#might not survive firing actually. Fingers Crossed

[brown-little-robin]

ok I'm not subjecting my poor ceramics blog followers to 2 JoJo sculptures in a row, so for once I'm putting a ceramics post only on main. hi friends :] I am OBSESSED with the pose potential of sculpting a guy as a wolf and his soul as a wolf that's twice as big and fancier and has no sense of personal space

[theonewiththefanfics]

Seal It With a Kiss (one-shot)

Synopsys: After a looting session goes wrong, Astarion and Reader have to face the music and confront their feelings. Whatever they might be.

Pairing: Astarion x fem!Reader

Genre: angst, fluff

Warnings: talks of blood, injuries, swearing, mentions of abuse, but nothing explicit

Word count: 3234

A/N: I have not played Baldur's Gate 3 (I don't own a PS or a PC where to play it. all of this is based on the info gathered online and through Neil's own gameplay etc. Please be kind :) )

The light was too bright. And the ground was too hard. And the pillow too tough and lumpy. And why did Y/N feel so hot when it was literally snowing? And, actually, when had it started snowing? From bright blue skies, might she add?

Slowly, haziness dissipated from her eyes, and the world around came into sharp, painful focus. The light was too bright because half of her surroundings were on literal fire. The ground was too hard because she was half on rubble that once was a palace roof, and the tough, lumpy pillow was a rock her head had smashed against, while the snow was ashes flowing down, covering everything, including her, in a grey layer of soot, the sky peeking in from the hole above.

Although her sight was clearing, a sharp ringing pierced her ears. Or was it shouting?

A shadow crossed the sky, and above her, she could see their resident vampiric elf’s mouth moving.

“ – were you thinking?!” Finally, her ears started to clear as well. “You absolute imbecile! Why would you do that?!”

Y/N just groaned in response, as her memories came back in quick flashes. Everyone was arguing about where they should look for another magical artefact, Astarion shooting down what Gale had proposed, Wyll trying to make a sensible plan while Lae’Zel interrupted Shadowheart at any given moment. A deep rumble from the depths of the abandoned palace they were in silenced them all, Karlach throwing them a worried expression. And then the whole building exploded.

On instinct, Y/N had pushed Astarion as far away as she could before the ceiling came crashing down on top of her. It was nothing short of a miracle, she had managed to survive. Bruised, battered, no doubt with broken bones, but alive nonetheless. Maybe she’d have to thank a goddess or two. That was if Astarion didn’t rip her to pieces beforehand with how furious he looked.

Slowly Y/N tried to lift herself onto her forearms, and for all his admonishments, Astarion was quick to crouch down and help her, putting his arms under her pits and letting her rest against his chest.

“Oh dear,” she mumbled, noticing a large bannister lying across her leg. “That’s not good.”

“Not good?!” Astarion practically shrieked, his hands tightening around her ribs. “How hard did you hit your fucking head? This is so beyond not good I can’t even think of a level!”

Y/N winced at his tone. “Can you stop shouting, please? Gods, my head is splitting.”

“Oh, is it now? It would be quite the fucking miracle if it wasn’t, seeing as a whole fucking palace just toppled on you!”

“Quit being so dramatic and help get that thing off me! Where’re the rest?”

“Frankly, I don’t fucking care right now!” Astarion gently laid Y/N back down and went to the large boulder.

His arms strained as he lifted the piece of the pillar, her eyes widening at the display of strength.

She sometimes forgot how strong Astarion actually was, how easily he could snap her neck with just a twist of his hands if he so wished while Y/N allowed him to drink from her. But he was always gentle instead, with how he held her nape, fingers soothingly pressing into her scalp and knuckles brushing against her collarbones once he was done in a sweet gesture of thanks.

As quickly as she could, Y/N scooted from under the rubble, Astarion dropping the boulder back unceremoniously, and he was back by her side in a second, an arm wrapping around her waist, so she could lean on him.

“We have to find the others,” Y/N hissed as she stood. Her whole body screamed in pain, but they had to get out of the now-ruined palace, lest another explosion happen.

“They can find their own way out,” Astarion grunted, as he led them towards the exit.

“Astarion!”

“No!” He snapped his head to look at Y/N, and his scarlet eyes held such a desperate gaze in them, that she pinched her lips shut. “I will knock you out if I have to. I am not letting you get hurt again.”

“Astarion, they’re our friends,” Y/N’s voice was gentle. “We have to help them if we can.”

For a moment, Astarion truly looked like he might just throw her over his shoulder and march out of the place. But then he sighed, hanging his head in defeat before looking at her with pain distorting his features. “Why do you always have to be so good?”

Something tugged at her heart. That expression on his face, as if it physically put him in agony to lead them around the ruined palace in search of their companions, as he flinched and tightened his hold on her whenever something crackled, ready to throw his own body atop hers, in case something happened. It wasn’t selfishness, not one bit. Something deeper lay beneath Astarion’s reluctance.

It took them a while to find their party, but luckily no one was injured, and Y/N was the worst one off.  Shadowheart was by her side in an instant, giving her a healing potion.

“Should keep you set until we get back to camp.” She patted her shoulder. “I’ll heal you fully once we’re out of immediate danger.”

“Thank you.” Y/N smiled at the cleric.

She was just about to ask Astarion whether he was alright, but the vampire had already detached himself and was glaring at the ground, arms crossed over his chest ten feet away from her.

Y/N couldn’t deny – it stung. He’d been so worried just a few moments ago, yet now he couldn’t even look at her?

Her feet worked on their own accord, moving in his direction, but the way he turned his back to her, told her all she needed to know – he didn’t want to talk.

Pain shot through her heart, and it was definitely not because of the explosion, but Y/N respected his privacy, so she didn’t approach him any further, even though they always, always, walked next to one another.

“We should head back,” she spoke up, eyes remaining on Astarion’s taut back. “Maybe get some rest as well. We still have tomorrow anyway to search this place.”

When Astarion left the palace without even waiting to see if anyone was following, Y/N could do nothing but sigh and depart as well.

The walk to where they’d set up their camp was uncharacteristically quiet, especially from the pale elf’s side. He’d usually fill their travels with mindless talk and sarcastic quips, but this time around, he hung towards the back of their group and was as mum as a grave. He didn’t even comment on whatever Gale was saying, which made Y/N all the more uneasy.

She couldn’t wrap her mind around why he’d become so distant all of a sudden. What’d happened at the palace was nothing unusual. They risked their lives on the daily, saving others and themselves, so why in the world was Astarion so pissed about this, she had no clue.

Karlach leaned to the side, watching as the vampire entered his tent, closing the laces immediately. “Fangs is quite in a bad mood. Anything we should know about, soldier?”

Y/N huffed. “Probably broke a nail or something. In any case – nothing important enough to be acting the way he is.”

“Maybe I should go and – “

She put a palm on Karlach’s shoulder, stopping her, and giving her friend a wry smile. “I’ll talk to him. Better he’s angry at me and only me, not someone else as well. Apparently, I’ve pissed him off as is.”

“You sure?” the tiefling asked.

“Yeah.” Y/N nodded. “I think we need to have a talk anyway.”

With a “good luck” from Karlach, she sighed and steeled herself against whatever the vampire would throw her way. She unlaced the ties and lifted the flap to the side. With crossed arms, she entered Astarion’s tent, only to be greeted by his back as he stubbornly kept looking at a book in his hands, not even acknowledging her.

“Are you seriously pouting right now?” Y/N asked after a minute of silence.

“I’m not pouting, I’m brooding. There’s a difference.”

“Well, does brooding involve giving the silent treatment, or can we talk?”

Astarion threw a withering gaze over his shoulder. “What is there you want to talk about? Unless it’s an apology, I don’t want to hear it.”

Y/N let out an exasperated huff. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I won’t apologise for saving your life.”

“By putting your own life in danger?!” Astarion spun around, throwing the tome he’d been holding onto his bedroll.

“Comes with the territory.” She shrugged. “You should know how it is.”

“Letting a whole building collapse on top of you is very different to knocking a blade out of the way!”

“Why are you so angry with me?” Y/N raised her voice, matching Astarion’s furious tone. “I saved your life!

“I didn’t ask for you to!”

She let out a disbelieving scoff. “Well, sucks to be you then! Because I was not just going to let you get crushed underneath all that rubble! Your life is just as important as everyone else’s!”

“Not to me! Not when it comes to you!”

Now that shut her up completely, her lips pinched in a thin line, eyes wide in shock. She and Astarion were friends, at least Y/N would've liked to think so. She most definitely had developed deeper feelings than that, but would only admit to it over her own dead body. The thought of Astarion’s rejection made her want to crumple into a small heap, but his reaction put thoughts in her head that maybe, just maybe, her feelings weren’t one-sided.

“What do you suppose I would do if you – if – if,” he stumbled on his words. “If I had to go on without you? If you were no longer with us… with me…”

“Astarion…”

“Do you understand how it felt to see you go down?” He sighed, hanging his head. “When I saw the roof caving in and then felt you push me away before you vanished beneath rubble and dust and ash… I’ve never been more terrified in all of my life, two hundred years of which were spent under the rule of an absolute sadist, where horrors awaited around every corner.”

His eyes bore nothing but pain and despair he’d felt in that moment. “I heard everyone else screaming - Shadowheart calling out, Wyll and Karlach making sure Gale and Lae’Zel were alright but nothing… not a single whisper from your voice. You tell me I’m pouting, but all I can see when I close my eyes is you… how you would look… dead. Your eyes closed forever, your blood spilling out of your body and I… I have to stand and watch as I am unable to save you.

“But I’m alright.” Y/N stepped up to him, taking one of his palms in hers, and squeezing it. “Astarion, I’m alive, and I’m fine.”

“But you almost weren’t!” he hissed, pulling her closer, bringing their clasped hands to rest against his chest. “And all I would have been left to do was wait for the dust to settle and dig out your broken body. You would have condemned me to eternity without you… I just almost lost the person I love... and that fear is something I never wish to experience again.”

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat at such an honest confession. “I umm I didn’t know you felt that way about me.” Friendship was one thing, but love? That threw her completely off balance.

“Feel? Felt? What does it matter anymore? Clearly, it’s not like it’s reciprocated.” He scoffed, back the mask of bravado and not caring, but Y/N wasn’t having any of it.

“It matters to me.” Her brows furrowed. “It matters a great deal to me. Why do you think I did what I did, exactly? Because it’s fun? Because I enjoy blocks of buildings dropping down on me? Because it’s such an absolute delight to realise - if I don’t push you out of the way, you will be in direct line of fire, and I might lose you?”

Astarion’s mouth opened and closed. “I didn’t – I –“

“No!” Y/N pointed an accusatory finger at him. Now she was angry. “You don’t get to play the "I'm in love with you" card and be angry with me. Not if you dare tell me how I feel without asking first!”

“You...” He shook his head, a crease to his brow. “You never indicated you held anything more than… friendly affections towards me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Yes, because I let everyone in this party use me as their personal snack each night. I’d say that should’ve been your first clue.”

“I’d say you’re a full-course meal, my darling, but I understand the sentiment.” And though back was his usual air of sarcasm, a deep vulnerability could be seen shining in his crimson eyes as he weaved a gentle hand to wrap around the small of her waist, brushing underneath her sleep tunic to rest against her skin.

Cold met warm, and Y/N gasped as a shiver ran down her spine. His slender fingers dug into her back as he pulled Y/N closer, their breaths mingling, and if they only moved just a couple of centimetres, lips would touch.

