively buckling against a body that isn't hers.

Dorian Holloway wishes to die tonight ⸻ Under her hands, her tongue, her fangs. He will stop at nothing to achieve this.