“I just – I cannot stand and watch you throw your life away for someone like me. The thought of your brightness being extinguished because of it… I couldn’t bear it.”

Y/N tilted her head to the side. “Someone like who exactly? Someone who I’ve grown to look at as my dearest confidant? Someone who I know will always tell me the truth and be there if I cannot handle it? Or someone who so deftly has stolen my heart, he cannot even comprehend it’s been his the whole time? Besides, even if it wasn’t reciprocated...” She played with the string of his shirt, “you can’t tell me to be more careful, to not save you when you do the exact same thing.”

“How can I not?” Astarion’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, and for once, he seemed to want the moment to reflect what truly lay in his soul. “You make my heart beat on its own. If I had to give up walking in the sun for the rest of my life, I would. As long as it meant you were safe and happy. I’d even gladly go back to Cazador if you were on the line. Without a second to spare.”

“Don’t you dare fucking say that!"

“But it’s true.”

“Not if I can help it,” Y/N grumbled, tightening her hold on his shirt by his hips, pulling him closer like she had to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere. “He’s not ever going to get near you. I’ll level the whole of Baldur’s Gate if I have to.”

“And I am being honest when I say, if I had to choose between you being unhurt or me being imprisoned, being used as I was, I would always put you first.”

Y/N was on the verge of tears. “You listen to me you pompous blood-sucking elf – you will do no such thing. Whatever comes, we both will get through it. And Cazador will have his head ripped from his shoulders, but not before I gouge his eyes out, and do every single vile thing he did to you back onto him. I will skin him alive and then throw him in a tomb with nothing but cockroaches. Let him drink his own blood and see how he likes it.” She shuddered, taking in a deep breath. “Your life is not worth less than mine. Don’t you ever dare think that way.”

A watery chuckle escaped Astarion, and his eyes brimmed with silvery tears. “Can I kiss you?” He didn’t dare lift his gaze, focusing on their intertwined fingers, resting against where his heart no doubt would have been rattling a crazy rhythm if it still beat.

“If you want to.” Y/N’s reply was as quiet as his question had been, but there was no teasing in her tone.

His eyes flashed for a second, but she didn’t get a full grasp on what it was she saw. Maybe surprise. Maybe gratitude? She couldn’t tell really, all she knew was that the emotion caused a pang to ring to her very core. She’d kill Cazador with her own bloody hands.

“I want it.” He nodded. “More than anything.”

“More than my blood? That first night you almost drained me dry,” Y/N’s words, though true, held no malice, only gentle teasing.

“And how do you know that first time I wasn’t trying to wake up the sleeping princess with a magical true love’s kiss? The feeding just ended up being a bonus.” He brushed her nose with his, and couldn’t help the way his own lips turned up as Y/N smiled.

“Well, this sleeping princess would’ve punched you in the nose, had you awoken her for such silly things. Besides, you did miss my lips.”

Astarion chuckled, relishing the way her body pressed against his. “But I am allowed to awaken you to drink from you?”

“Well...” She nudged his nose with hers now. “Seeing as you become absolutely unbearable when hungry, I think for my own peace and everyone else’s, that does count as a vital reason to rouse me."

Gentle hands cupped her cheeks. “Allow me to demonstrate then how vital a kiss can be to one’s survival.”

And then their lips met.

She’d never admit it out loud, for his ego would surely grow larger than it already was, but it did feel like a magical kiss of life. Her whole body sang as his fingers slid against the nape of her neck, pulling her closer, almost like Astarion was afraid she’d pull back, but she could never. Not when he slipped his tongue past her lips, and her knees almost crumbled.

Y/N had to tighten her hold on his waist to not completely lose it, and she could feel the smirk growing on the vampire’s face, as he realised just how incapacitated his kiss had made her. He nipped at the bottom of her lip and relished in the small whimper he got to devour.

After what felt like ages, they pulled back, panting, but not going too far as Astarion rested his forehead against hers.

Y/N smiled. “True love’s kiss you say?”

“It feels like it,” he mumbled, allowing himself to indulge in the tender touch of her fingers skimming up and down his back. “Though I don’t know much about… love… I’d like to experience it with you. All of it. The good and the bad that might come with it.”

“I’ll be here,” Y/N promised. “As long as you want me to, I’m not going anywhere.”

“And if I ask for forever?”

She let out an over-exaggerated, dramatic sigh. “Forever’s quite a long time, don’t you think?”

“Not long enough,” Astarion replied, a smile tugging up his lips. “It’d never be long enough with you.”

Y/N quirked a brow. “Is that a challenge?”

He chuckled at that. “I’d say it’s more of a promise, if anything.”

“Seal it with a kiss?”

“Deal, my love.”

Tags:

Everything tags: @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @m-a-t-91 @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife @ollyoxenfrees @bnhvrdy @tvwhoresblog @thatkindofgurl @sj-thefan @lestersglitterglue @im-squished @strangersstranger

Astarion tags: @spacebarbarianweird

A/N: my tags are always open, so just drop a message if you want to be tagged :)

P.S. do not plagiarise my work or repost it on other platforms!!!

[missarchive]

What would late night heart to heart talks in Spencer’s bed be like?

goodmorning beautiful angels! thank you for your request, i very rarely get to write something like this <3

cw; comfort/fluff, spencer is a little insecure

The quiet of Spencer’s apartment feels sacred at this hour, the world beyond the walls of his modest space fading into insignificance. It’s just you and him, cocooned in the warmth of his bedroom. His bed is surprisingly inviting—layers of soft blankets in muted tones and a mountain of pillows that you’re certain he didn’t pick out himself. Still, it fits him, a blend of deliberate care and unintentional comfort.

Spencer is perched near the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His hair, slightly tousled, falls into his face, and he pushes it back absentmindedly, revealing those wide, earnest hazel eyes. He’s wearing a Star Trek t-shirt that’s seen better days, the print cracked and faded, and plaid pajama pants that don’t quite match but somehow suit him perfectly.

You’re sitting beside him, leaning against the headboard with one of his pillows hugged to your chest. The bedside lamp casts a soft, golden glow over the room, highlighting the faint flush on his cheeks as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, gesturing with his hands in that animated way of his, “if you’re feeling stuck, it might be a cognitive bias at play. There’s this concept called the ‘negativity bias.’ It’s a psychological tendency to focus more on negative events or feelings than positive ones. It’s evolutionarily adaptive because our ancestors needed to remember threats to survive, but it’s not exactly helpful when you’re trying to evaluate your own self-worth.”

You blink at him, momentarily stunned into silence by the sheer Spencer-ness of his response. Then you laugh, the sound breaking the quiet like a crackling fire.

“Only you, Spencer,” you tease, nudging his knee with your own, “could turn my self-doubt into a psychology lecture.”

His lips quirk into a shy smile, and he ducks his head, a strand of hair falling into his face again. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just… I don’t like seeing you feel this way. And sometimes understanding the science behind it can help. At least, it helps me.”

Your heart squeezes at the vulnerability in his voice. “Don’t apologize,” you say softly. “I love it when you go full professor on me.”

Spencer’s cheeks flush deeper, and he clears his throat, trying to mask his embarrassment. “Well, um, another thing that might help is reframing your perspective. It’s like what Albert Einstein said: ‘Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.’” He pauses, glancing at you nervously. “Not that I’m suggesting you’re out of balance or anything—just that… even if you feel stuck now, you’re still moving forward. You just might not realize it yet.”

The sincerity in his words makes your chest ache. You reach over, resting your hand on his, and he stills under your touch, his long fingers twitching slightly before relaxing.

“Thanks, Spencer,” you say. “You always know how to make me feel better. Even if it involves quoting Einstein.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, the sound rare and precious. “I guess it’s my way of showing I care,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his. “What about you?” you ask. “Who do you talk to when you feel like this?”

Spencer hesitates, his gaze dropping to your joined hands. “I… don’t, really,” he says finally. “I mean, I talk to the team sometimes, but it’s different. They’re like family, and I don’t want to burden them with… everything. So I guess I just… keep it to myself. I read, or I journal, or I lose myself in research.”

“Of course you do,” you say with a fond smile. “Let me guess—you have a journal filled with obscure facts and statistics?”

Spencer’s lips twitch. “Actually, I have several,” he admits. “One for general observations, one for case notes, and one for… personal thoughts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Personal thoughts, huh? What kind of thoughts?”

He fidgets under your gaze, his ears turning pink. “Just… things I don’t feel comfortable saying out loud. Like how sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in, or how I worry that people only tolerate me because of what I can do, not because of who I am.”

The raw honesty in his voice makes your throat tighten. You shift closer, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek, gently forcing him to meet your eyes.

“Spencer,” you say firmly, “anyone who only values you for what you can do doesn’t deserve you. You’re brilliant, yes, but you’re also kind, and thoughtful, and funny in your own nerdy way. And anyone who doesn’t see that is missing out.”

His eyes glisten, and for a moment, you think he might cry. Instead, he leans into your touch, his hand coming up to rest over yours.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I… I don’t know if I deserve that.”

“You do,” you say, your voice unwavering. “More than you know.”

The rest of the night unfolds like a story written just for the two of you. Spencer opens up in ways you never expected, sharing fragments of his childhood, his fears, his dreams. He talks about his love for science fiction and how it gave him hope as a kid, how he memorized whole books because it made him feel like he had control over something.

And you share too, your own stories and insecurities spilling out into the safe space of his bed.

By the time exhaustion pulls you both under, the room feels lighter, like you’ve carved out a small pocket of peace in an otherwise chaotic world. Spencer’s arm drapes hesitantly but securely over your waist, his body curling instinctively toward yours.

As you drift off, his breath warm against your shoulder, you can’t help but think that this—these late-night talks, this quiet intimacy—is everything you never knew you needed.

[writingoddess1125]

So Annoying Pt. 2

Crocodile and adopted child reader

Platonic adopted child

<< Part 1

Crocodile sat in his lounge chair, taking another long puff of his cigar, his foot lazily tapping on the pristine tile of his study.

Currently waiting for (Y/N) to finish getting washed up by a few servants he had in his home. Truthfully he couldn't help but be amused by his admittedly spar of the moment choice of taking the little street rat-

What can he say.. She was a tough little annoying brat.

Sort of reminded him of himself when younger...

"Hey Mister!"

Once again that shrill little voice snapping him from his thoughts, looking to see a servant standing next to (Y/N) her matted hair now combed, a clean face and in fresh clothes- seemingly to big for her starved frame however it would do for now.

"Looking less like a street rat I see"

Crocodile leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he fixed (Y/N) with a smirk. Her glare was sharp, practically spitting venom his way, and it only amused him further.

"I Didnt look like one before!" she snapped, her voice dripping with defiance.

The servant next to her gasped, visibly flinching, but Crocodile’s smirk didn’t falter. Instead, he let out a low chuckle.

"Bold. I’ll give you that," he said, leaning back in his chair again. "Most kids would be shaking in their boots right about now."

(Y/N) crossed her arms and scowled. "I’m not scared of you."

Crocodile raised an eyebrow, genuinely entertained by her audacity. "No, but the fact that I’m letting your little mouth run without snapping your neck should tell you something."

"Congratulations, You don't kill children. A hero it seems!" (Y/N) boldly claimed.

That earned a genuine laugh from him. He reached for a fresh cigar, rolling it between his fingers. "You’re a mouthy little brat, aren’t you?"

She shrugged, Crocodile looking closely at the little girl he had named and was currently mouthing off to him. He could defiantly see a spark in her, that toughness that only came from crawling through the muck- fighting for every scrap of food and basic necessities.

"Bring food-"

He curtly said to the servant who nodded quickly and left the room, The large man waving (Y/N) to come in closer which she did with suspicion in her gaze.

"You’ve got some fire in you, I’ll give you that," he said, his smirk widening as he picked up the little girl by the scruff of her now clean clothes using his hooked appendage "Reminds me of myself when I was your age—except I had better manners."

(Y/N) sent another glare to him, as she kicked her little legs angrily.

"Put me down Stupid Face!" She yelled as she continued to try and fight him in the air.

"You’re lucky I like your attitude, kid," Crocodile said, taking another puff of his cigar "Keep it up, and you might actually survive in this world. But don’t push your luck too far. I’ve got limits, even for entertaining brats like you."

The little brat slowed her little in air fighting as she stared at the men before her. "You better not be some weirdo or something Mister"

Crocodile shook his head, sighing to himself "You are a handful already-"

He chimed, Plopping (Y/N) on the arm of his chair- seeing how she was small enough to rest there. The little girl also seemingly surprised as she let her hands look over the arm of the chair she was on. Before looking at Crocodile- Her eyes burning with a bit of curiosity, especially at the hooked hand.

"Why is your hand a Hook?"

"Its a long story"

Crocodile poured himself a drink at this point- He figured a line of child questions would come forth- AKA Liquor was needed.

"Is it a good story at least?"

She asked, This making the man pause and smirk at her-

"Its a pirate story, with deadly wars- gore and ravenous beast"

He saw the sparkle in her eyes, Turning to face him now excitedly. However her wish for the story seemed to be cut short, the servant returning with a grand plate and set it up on the side table next to Crocodile- (Y/N) eyes widening and mouth clearly salivating the story clearly could wait clearly. However she glanced to the man, Who took a sip of his drink and gestured to the large platter.

"Eat" It was a simple command however one that seemed to surprise her non the less. (Y/N) with no hesitation dug in, tearing into the meat first like a little beast.

He raised a brow as he watched her eat with her hands. Glancing to the fork which hadn't been touched in the slightest- Mentally planning some form of classes for the kid. He was a pirate but for fuck sake.

The Boss taking a sip of his stiff drink seeing (Y/N) who was currently looking at his drink in curiosity as she ripped into her meal, Crocodile smirking as he tilted it in her direction letting her take a sip.

See 5 year old's and strong liquor don't mix- And he knew that. Watching (Y/N) face turn into disgust as she let the liquor drop straight from her mouth to her clothes.

"That's so nasty!!!"

She cried, her tongue now stuck out as she whined, Crocodile pulling a napkin from his coat and handed to her to at least attempt to clean herself.

"Gotta be careful in wanting a bit of everything"

"Why Not?" (Y/N) chimed with a glare- Making Crocodile smirk wider.

"Cause only Pirates want a bit of everything"

"Then I want to be a Pirate!"

Crocodile blew the smoke from his cigar to the side.

"I figured as much"

[gullemec]

Red Underlined

Golden Cage - Chapter Six

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You confront the aftermath of your night with Butcher and your father hosts a rather interesting dinner party.

Warnings: angst, language, butcher being emotionally constipated and a dick about it, discussion of sex, discussion of grief, daddy issues galore, discussion of death/murder, reader has an emotional breakdown, discussion of suicide (not reader), sexual tension, Homelander is a creep, unwanted touching (from Homelander)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.8k

A/N: Lots of emotional constipation and angst and daddy issues here, proceed with caution! Also Homelander makes an appearance and is such a nasty creep so beware of that too.

This time when you wake, it's with a start. No warm embrace, no welcome weight tethering you, just the cold shock of reality rousing you from a fleeting dream. Your heart thuds as your half-awake brain searches the room.

Butcher sits across from you, perched in the room’s stiff wingback chair, his silhouette outlined by the pale dawn light. He’s fully dressed, boots planted firmly on the floor, arms crossed like he’s preparing for a battle.

“Butch?” Your voice comes out groggy, uncertain. He doesn’t look at you. “What are you doing?”

“Get dressed,” he says, flat and clipped.

You blink at him, confusion prickling under your skin. Yesterday’s clothes are scattered around the room, discarded in the heat of passion. Gathering them, you can’t help but notice how he averts his eyes, a rare show of decorum. But his body is stiff, his expression locked in that impenetrable mask.

Does he regret it?

The thought coils in your gut like a snake, equal parts hurt and fury. You’ve had enough of his hot-and-cold act, especially after the mind-blowing sex you'd shared just hours earlier. 

By the time you’ve dressed, the tension in the room feels suffocating. Without another word, he leads you out to the waiting van.

He may be older than most of the guys you usually sleep with, but his maturity level might actually rank below theirs. 

The silence on the highway is unbearable, the minutes dragging like hours. You stare at him, his profile rigid as he grips the wheel, his jaw tight. Finally, you snap.

“Look, I’m not doing this,” you begin. “I'm not subjecting myself to another awkward car ride, so you'd better come right out and tell me now if you regret last night.”

He exhales hard through his nose, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel.

“I don't,” he says, after what feels like an eternity.

“You don't what?” you push, unwilling to let him off the hook.

His lips press into a thin line, the struggle playing out across his face as he tries and fails to find the right words. 

“I don't regret it. At all. Last night was one of the best nights of my fucking life, all right?”

Your heart skips, but the relief is short-lived.

“But it was a mistake,” he continues, voice low. “We shouldn’t have done it.”

The sting of rejection hits you like a slap. “Why not? Because you suddenly grew a conscience?”

“Listen, love, you're young. You got a future ahead of you. I'm too damn old for you. I’ve got more baggage than Heathrow, and none of it’s carry-on.”

“You think I care about that?” you fire back, your voice rising. “You think I don’t know who you are by now?”

“It’s not just that,” he says, cutting you off. “This job? This life? It’s dangerous. You don’t have room for emotional ties if you want to survive it.”

“Who said anything about emotional ties?” you retort, even as your chest tightens. You could play it cool. Maybe the two of you could be purely physical, using the kinetic energy you share for sexual release alone. Sure, you'd be betraying the growing sentiment you'd developed toward the abrasive man, settling for his physical affection alone if he truly couldn't find it in him to serve you emotionally, but at least you'd have some shred of him to keep for yourself. 

But the way he shakes his head tells you it’s not an option.

“You deserve more than that,” he says firmly, eyes fixed on the road.

You scoff, anger bubbling up. “That’s rich, coming from you. You certainly weren't saying that last night when your dick was—”

“You think I don't want to be able to give you that?” His voice is raw, startling in its honesty.

The fight leaves you for a moment, the truth of his words sinking in. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t let you see the cracks in his armor.

“You’re gonna meet someone,” he says, quieter now. “Someone who can give you the life you deserve. Someone who doesn’t drag you into this mess. Someone better.”

You scoff, hurt quickly turning to anger. “That’s bullshit,” you snap, your voice trembling. “Don’t pretend you know what I want, Butcher. You think I’ve got some perfect life waiting for me? Have I ever given you any reason to think I want anything more than being a part of the Boys? You think I don’t know exactly what I’m signing up for?”

He says your name, gently, like a prayer, finally turning to look at you. 

“Listen to me,” you tell him. “This is the most alive I've felt since my mom died. For the first time in my life I feel like I'm really making her proud. And I'll be damned if you get to decide what my future looks like.”

He finally turns to look at you, his hazel eyes softening. “Of course you get to decide what you want, if that means working with us. But you deserve to be happy, love. And I can’t give you that. I’m sorry.”

The apology hangs heavy between you, cutting deeper than you’d expected. You turn away, staring out the window as your eyes sting. You won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.. He cannot know the deadliness of the blow he has so casually dealt you. 

“Thanks for being honest, I guess,” you say quietly, your voice brittle.

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words. Finally, Butcher clears his throat. “I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me after this. MM and Frenchie can take over—”

For an angry, petulant moment you want to agree, to let your hurt be known. But it's not what you want, not even close. As much as the sting of rejection smarts right now, complete separation from him would hurt even more.

“No,” you interrupt, the word sharper than you intended. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

A part of you does feel relief, knowing that you would have fallen into bed with him regardless of his true feelings for you. Your bones and atoms had screamed at you incessantly to crash your very being against his, and you had fulfilled that request. Maybe you could let go of this preoccupation now. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The road hums beneath the tires, the tension easing just enough for you to breathe.

“It was just a one time thing,” you offer, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. 

He nods, too quickly. “Purely physical,” he agrees. 

“Right. No one has to know,” you assert. 

Probably for the best. It was bad enough that everyone at your internship thought you only got the position because of your father, you didn't need the others in the Boys thinking you were only there because you were fucking their boss. 

Still, he holds your gaze, shoulders tense, only tossing a glance toward the road when absolutely necessary. He's assessing you for truthfulness, picking up on the smallest tells in your voice that you're not as casual about this as you'd like him to think. 

You hesitate for a moment.

“It was really good, though,” you admit.

And, like a dam, his cool facade releases, posture softening. “It was really fucking good,” be agrees enthusiastically. 

“Like, so good,” you repeat. 

You both laugh. 

Fuck. 

~~~

For your entire life, family dinner has been a fortnightly tradition. 

There is a salient moment in your childhood memory; your parents, tucked away in some corner of the house they thought you wouldn't detect, voices raised in frustration. Your father, increasingly away from home, was missing out on your childhood. Your mother, desperate to keep your life as stable as possible, begging him to change. Despite his philandering ways, there was a love there between your parents, at least once upon a time. And thus a compromise was reached and the family dinner tradition was born. 

Of course, CytoGenix duty called from time to time and family dinner was deemed of lower priority, leaving you and your mother to dine alone, huddled at the end of the ten-seater dining table. Then there were the four years you spent studying abroad, missed dinners you had no idea would be your mother’s last. Still, family dinner had been an honored tradition for the most part.

And when you were bedridden, steeped in grief and disbelief, it was your father's suggestion that you restart the tradition. It was the only thing that roused you from that dark numbness. For a couple of months there it was good. Just you and dad, navigating the fog together, united in your heartbreak. 

That was, until he announced there would be a guest joining you at dinner one night. You had assumed an aunt or distant cousin, some estranged family member who’d made their way through the woodwork upon hearing the news of your mother’s untimely passing. That pretense fell away the moment Monica strolled into the dining room, dressed for Paris fashion week. You’d held a polite smile, asked polite questions, and offered polite answers to the rare, offhand question she threw your way. It was at one of these fortnightly dinners that Monica and your father, hands grasped together tightly, announced they were getting married. It was harder this time to offer a polite congratulations, forcing a pained smile until you could excuse yourself to sob in the privacy of the bathroom.

And no, you didn’t go to the wedding.

It’s in that enormous dining room that you sit now, pushing a charred brussel sprout around on your plate. 

“You know, sweetie, you have such a glow about you lately,” Monica coos from across the table. Her tone is all honey, but her eyes hold the sharpness of a blade. You resist the urge to roll your eyes anytime Monica uses terms of endearment toward you, as if her saccharine words could disguise the fact that she’s closer to your age than to her sexagenarian husband.

Still, you flush at implication. Is there a blinking sign floating over your head that reads I just got fucked so hard I saw stars, ask me about it?

“I’ve been getting out more lately,” you offer instead of the expletive laced response you really want to say. 

“I’ve noticed,” your father says, his tone carrying more irritation than interest. “I’ve also noticed you’ve been taking a lot of personal days at the office.”

He's not wrong. Ever since the day you’d woken up in the basement of the laundromat and had your entire world turned on its axis, something profound had shifted. Discovering that Vought—and by extension CytoGenix, too—likely bear responsibility for your mother’s death has a way of making intern projects feel laughably small. You figure that Adam and Emily have the menial lab experiments covered in your absence. 

Your father sets his knife down deliberately, licking his teeth before speaking. “I want you to take this seriously,” he says, his voice cool but weighty. “This isn’t just an internship—it’s the family name we’re talking about.”

Something about the scrape of Monica’s knife on the china grates on you, or maybe it’s the way you fucking hate brussel sprouts. Maybe it's your father's condescending tone and the fact that the family name has only ever brought you pain and misery. Perhaps it's the fact that all of you sitting here together now is a bastardization of a tradition your mother created in hopes that you'd have some semblance of a normal childhood.

“What about me, though?” The words spill out before you can stop them. “What about what I want?”

The room falls still. Monica freezes mid-cut, her fork hovering. Even you’re surprised at the sharpness in your own voice.

“Maybe you forgot, since you didn’t bother showing up to my graduation, but I majored in biology, not pharmacology or business. I never wanted to come back here, let alone do this internship. So excuse me if I miss a few days here and there, okay?”

The heat of your anger makes your face flush, sweat prickling at your spine. Across the table, Monica blinks, her expression unreadable. If you didn’t know better, you’d think she almost looked impressed.

But your father doesn’t yell, doesn’t slam his fists on the table like he did when you were younger. Instead, he does something that is perhaps even worse. He dismisses you, a loose hand wave and unaffected expression rendering your impassioned cry moot. The calm, detached response somehow cuts even deeper.

“Nonsense,” he says coolly. “Someone needs to take over the family business when I go, and if you ask my cardiologist he'll tell you that day isn't too far off.”

“Baby, don’t talk like that!” Monica gasps, her performative worry grating on your nerves. She turns to you. “Your dad’s been overseeing testing on a new heart medication in the labs—which you’d know if you bothered to show up.”

You zone out completely as the two of them bicker back and forth, about your father's health, about your insolence, and then eventually about frothy gossip they'd overheard during their recent outing to Le Bernardin. 

Your mind drifts.

What do you want? You’d chosen biology at Cambridge as a compromise, a way to avoid outright rebellion against your father’s wishes. Your mother used to tell you to go after what set your heart on fire, to never settle for anything that didn’t light you up inside. She always spoke as if your success was inevitable, like there was no version of reality where you wouldn’t do something extraordinary.

Only, maybe she'd never considered a reality in which her advice and listening ear no longer existed, where her very absence snuffed out that spark entirely.

What would she say about the Boys, about Butcher? She was a sensible lady, and classy, so it probably would have taken her some time to warm up to the idea of you cavorting around with a crew of vigilantes. Still, you want to believe that she would see the spirit with which you speak about them, the way you feel a million times more purpose scheming and spying in a dingy, dimly lit basement than you ever did sitting in a cubicle reading lab reports. You imagine her reaction to Butcher, her mother's instinct warning you to guard your feelings, and her inability to deny that you were glowing. 

You're pulled from your daydream when your ears perk up at something Monica says. “Sorry, what was that?” You ask. 

She examines you for a moment. “I said that production has been set back for a special product we've been making for Vought. There was an… unfortunate accident.” She spears her steak, her gaze dropping. “Ashley’s furious. They’re demanding a meeting.”

This time Monica is on the receiving end of your father's casual dismissal as he waves her off like a gnat. “I already spoke to her. Told her they can come to dinner at the Lakehouse. We’ll pour them some wine, ease the blow.”

Monica sets her jaw on edge. “It's going to take a lot of wine for this to go down smoothly, darling,” she says curtly. Her tone lowers. “The losses were huge, it's going to take years and billions to recoup—”

Your effort not to smile is Herculean.

Then your father’s voice cuts through. “I want you there,” he says.

You blink. “Me? Why?”

“You need to start familiarizing yourself with Vought if you’re going to take over. Think of it as a lesson in conflict resolution.” He chuckles, ignoring Monica’s pointed glare.

And, to everyone's surprise, you don't argue this. “Okay, I'll be there.” Your mind swirls with all the ways you can take advantage of this opportunity. 

You choke down the last brussel sprout before bouncing up, giving your dad a kiss on the cheek before you leave. 

“See? I told you she'd come around,” you hear him say before the door shuts behind you. 

~~~

You don’t bother going home after dinner. Instead, you head straight for the laundromat, the adrenaline from your dinner revelation buzzing in your veins.

The basement is alive with chatter as you burst through the door. MM, Hughie, Kimiko, and Frenchie greet you with a chorus of smiles and hellos, their faces lighting up at your excitement.

Butcher, on the other hand, freezes. He bolts upright from the couch as if you’d hit him with a stun gun, his wide eyes darting over your face. For a moment, it looks like he might say something, but his mouth clamps shut before finally settling on an awkward wave before returning to his usual seat on the couch. The others glance at him, puzzled by his bizarre reaction, but say nothing.

You don’t entirely blame him. It's the first time you've seen each other in the week since you slept together. The memory lingers sharper than you’d like to admit. The rest of the car ride home had passed in companionable conversation, punctuated by argument every time you wanted to pull over to take a picture of a cool looking tree or pretty sunset. By the time you pulled up in front of your apartment you were dead tired, asleep on your feet. But just as you turned to leave, Butcher squeezed your hand. “Be safe, alright?” he'd said, and you told him you would be. 

You thought about him that night when you touched yourself, something you've been making a bad habit of lately. You wondered if he might have been doing the same. 

None of that matters now. You’re here for a mission.

“I’ve got a lead,” you announce, diving into an explanation of the upcoming dinner and its potential as a goldmine for intel. Everyone is receptive, earning you a back pat from MM and a good job, ma poupette  from Frenchie. You can't deny the way their praise feels like sunlight on your face. 

Hughie chimes in. “You should wear a wire. We’ll be outside in the van, listening in. If anything goes sideways, we’ll be ready.”

You nod, reassured by the thought of their backup. Soon, they’re deep into planning—locations, entry and exit points, contingencies. You hang back, content to watch them work.

That’s when Butcher sidles up beside you.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks, voice low. “Privately.”

Your pulse quickens as you nod and follow him into a side room. He shuts the door behind you, and the air between you feels suddenly charged. You're embarrassed by how flustered you feel just by being so close to him again, like your body knows his and reacts involuntarily at the proximity. Your cheeks flush as you draw your eyes up to meet his, putting effort into controlling your breath. Did he want to discuss what happened again? Did he change his mind about this physical element of your relationship? Did he pull you into this room because he absolutely could not wait a second longer to tear your clothes off and have you again, right here, right now?

He interrupts your spiraling thoughts by pulling a manila envelope from his trench coat and shoving it into your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask, confused.

“Your mum’s autopsy report. The unredacted version,” he says, his voice unusually soft. “Had it smuggled out of Vought Tower.”

Your breath catches. You grip the envelope, your excitement from earlier replaced by a rising wave of guilt. How had you let yourself become so wrapped up in your feelings for him that you’d lost sight of why you were working together in the first place?

You start to pull the papers out, but his hand covers yours, stopping you.

“I’m warning you,” he says. “It’s not good.”

You nod, swallowing hard.

The words on the pages blur together at first, dense medical jargon making your head spin. Some of it is familiar, pulled from the sanitized version Vought had given you. But there are new phrases here, ones that jump out like knives.

Internal injuries consistent with a traumatic car accident or fall from a great height. 

No external injuries noted. 

Partial exsanguination. 

You shake your head. None of this makes sense. You were told that your mother was found in her apartment, like having fallen and slipped in the shower. You didn't have to be a medical examiner to know that a person wouldn't have such catastrophic injuries from a slip, couldn't bleed to death from a wound with no external injury. 

Your hands tremble as you flip to the final page, one you'd examined at length in the past. Your eyes fall to the Cause of Death header. As before, you see ‘accidental’ written beneath it. Except next to it, previously obscured by a thick, black redacting line, you find two letters. SR. 

“SR?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Butcher grimaces. “Supe-related. It means a Supe killed your mum.”

You suspected it, readied yourself for it, stayed up late at night agonizing about it. Yet, with the evidence in your hands now, finally real, you begin to tremble. There was no running from the fact that your mother had suffered, that she had been afraid in her last moments. What did she think when the Supe showed up at her apartment? Had she begged for her life? Had your father and Monica contracted with Vought to get your mother out of the picture?

Your legs give out beneath you, vision swimming. Before you meet the ground, strong arms catch you, wrapping around you. You're enveloped in Butcher's arms as he gently guides you both to the floor, pulling you in tighter as you rest against the wall. Your lungs heave in great, powerful bursts, awful croaking sobs escaping from deep inside you. You sob in the same way you did on the night you received the life-altering news, unabashed and involuntarily. Butcher says nothing as he rocks you back and forth, a large hand running up and down your back. He lets you get it all out, like he's been here, like he knows this pain all too well. When the sobs subside and your breathing steadies, he helps you to your feet, his hands lingering just long enough to ensure you’re steady. You wipe your eyes and manage a grateful glance, knowing that speaking would only unleash another torrent of tears.

Butcher steps back slightly, his hand lingering on your shoulder as if anchoring you to the moment. His face softens, guarded but undeniably tender. He clears his throat, glancing away before meeting your eyes again.

“I know what it’s like, you know,” he says, voice quieter than you’re used to. “To lose someone and not have the answers. To lie awake at night, over and over, trying to piece together the truth that everyone else seems happy to bury.”

You blink, surprised by his tone. “You’re talking about Becca?”

He shakes his head. “Not just Becca. My brother, Lenny.”

The name hangs in the air like a heavy weight. He exhales sharply, as though it physically pains him to say it.

“Lenny was... different from me,” he continues, the rough edge in his voice softening further. “He wasn’t like this.” He gestures vaguely at himself, the trench coat, the scowl, the hardened demeanor. “He was the better one. Gentle, kind. Always trying to keep me in line. He was... the only good thing left in my life, for a long time.”

You stay quiet, the gravity in his voice pulling you in.

“But I couldn’t protect him.” His jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists. “He was dealing with his own demons, and I was too blind, too wrapped up in my own shit, to see what he needed. He...” Butcher’s voice falters, his words cracking. “He didn’t make it. Took his own life. And I’ve spent every day since wonderin’ if I could’ve stopped it, if I could’ve done somethin’ different.”

You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing against his arm, offering the same silent comfort he’d given you earlier.

“That’s why I’m telling you,” he says, looking at you with a rare vulnerability, his eyes sharp and glassy. “Whatever it takes, we’re going to get the bastard who did this to your mum. You’ve got my word. I’m not gonna let you go through this alone. Not like I did.”

His words ignite something deep inside you, a mixture of gratitude, determination, and pain. You nod, your voice unsteady but resolute. “We’ll get them. Together.”

Butcher’s lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, he nods, the unspoken understanding between you solidifying like steel.

“Just promise me,” he adds, his voice rough again, “you don’t lose yourself in this. Revenge is a funny thing. It takes more than it gives. Trust me, I know.”

You swallow hard, hearing the weight of his warning but knowing, in your heart, that this path is the only one you can take.

“I’ll try,” you say, though you’re not sure if it’s a promise you can keep.

Butcher seems to hear it in your voice but doesn’t push. Instead, he straightens, his usual stoicism returning. “Get some rest,” he says, pulling his trench coat tighter around himself. “Big day tomorrow.”

As he walks toward the door, you glance at the manila envelope still clutched in your hands. The truth you’ve been searching for is finally laid bare, but it feels heavier than you ever anticipated.

Before he steps out, Butcher pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. For a moment, there’s something in his gaze, something soft and almost protective.

“You’re tougher than you think,” he says gruffly. “Don’t forget that.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the truth and the ache of everything it means.

~~~

You're darting around your apartment in a short cotton bathrobe when three raps fall against your door in quick succession, alerting you to the arrival of Hughie and Butcher.

Thrusting the front door open, you barely greet the men before scurrying back upstairs. Dinner at the Lakehouse starts in an hour and a half. You're running late and you know it. 

“Make yourselves comfortable,” you shout over your shoulder, already halfway up the stairs to your loft.

Butcher steps inside first, glancing around the expansive living room with its vaulted ceilings and tastefully expensive decor. Though he’s been here once before, briefly, you can feel the weight of his presence in the space. Hughie follows, lingering awkwardly by the door as if afraid to touch anything.

“You sure this is just yours?” Hughie asks, his voice filled with awe as he surveys the plush furniture and abstract art pieces that probably cost more than his yearly salary.

“Doesn’t look like the digs of someone in our line of work, does it?” Butcher mutters, one eyebrow cocked as he gestures toward the oversized painting above your couch.

You cringe upstairs, pausing mid-search for your shoes. Do they know the painting cost a cool twenty grand? Do they know your father didn’t even blink when you charged it to his credit card?

The size and opulence of your apartment feel like an accusation, another reminder of the gulf between your world and theirs.

Pushing the thought aside, you turn to your reflection in the mirror. The maroon dress you’ve chosen clings to you like a second skin, fabric cascading over your hips and down your thighs to lightly skim the floor. The neckline rises to your collarbones, giving the illusion of modesty. It's what happens when you turn around that's worthy of a commotion; your back is bare save for delicate straps that criss-cross your back, dipping dangerously low beneath your waist, leaving little to the imagination. You’d be lying if you said you weren't looking a little forward to seeing Butcher's reaction.

Taking a steadying breath, you smooth the silk down your sides and make your way downstairs. The clack of your heels on the wooden steps draws their attention immediately. Hughie’s head snaps up, his mouth slightly agape before he quickly averts his gaze, his cheeks flushing.

Butcher, on the other hand, doesn’t bother to look away. His eyes rake over you, unapologetic, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something darker, something you’re afraid to name. He doesn’t speak, but his jaw tightens, and for a moment, he seems rooted in place. His eyes burn a hole through you, jaw firmly remaining on the ground. It's as though he's never seen you naked, reduced to tears by his relentless—

Get a hold of yourself. 

“Wow,” Hughie stammers, standing abruptly. “Uh, you—wow, yeah, you look—”

“Thanks, Hughie,” you interrupt, sparing him further embarrassment.

He awkwardly holds up the wire and listening device, his hands trembling as he explains how it works, assuring you that you'll be safe and that they'll step in if anything goes sideways. You distantly wonder would cause this mission to go awry, and what exactly the Boys would do to help you. You nod along, your mind only half-focused on his words as he hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of threading the wire through your dress. You've grown quite comfortable around the guy, but it's hard to imagine how this couldn't be an awkward interaction. He frets, deeply uncomfortable manipulating your dress or touching your skin. 

“Uh, maybe you should—” Hughie stutters, gesturing vaguely toward you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Butcher growls, snatching the wire from Hughie’s hands. “I’ll do it.”

Before you can protest, Butcher steps closer, the heat of his presence washing over you. He hands you the mic, his voice low and rough. “Stick this under your sternum.”

You do as he says, tucking it into place with trembling fingers. He takes the wire and, with surprising gentleness, pulls the side of your dress open where the straps criss-cross. His fingers brush your skin as he threads the wire through, and suddenly the air feels too thick to breathe.

His hands pause at your waist, his eyes lifting to meet yours. The smoldering intensity in his gaze steals the air from your lungs, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“This,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible as he reaches up to place the earpiece in your ear, “is so you can hear us in the van.”

 His eyes read wistfulness. Yours return the favour. 

The proximity, the warmth of his breath fanning across your cheek, sends shivers racing down your spine. You force yourself to stay still, fighting the instinct to lean into him, to close the infinitesimal distance between you. Your flesh reacts to his touch, his breath fanning on your face sending flutters down your spine. You inhale deeply, committing his warm scent to memory. It takes all your self-control not to reach out and touch his neck. 

Butcher lingers a moment too long, his eyes flicking to your lips before he catches himself. He pulls back abruptly, shoving his hands into his pockets as if to hide their tremble.

Hughie clears his throat loudly, snapping you both back to reality. “Uh, so... ready to go?”

Your cheeks burn as you step back, smoothing your dress and avoiding Hughie’s curious gaze. “Yeah,” you mumble, grabbing your coat and clutch. “Let’s get this over with.”

Shit. You have no idea how to explain to Hughie what the fuck just happened between you and Butcher. You have no idea how to explain to yourself what the fuck just happened between you and Butcher. He said it was a one time thing, and you had agreed. So why did it feel like neither of you really meant that now?

You don't wait around to find out. Cheeks hot, you pull on a heavy wool coat and throw your keys in a clutch, mumbling to Hughie and Butcher that your car is waiting downstairs for you, the three of you hurrying out of the apartment. 

Your heart is racing, your cool utterly lost, and you haven't even started the mission yet. 

~~~

The Lakehouse is hardly a house at all. Perched on eight sprawling acres of pristine waterfront property, the six-bedroom estate is more like a luxury resort. It boasts a private beach, a boathouse, a fully staffed kitchen, and amenities that wouldn’t be out of place in a five-star hotel. This was supposed to be your childhood home, a place where your family would gather to escape the chaos of the city. But, of course, your father’s relentless ambition had other plans. Weekdays in the city turned into every week in the city, and the Lakehouse became little more than a backdrop for corporate schmoozing and high-stakes dealmaking.

You’ve only been here once since moving back, and that visit had been for a similarly uncomfortable dinner with grumpy shareholders. That’s how it works with your father. When he invites someone to the Lakehouse, it means he’s either wooing them or trying to quell a crisis. Tonight, it’s the latter.

The heated marble floors feel too smooth under your heels as you drift through the dark wood-paneled corridors, a ghost in your father’s world. The hum of conversation grows louder as you approach the atrium, a cavernous space filled with old money charm and new money ambition. When you step inside, the low murmur of voices barely shifts.

Your father, however, notices immediately. His face lights up as he strides over, announcing your presence to the room with an enthusiasm that feels both practiced and performative. You’re greeted with nods and distracted glances from the scattered groups of investors, politicians, and Vought executives who occupy the space.

You paste on a polite smile and glide into the crowd, the maroon silk of your dress flowing like water around your frame. The fabric clings in all the right places, and you’re acutely aware of how much the dress is working in your favor tonight. You flit from one conversation to the next, exchanging hollow pleasantries with anyone willing to give you the time of day.

“Yes, I’m his daughter.”“No, I don’t work for CytoGenix yet, just shadowing.”“Of course, I’m honored to follow in his footsteps.”

You parrot the answers you know they want to hear, offering carefully crafted tidbits about your life in exchange for half-hearted words of encouragement or patronizing nods.

“So,” one executive asks, swirling his glass of whiskey, “you’ll be running CytoGenix one day, huh?”

You want to tell him you’d rather set the place on fire and dance on the ashes. Instead, you laugh, a soft, practiced sound, and offer some noncommittal response that earns an approving chuckle.

After thirty agonizing minutes, you can’t take it anymore. Your smile feels brittle, your cheeks sore from holding it in place. Excusing yourself with a vague promise to freshen up, you slip out of the atrium and into the cool night air.

The back terrace is wide and expansive, the kind of place meant for grand parties or quiet reflection. Tonight, it acts as your refuge. You pull your heavy coat tighter around your shoulders as you step to the edge, your heels clicking softly against the stone.

The view is breathtaking. The lake stretches out before you, the surface calm and glassy, reflecting the fiery reds and burnt oranges of the setting sun. The horizon blurs in the distance, where the vibrant sky meets the still water. The crisp fall air fills your lungs, sharp and invigorating, cutting through the lingering tension from the evening.

For a moment, you let yourself exhale fully, allowing the facade to fall away. Out here, there are no prying eyes, no hollow pleasantries, no suffocating expectations. Just the quiet lap of water against the shore and the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze.

You grip the stone railing and gaze out at the horizon, wondering if this is what your father feels when he’s here, if he ever lets himself feel anything at all. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you’re only here for one reason: to play your part. But the thought lingers like a shadow, just out of reach, as the sun dips below the horizon and the lake fades into twilight.

Your serenity is interrupted when the terrace door opens with a creak. You swear under your breath at the unwelcome intrusion. 

“Hey there sweetheart,” a voice beckons out behind you. Instead of the warmth you’d normally feel at this kind of greeting, you find the hair at the back of your neck standing on end, unsettled to your core. Your stomach tightens, and you hear Butcher’s muttered curse in your earpiece.

You turn, finding Homelander closing the door behind him, joining you on the balcony. 

“Homelander.” You turn, keeping your tone neutral, but your heart beats louder in your chest. "Enjoying the evening?"

He steps onto the balcony, closing the door behind him, his gaze tracing you with that predatory intensity that sends a ripple of discomfort through your veins. “Indeed I am.” He eyes you up and down, slow and deliberate, his words syrupy and laced with an unsettling warmth. “Enjoying the view even more.”

“Fuckin' prick,” Butcher growls under his breath through the earpiece.

You offer a strained smile, your pulse quickening despite yourself. “The lake’s amazing this time of year,” you say, grasping at the first thing that pops into your mind, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

Homelander takes a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Not as incredible as you,” he says with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His hand rests on your waist, and you recoil instinctively, every nerve in your body screaming to move, to get away. “You’re something special, you know that?” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping, “I’ve had my eye on you all night.”

A burst of anger flashes in Butcher’s voice. “I’m gonna kill him,” he hisses, but you can hear the strain in his words—he knows he can’t act just yet.

You swallow. Despite your knowledge of who he is, what he is capable of, you're not immune to his charisma. The quasi-genuine emotion in his voice is almost believable, bombarding your defenses. You stiffen against him, clutching onto the balcony railing like it might save you. 

Your stomach churns as Homelander's fingers curl possessively around your waist. Your muscles stiffen, but you stand your ground, ignoring the dread welling inside you. “I was just heading back inside,” you mutter, the tension radiating from your body palpable. You try to sidestep, but his hand snaps out, gripping your wrist in an iron hold, pulling you back toward him.

“No need for that, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your ear, his voice low, with a dangerous edge. “Don’t tell me those perky tits and round ass are gonna go to waste.”

“Enough, I'm going in,” Butcher's voice cracks through your earpiece, barely holding back the fury in his words. “No!” Hughie chirps, eliciting jumbled groans from Butcher. If he thinks he's disgusted listening to it, he should try hearing it spoken directly into his ear. 

You press your palm to the cool railing, feeling the weight of his gaze on you, the air thick with tension. You take stock of the situation, calculating your next move. The terrace is isolated, the fall air too cool for the partygoers inside. No one would hear you if you screamed right now. Still, your proximity to the party would prevent Homelander from doing anything too egregious. He may be sociopathic and narcissistic, but he's not stupid. He can't hurt you, at least not right now. 

Your mind races as you swallow the vile words bubbling up. It’s your turn now. You meet his gaze head-on, your voice barely shaking. “Back off, asshole,” you say, each word dragging itself from your throat with the kind of anger you’ve been keeping locked inside for months. “Step the fuck off.”

The world feels suspended for a heartbeat, and then another. You brace yourself for whatever comes next—the snap of your wrist, the rush of air as he lifts you into the sky—but all you hear is his shallow, ragged breath. He doesn’t move.

To your utter shock, he lets go of you. Only his hand remains, grasped around your wrist. You turn to face him. 

You feel the anger roll off of him in waves, concentrated and palpable. You fight to keep your breathing even as you contend with the electricity falling off of him, a live wire spinning out behind you. 

“You know who my father is,” you state, voice calm and even once again. “You don't want to do this.”

“That fuckin’ bastard is getting a bullet—”

His face falls, menacing energy leaking out of him. You feel the malicious energy exuding from his very being, every nerve in his body wanting to hurt you in this very moment, the barest thread tying him to reality.

Please, you think. Give Butcher a reason to run in here. Let him save me. 

He holds onto you, fist tightening around your wrist painfully. He gazes up at you, unnaturally blue eyes pleading. 

“I'm going in. I don't fucking care I’m going,” Butcher crackles into your ear. 

“Stop,” you say, simultaneously to Butcher and Homelander. “Just walk away.”

For a moment, the tension is unbearable. But then, to your shock, both men stand back. Butcher's voice fades from within your ear. Homelander takes a step backward, though it’s not out of mercy, but rather a calculation. A predator retreating from its cunning prey. His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach for you again.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice almost too smooth. He turns away from you with a languid motion, desperately trying to coax his boner away. 

You swallow the bile rising in your throat and steel yourself. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”  

You stare up at him, daring him to act up even a little bit. His eyes are lifeless, shark-like. He doesn't move. 

His smile is a razor. “Sure.”

You take a breath, then turn, letting the distance grow between you. “I really need to get back to my dad,” you mutter, your voice almost too casual as you slip past him and back inside.  

You slip back inside, the warmth of the party pressing against you. Your footfalls echo against the wood panelled walls, softening the jagged edges of your inhaled breaths. You pause for a second, ensuring he isn't following you, before ducking back into the dinner party. 

~~~

Dinner is served: Filet mignon, perfectly seared, accompanied by a side of Catalonian salad. 

It takes all of your energy not to tear into the meal, desperately trying to recall your brief time spent at finishing school in your teens. An array of assorted cutlery borders your meal; you select what you hope to god is the correct fork.

The minutes stretch on in blessed silence, the clink of cutlery and soft murmurs as everyone devours the fresh seafood. Cloth napkins flutter delicately to dab at dribbles of butter staining chins.

“A toast,” Ashley says, cutting through the meal’s quiet indulgence. “I'd like to extend Vought's gratitude toward the Morgans tonight for this lovely get together,” she raises her wine glass, all of the partygoers offering theirs up in the toast. She raises her glass in a practiced gesture, and everyone follows suit, toasting dutifully before draining their drinks.

When she speaks again her expression is serious. “But,” she continues, her tone now sharp, “I'd like to discuss the status of V2. After the recent attack, our shareholders are understandably concerned.”

Monica stands from the table, patronizing smile plastered on her face. “Ashley,” she begins, flashing a disingenuous smile, “We so appreciate your condolences on CytoGenix’s recent loss of two beloved security guards. May they rest in peace.” Her hand presses to her chest in exaggerated grief, screwing her eyes shut in mock sincerity.

You scoff quietly, wondering how someone so transparent in their deceit made it this far in the industry. How did your father fall for her when your mother was right there?

She continues. “What happened was a freak accident. V2 remains a well-guarded secret. We can assure you that CytoGenix is fast at work replacing all of the destroyed product.”

The room erupts into hushed murmurs, sidelong glances communicating dissatisfaction with Monica's response. She's trying desperately to downplay what happened, what you did, and she's failing miserably. 

“Monica, as an executive at both Vought and CytoGenix, I'm a little concerned about your nonchalance. Are you not concerned about the loss of 13 billion dollars in profits here?” Ashley’s voice is measured but biting, her sharp gaze trained on Monica without faltering.

Monica's face falls ever so slightly. It's barely perceptible, but you notice the infinitesimal twitch in her smile, the twinkle dying in her eyes. The energy in the room shifts as the din of cutlery and small talk silence. The two women stare each other down. Electric tension crackles around the room. 

Then, the squeak of a chair as it’s pushed back snaps you from your thoughts. You’re caught off guard when your father rises from his seat, one hand raised in an almost theatrically calm gesture.

“Ladies, please,” he says, a placating smile on his face. “I am willing to put my name and reputation on the line here to tell all of you,” he makes a sweeping gesture to the room, “CytoGenix is committed to ensuring favorable outcomes for everyone sitting at this table. I have taken on the responsibility of guarding the remaining vials myself. The future of V2 rests under my watchful eye.” His chest erupts in a hearty chuckle, as though it was silly that anyone doubted his company's ability to make money. A laugh that threatened danger if it was not met with a positive response. 

As if on cue, everyone devolves into soft laughter, like the room itself has exhaled collectively. Stanley Morgan, ever the consummate politician. Ability to command a room unmatched, he basks in the light chatter of the relieved guests. 

Sometimes your father's power scares you. Times like right now. 

You find an excuse to leave once dinner is finished, feigning sleepiness to avoid being dragged into the inevitable dessert round with the insufferable business crowd. As you pull on your coat, your father crosses the room and gives you a quick, almost absent hug. He presses a kiss to your hairline, the gesture so fleeting, so routine, but for a moment, you feel a flicker of something you can’t quite place.

“Stay safe, kiddo. I love you,” he says, and for a moment you forget. So you pretend. 

You pretend that you just had a normal weekly dinner with him and your mom, just like old times. You pretend that she's just in the other room, finishing up the whipped toppings for her favorite dessert, key lime pie. You pretend that your father always tells you that he loves you, that he doesn't save it for occasions when he's drunk and you've finally done something that makes him proud. 

You hug him back. You tell him you love him too. 

[saphronethaleph]

Matters Not

Tarka Gerth swept her blue saber around in a glowing arc, deflecting two bolts aimed at her retinue of clones, then the half-dozen clone troopers nearest the front of the column fired a fusillade of blaster bolts and shredded the battle droids.

“All right, watch out for trouble,” the delphidian said. “There’s no way it could be this easy.”

“You are correct, Jedi,” a distorted voice agreed, and Tarka flinched before turning to the left and bringing her saber up into guard position.

General Grievous stalked out of the shadows, two of his special guards with him, and more than a dozen droids levelled their blasters.

“Grievous,” Tarka declared, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice.

“A padawan,” Grievous replied. “Without their master… an easy target. And a foolish Jedi.”

He chuckled, which turned into a cough until he shook his cyber-augmented head irritably. “Your lightsaber will make a fine addition to my collection… no, I correct myself!”

Grievous sounded actually amused. “A padawan who practices the art of dual wielding, no less – what you call jar’kai in your Jedi arts! I appreciate your contribution!”

“Instructions, general?” one of the clones asked.

“Hold on,” Tarka replied. “I think… yes.”

She nodded sharply. “If I give you the lightsabers, will you let us leave?”

“What an interesting suggestion!” Grievous said, sounding highly amused. “Hand them over, and I will consider it!”

Tarka deactivated her lightsaber, and unclipped the other one from her belt as well. Then she put them both on the ground, and stepped back.

Grievous stepped forwards, taking both sabers, then chuckled.

“I have made my decision,” he said. “No.”

Clones tensed, blasters ready, then the second lightsaber activated – revealing a brilliant yellow blade.

The blade flashed out at least a foot from Grievous, and he looked at Tarka with amusement. “Really? A Jedi trick-”

Then the lightsaber spun around in a blur, slashing at Grievous and cutting two of his mechanical fingers off.

The kaleesh warlord stepped back, shocked, then split his arms and drew three sabers from his collection in his surviving three hands. Two of them crossed in a defensive move to block the yellow saber, and Tarka waved her hand to pull her own lightsaber back into her hand.

“Get to cover,” she told the clones, blocking attacks and retreating, and a firefight broke out as Grievous tried to work out what the karking hell was going on.

“Unfortunately, he escaped,” Tarka reported, about thirty minutes later. “Master Parakan did all he could, but Grievous sacrificed his guards to cover his escape.”

“That’s still a useful outcome,” Master Kenobi said, from the other end of the holographic link. “The confirmation that Grievous is present is useful to us, at least until he moves elsewhere.”

“What’s your opinion of Grievous’s skill, Knight Parakan?” Master Windu asked.

“He’s very good for someone who can’t use the Force,” Tarka’s master replied, at the top of his lungs.

Since he was a mole-flea from the planet Kowak, this was necessary for the audio unit of the holoprojector to pick him up at all.

“There’s some parts of the katas which unavoidably use the Force, and he stumbles a bit there, but he’s highly talented,” Parakan went on. “He seems to be especially good at multi-tasking, so he can use two or three sabers as well as one. I’m not sure how he would do with four.”

Parakan shrugged, not that anyone else could notice. “I also don’t know if he noticed me. I didn’t say anything, but he could have figured it out.”

“Take care, Tarka, Parakan,” Master Kenobi advised. “Grievous may try to excuse his defeat.”

“Next time I’ll try insulting him,” Parakan decided. “It might give him a hint that would let him figure it out faster, but it might also throw him off balance.”

He bounced on his lightsaber. “What do you think of calling him a four-armed quarter-wit?”

“Passable,” Master Kenobi mused.

[milkywaydrabbles]

He who was found in chains, set free. | IV.

Cross posted on AO3, here!

“Ci..circumde..Circum--” You huffed, frustrated with yourself for not being able to pronounce the words in front of you written as plain as day. (Well, you couldn’t read very well, give yourself grace). You tried again, still tripping over your words. It wasn’t even in a language you knew, this was more difficult than you imagined. 

“Here,” Alucard came over, tracing his finger over each syllable, slowly, and repeated it for you. “Circumdederunt me caeli, da mihi ignem”, he spoke so eloquently, as if it had been second nature to him. Well, it had. “Try again, take your time. Once you can say it, we’ll focus on intent.”  You paused for a minute, garnering the courage once again to speak, “Circumde-derunt...me caeli, da.. Mihi ignem.” You exhaled, feeling more sure in yourself. Alucard smiled at you, and you swore your heart ached out of the kindness he had been showing you. “Good, now, let’s think about intent. Do you know anything about that?”

You nodded. “I..understand the thought behind it. I’ve read only a little bit about it. Magic is focused on intent, thinking and visualizing what you need done, what you want to happen...right?” 

“Yes, more or less. I know you can do it, you’ve created fire before.” Barely, you wanted to retort, but bit your tongue. “Now, try simply thinking these words, focusing your intent on making fire again in your hands.” 

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this... 

You focused all your might into thinking, eyes closed and brows scrunched. You cupped your hands, like you did before, and continued to focus. A spark happened, here and there, but nothing substantial. You couldn’t even get another flame like you did last night. And you were so frustrated. This was a simple, stupid spell that you should be able to do. Why was this so difficult for you? You tensed up, continuing to furrow your brow and mumble to yourself, trying your best to get this to work.

“Hey,” a hand gently placed on your shoulder. You jumped. He retracted, apologetic. “Relax, you look like you’re going to combust. Try again, with intent, but don’t think too hard okay? You need to relax.” 

You sighed, releasing as much of the tension in your body as you were able to (years of trauma really makes that hard), and started again. This time, things came much easier to you. A spark, then a small kindling, and then a real flame appeared in your hands. You gasped, and waved it, thinking it was going to dissipate but it didn’t. “I did it...” you sighed, bright eyed looking over to Alucard. “I did it.” 

You really were harmless, weren’t you.

“You did, good job.” He praised, nodding once. “That is how you hone your senses. Replicate that for spells, remember how you felt, what you thought, for the future.” You put out the fire after a few more tries, and clasped your hands together. You were so proud, you couldn’t believe it! The first time you were able to use magic, real magic, and not it be an accident or a miracle. Maybe now you’d be able to actually survive out there with the night creatures! You could live!

...in six days’ time. Right. You had agreed one week.

--

Over the course of the next few hours, Alucard would teach you higher education words, learning a bit more magic along the way and getting used to reading on your own more fluently. You were sure the magic book would be easy for you now! 

“I can only teach you so much magic, it’s never been my strength but you are a natural born witch, you will be able to learn so much more. If you continue to study, I’m sure you’ll be a fierce opponent.” He chuckled, making himself laugh. “Thank you, Alucard, this has been so helpful, really, I can’t tell you enough times thank you.” You shuffled a bit closer, hands clutching at your skirt. “I would...I would like to repay you.” A hand reached out to his hands, fumbling with the metal buckle of his belt. 

“What are you doing?” He sounded panicked, pushing your hand away a bit too harshly and stepping back. He was reliving too many memories, too many nightmares standing in front of you. You blinked, bringing your hand up to your chest to grasp at nothing. “I...am repaying your kindness.” You sounded meek, so soft spoken. “Isn’t this...My master...He said men enjoyed that. It’s all I’m good for, I can’t give you much else--”

“No.” That sent you reeling. “Men don’t ask for that as form of payment from innocent girls, pigs do.” He spat. You flinched, tears accumulating in your eyes. You blinked them away. He took a step forward. “Is that what he asked of you? Is that what he made you do?”

You said nothing, looked off to the side so he couldn’t notice your red eyes. Didn’t matter, he did anyways. He whispered your name. “I won’t ask that of you, ever. Do you understand?” 

“But then how can I service you?” You nearly cried. “What can I do for you to repay you? I’m no good for anything, I’m no good--” a sob escaped. Your hands came up, covering your face in shame.

Alucard wasn’t sure how he could possibly remedy this. This, was much deeper than just consolation. He wasn’t equipped for this. He hadn’t even been able to deal with his own trauma, much less someone else’s. He sighed, closing up the book with a marked page, for later. 

“Go get cleaned up...I’ll make dinner.” And with that, he left.

--

Back in your room you tormented yourself over what you’ve done. I made him angry, he’s going to kick me out sooner now. I just wanted to thank him, is that not normal?? To thank someone after kindness? You continue to pick at the skin around your fingernails, pacing around the room. It’d never dawned on you that what that vile man made you do was inherently wrong. He was cruel, but you had always assumed he was doing what any other man would do. Now, you felt sick to your stomach. You had been the only one in the village doing this? It wasn’t normal for women to do this to whatever man that bought them? Stupid, stupid, stupid. They weren’t bought. Just me! Tears pricked your eyes again, and you rubbed them as if by doing so hard enough, they would just erase off your face. 

You found it best to at least wash your face and change your bandage, before Alucard showed up at your room to collect you for dinner. That is, if he showed at all. You went over to a...sink, is what he called it once in passing, and turned the knobs similar to the tub. You went as cold as it could go, and splashed yourself in hopes the frigid water would knock some sense into you. Thankfully, the shock did its job and you were able to calm down some. After you removed the old, sticky bandage from your upper arm and examined it. It was clean, for the most part. You washed that up too, just a bit, before getting a fresh bandage on one of the shelves nearby. 

 You heard a soft click of a door, and curiously you went back into the main bedroom area. 

There were fresh clothes laid out on the bed. 

Cautiously, you went over to look at the garments, and you gasped. A gorgeous, clean  dark emerald dress, knee length. The bodice was sprinkled with embroidered leaves, the sleeves belled and flowing, and by the cut of it you can only guess it was off shouldered. It was still made of linen, and nothing extravagant by wealthy standards, but it was honestly stunning.  You weren’t sure what to make of it. Should you put it on? Should you pretend like you didn’t see it? Should you tell him it’s too much for someone like you?

All alarms are firing against you, and you wanted nothing more than to run away from kindness, lest you make a fool of yourself again. But you touched the dress anyways, enjoying the way it felt on your fingertips. You grasped it lightly, and inspected it further. It looked...about your size. You weren’t sure if it would fit, but you tried anyway. Your worn down, tattered skirt slipped off you and you pulled the bandeau top away, sheepishly donning on the dress attire. It fit. Somehow, somehow Alucard had a dress in this castle that fit. You would question him about it, if you weren’t terrified of angering him and having him kick you out again. So you’d keep quiet about it. You did your best to tighten up the back of the bodice, and you’re so sure that it looked a mess, but it was cinched up at least. You wished you could have seen what it looked like on you. You had been in your room long enough, and figured it was time to tiptoe into the kitchen and see if Alucard was still in there. You wanted to apologize for earlier, and at the very least verbally thank him for the dress. 

--

Alucard was finishing up plating dinner--it was fish, freshly caught from the stream about a half mile away-- and setting the rest of the side dishes when he heard, faintly, so faintly, footfalls. You were so deadly quiet whenever you walked, he wondered if you did it on purpose. If you’re trying to sneak up on him, if you’re trying to see how far you can get without getting caught, if you’re--

Stop that. 

He shook off his suspicions once more. You had already proven to be innocent, let alone broken. It was far more difficult for Alucard to move past the...series of unfortunate events that had happened fairly recently than he imagined. Instead, he continued to listen to your silent patter of bare feet on the old wood come closer. 

“Hello.” You spoke first. He was surprised. Alucard didn’t turn around, instead went towards the table and finish putting down the last plate.

“Good evening, dinner is ready if you would like to join me.”

“Thank you for the dress.” It was quiet, but it was there. “I would... I would like to join you, yes.”

Alucard looked up, finally, and couldn’t help but stare for a touch too long.

You looked beautiful. The silence was deafening.

“..It suits you.” Was all he said. 

Not much else was spoken between the two of you, as you sat across one another and ate dinner silently. The tension was palpable, nearly suffocating, and Alucard found it difficult to swallow. 

“I’m sorry--”

“About earlier--”

You both blinked, and stared at each other, seems you both had a mind to talk about what had transpired. You let out an exhale from your nostrils that, if he squinted, would have seen it was  a laugh.  Alucard shook his head with a smile, “You go first.” You stalled for a moment, looking down at your half eaten fish (which was delicious, but decided that if you were going to keep crying during every meal you would look mad). Then you found your voice.

“...I apologize...for earlier. I didn’t--” another pause. “...It wasn’t my intention to offend you.” I didn’t know this wasn’t normal. You braved a look up through your lashes, hoping he wouldn’t be upset with you.

And how could he?

He spoke your name with respect, another lurch of your heart. “I think you misunderstand. I was not upset with you, I was...I was upset that some monster made you think that. You are more than just a...” sex slave? “You’re more than that. I hope you understand this now.”

“It’s...difficult....to understand. But, I will try.” 

“Good.”

Dinner went on, and when you were both done you made move to stand up before Alucard. 

“...I can clean.”

He blinked, confused.

“I can clean,” you pressed on. “And I can cook, and I can help farm, I can do all these things.” You didn’t look up at him. “I did them, back in Gresit. He said I wasn’t any good, said I wasn’t good for anything except--” You stopped yourself, feeling bile come up your throat. Saying it was difficult now, with the realization. “But I did them, and I can do them here. I can help you, if only just for the week, to repay your kindness.” Please, let me do something. 

You decided to look at him now. He smiled.

“I would like the help.”

[useless19]

Still going with this.

Tw: vomit

...

Bowser curses as he fails to turn around. The palace toilets might be a step above most of the ones in the castle town, in that the flush works and they look clean. However, none of them have been built on Bowser's scale. His shell has gotten wedged every single time he's tried to use the loo.

Granted, that's only been twice so far (once during his armour fitting and now), but that's plenty!

Bowser grits his teeth as he twists around. He (stupidly) picked the stall at the end of the row, so now he has a rough stone wall on one side and flimsy wood on the other. The wood groans as his shell spikes gouge into it, bowing it horribly.

The bathroom door bangs open. Bowser freezes. The last thing he wants is to be known as the guy who got stuck in the toilet. He's not even officially employed yet.

There's some shaky breathing, then the other person retches. Bowser can hear the splatter of liquid into the sink. Eww. He'd been half considering actually washing his hands for once and now this? There's another cough and splutter and then a weak sob.

Okay, screw this. Bowser shoves his way out of the toilet (taking out the cubicle wall and knocking the door off one hinge).

Prince — very soon to be King — Luigi stares at him. He's unhealthily pale and his hands are shaking.

"How long have you been there?" Luigi asks in a thready voice.

"Your pre-coronation party was boring." Bowser waves at the destruction. "Petty vandalism is way more fun."

Luigi frowns at the splintered wood, but instead of growing angry and shouting for Bowser's arrest like his brother would have, his eyes widen in realisation as he looks at Bowser again.

"Oh, that's…" Luigi coughs into his fist, clearing his throat. "I'll have to speak to the architects about remodelling. Is there any other part of the castle that you think might need adjusted?"

Bowser crosses his arms, annoyingly embarrassed. "It's fine, it's big enough. Too big for stumpy humans like you."

"Stumpy? That's the first time anyone's called me short," Luigi manages the ghost of a smile.

"Get used to it."

"The castle doesn't feel big to me," Luigi says. "Maybe it's just because I grew up here and I'm used to it. Sometimes it feels too small for anyone. Claustrophobic, even."

How an entire castle could feel small, Bowser would never know. One thing's for sure; he doesn't need it rubbing into his snout that he didn't grow up in luxury. He can't stand up in his childhood house without bashing his head on the ceiling (that is, if it had survived the fire).

This is going to be a miserable job if the king insists on showing off his wealth and privilege at every opportunity. Bowser reminds himself that the pay is good as he turns away to wash his hands in a different sink.

"Are you done throwing up in sinks now?" Bowser asks gruffly.

"I…" Luigi loses what little humour he had when Bowser glances at him. "I'm sorry. I'm nervous about, well, everything that comes with my coronation."

"Everything," Bowser says flatly.

"It's a lot of pressure and I don't know if I'm up to the task." Luigi says. "It's a difficult job. What if I mess up and people think I'm a terrible king?"

"Oh, boo hoo," Bowser snaps. "I'm the king and I get to live in a massive castle and sleep in a feather bed and never have to worry about where my next meal's coming from, but I still worry that people won't like me! I'm so privileged I can't appreciate that my bathroom has consistent running water. I'll just whine about my petty little problems to everyone because I don't even have to play the social game because I'm the bloody king!"

Smoke hisses through Bowser's fangs with his words. He knows he's scary when his fire threatens. Prince Luigi's fists are balled and trembling as he glares up at Bowser. Good, let him fear.

"Are you finished?" Luigi says.

"Depends if you're going to complain about how hard such a cushy life is again," Bowser says, flexing his fingers.

Luigi looks at his reflection, anger blotching his cheeks. Bowser folds his arms, wanting… more, somehow, but he doesn't know what it would be. How hard can it be, really, being the king? You want for nothing and everyone has to do as you say. The last king knew that and —

Shoot.

This isn't Mario. This isn't the king that Bowser's spent most of the past five years railing against over petty laws and unnecessary arrests (mostly his own). This is someone unprepared for their new job and still grieving a family member.

Fine, whatever. Bowser knows how to be delicate. Or at least he knows how to get someone refocused on the job again. Same difference.

"So when do you need to be back out there?" Bowser asks, nodding towards the door.

"I should be there now," Luigi says. He splashes some water onto his face but only succeeds in making himself look like a drowned squeek.

"They can't have the ceremony without you. When do you want to go back out there?" Bowser says.

"It doesn't work like that," Luigi says. "Even if I'm royalty, I still have to follow the rules or —"

Bowser rolls his eyes. "I don't mean you have to order people to delay it. No one does everything on time all the time. If you want to put it off for another day, find an excuse."

"I don't want to put it off," Luigi says. "I'm not going to get more confident for waiting."

That's abundantly clear. Bowser tilts his head as he thinks. Has Luigi honestly never lied to a tutor to get an extension on his work? Or told his advisors he was meeting with someone reputable in order to sneak out to a party? What a straight-laced wimp.

"Alright, on your head be it," Bowser says.

"It will." Luigi coughs, hiding what Bowser is sure is a smile. "The crown, I mean."

Bowser can't help his snort of laughter. "That's terrible."

As awful as the joke is, it's at least wiped away the worst of the misery clouding Luigi. Bowser straightens Luigi's fancy fur-trimmed cloak before remembering that randomly touching royalty is the sort of thing that can get lowlifes like him a one-way ticket to the hangman. Well, he's never met a situation he couldn't brash his way through.

"Drink some water, go back out," Bowser says, shoving Luigi towards the sinks. "And I'll get a rumour spread that you narrowly avoided assassination so those poncy nobles think you look shaken because of that."

"Which would also highlight the importance of hiring on a bodyguard," Luigi says wryly.

"Now you're getting the idea."

Luigi closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He splashes water on his face again and then takes a drink using one of the cups on the shelf behind the sinks (who puts cups in a communal bathroom, seriously?). He doesn't look ready to do anything as important as getting crowned, but he doesn't look a shade away from passing out like he had before.

"Okay, let's go," Luigi says.

He pauses at the door and turns back to face Bowser instead.

"Is running water still a problem in the castle town?" Luigi asks. "Mario had the pipes overhauled a few years ago; I thought —"

"Nah, not anymore," Bowser says. "But I bet you didn't have to worry when the urchin infestation was at its worst."

"No, you're right, I didn't," Luigi says. He sighs. "Sorry."

Bowser groans. "Stop that."

Complaining about the silver spoon in his mouth is one thing, being pathetic is another. Bowser refuses to put up with self-flagellation while he's working, it brings down the whole mood.

"Go knock 'em dead," Bowser says.

Luigi gives one last determined nod and then leaves.

Bowser runs a hand through his hair. He's going to have to wait a few minutes before heading out on his own and then he really should hang around at the ceremony for a bit. Mostly he needs to make sure he's a visible presence at court because half the job of being a deterrent is reputation, but also partly because assassination attempts are a legit concern. There probably won't be any (if Bowser's luck is anything to go by, this is going to be the most boring day of his life), but maybe it'd be fun to make it look like there's a threat to watch all the rich people panic.

Bowser counts to a hundred and then shoulders his way out of the bathroom after the soon-to-be-king.

[mrsreginagold]

Fic: I Might Just Stay Forever

Fandom: Nikita

Pairing: Ari Tasarov x Nikita Mears (Nikari)

Rating: R

Spoilers: Takes place after season three, episode fourteen, in a canon divergent AU where Ari survives.

Summary: After things go far differently on the mission to trade Ari for Alex, Nikita makes a series of life-changing decisions. 

Author's Note: Things get just a *tad* steamy towards the end of this one.

On AO3

I Might Just Stay Forever

                  The moment Nikita Mears realized that Ari Tasarov actually meant a lot to her was when she nearly lost him. 

                  The Division operative’s quick thinking and excellent aim were the sole reasons why she currently held the former head of Gogol securely in her arms.

                  “I’ve got you. You’re going to be all right,” she murmured while putting pressure against the wound on his shoulder. With her free hand, she smoothed sweat-soaked strands of dark hair away from his angular, handsome face. 

                  There was a pallor to his features, but his stunning blue gaze locked into her own: bright, clear, and determined. “Why?”

                  “Why what?” 

                  “Why did you save me?”

                  “Does there need to be a reason?” she tried to focus on keeping the blood-loss at bay, pursing her lips when she noticed it soaking through the crisp white fabric of his shirt. “We’re going to have to get you some new clothes.”

                  Somehow, he managed to curl the fingers of his right hand beneath her chin, tipping her face towards his. “Nikita…” 

                  Pleasant heat coiled right below her stomach due to the way that he whispered her name. Ari’s voice was arguably one of his most attractive features, and to hear him refer to her in such a reverent manner made her cheeks flush with color.

                  She parted her lips to say something clever and reassuring, only for the truck they were in to go over a particularly bumpy spot on the road. 

                  This managed to catapult her further into his arms, though miraculously, she didn’t lose her grip where it mattered. 

                  Her blush deepened when she realized how close they now were.

                  He murmured her name again and threaded his fingers through her hair, which had fallen completely loose from the neat bun she had put it in. “Why did you save me?”

                  Instead of replying verbally, she bridged the tiny gap between them and pressed her lips to his. 

                  Ari froze for all of a second before wrapping his uninjured arm securely around her waist and responding in kind. 

                  They embraced with a steady, growing passion – allowing three-years-worth of suppressed longing take hold. 

                  Careful not to aggravate his injury, she straddled him, grinning against his mouth when she noticed just how easily he was affected. “Well…” she deliberately rotated her hips, delighting in the low moan that erupted from her companion. “Clearly you’re not that injured.”

                  “Still losing blood,” he hissed, catching her eyes. 

                  Her heart thundered when she noticed that his pupils were beginning to darken with arousal. “Let’s get you back, treated, and in the meantime…” she slipped her unoccupied hand down the front of his ruined shirt, popping the buttons open so she could caress over bare skin dusted with soft, downy hair as it was revealed. “I’ll keep tabs on your pulse.”

                  “You’re playing with fire here, you realize that?” he teased, nibbling deliberately at her mouth.

                  “You’re worth it,” she admitted. “That’s why I saved you.”

                  For the first time that night a genuine smile crossed his face, and he didn’t hesitate to kiss her again to convey how grateful he was. 

                  Despite how amorous they both felt, Nikita and Ari did not go so far as to actually make love. On one hand – it wasn’t terribly sexy when half of the couple happened to be bleeding and in pain. Additionally, there was not much in the way of time to do so.

                  When they finally arrived at Division, he was immediately ushered to the medical wing, which lead to a few hours of worry until she was allowed to visit with him.

                  The first thing she thought when she stepped into the recovery area was that the man had no right looking that good shirtless and bandaged.

                  “Hey,” she crossed to his bedside, reaching out to twine their fingers together. “What’s the prognosis?”

                  “Well…the bullet was removed, as was the kill chip,” he winced as he attempted to get comfortable on the gurney he was resting upon. “I’ll have to stay overnight for observation so, sadly, we will not be getting dinner.”

                  “A pity,” she smoothed back his mussed hair and dipped her head to grant him a gentle kiss. “But we’ll make up for it later.”

                  He chuckled, low and throaty and god, the sheer want that ran through her entire body was unfair. “I’ll hold you to that.” The look he sent her was rife with promise, so she risked another kiss, more fervent than the last. 

                  They embraced for several moments, his hands weaving into her hair to keep her close, until she finally pulled back to breathe. “I need to go. If you’re feeling up for it in the morning, we could get breakfast?”

                  “Rest, darling, you’ve earned it,” he nuzzled their noses together. “I’m not going anywhere.”

                  “No, you’re not,” she promised, taking one hand in hers so she could press a loving kiss to his palm. 

                  He smiled warmly, and they stayed that way just a while longer till she was ready to leave. 

                  Weeks passed since the incident in South Ossetia, and in that time Ari not only fully recovered, but turned into a crucial asset for Division. 

                  He and Nikita also became near inseparable, to the point that nearly everyone who worked with the pair began to refer to them as partners. 

                  Therefore – not much surprise was shown when they revealed that they were dating after he was officially inducted as an operative.

                  Roughly three months later, the couple took the next logical step. 

                  “You should move in,” Nikita remarked, staring intently at her boyfriend while he effortlessly twirled a dagger around in his dominant hand. She admired the grace and elegance with which he wielded the weapon, and it certainly didn’t hurt matters that he was wearing a black tank top that revealed the exquisite tone of his arms. 

                  He spun towards her, the light glinting off the blade. “I thought you preferred your own space.”

                  She shook her head and crossed her arms. “My space isn’t complete without you in it, you know that.”

                  “Mm, your bed certainly does,” he smirked, lunging at an imaginary foe. 

                  Memories of languishing under the covers that very morning, tangled up in him, immediately flooded her mind. “That only further proves my point.”

                  He stopped practicing and set the dagger down. “If it’s what you truly want, then, yes: I can move in.”

                  She crossed the space between them and draped her arms over his broad shoulders, reveling in the solid heat of his lean form flush against hers. “What I want is you. Always,” she touched her mouth to his. 

                  He grinned and returned the kiss. “Then, let me grab a shower and my things.”

                  It was an easy enough matter to get Ari settled in her studio apartment, though it was relatively late by the time they decided to break for a quick dinner. 

                  One of the greatest benefits of dating him (besides how skilled he happened to be in the bedroom) was that he was a fantastic cook, so he put together a simple pasta while she changed into a recently purchased nightgown. 

                  Nikita emerged from the bedroom, face washed and free of makeup, clad in light blue satin. The fabric whispered against her bare skin as she tugged a matching robe over the slip.  It was her lover’s favorite color, hence why she had chosen it. 

                  She noticed that he hadn’t changed out of the dark jeans and white button-down shirt he’d left their headquarters in, though the sleeves were rolled up significantly to bare his forearms. He had, however, removed his contacts and was wearing silver-framed glasses that only added to the domestic picture he painted. 

                  Affection bubbled up within her when she heard him humming, a clear indicator of how content he was. 

                  She sidled up behind him, curling her arms around his midsection and pressing her mouth lightly to the base of his neck. There was a small scar there from when the kill chip had been removed, and she lingered intentionally with her lips, well-versed in how sensitive his flesh happened to be.

                  Like clockwork, Ari moaned and arced back into her touch. “Nikita…don’t make me burn this pasta.”

                  She giggled, purposely darting kisses wherever she could: his nape, the slope of his shoulder, even along his back, which left wet marks across the crisp fabric shielding his skin from hers. 

                  “And stop ruining my shirts,” he mumbled, though humor was evident in the resonant timbre. 

                  “I can’t help it,” she stood on her tiptoes to nibble provocatively at his ear. “The way you wear them makes me want to rip them off every time. It’s like a vicious cycle.”

                  “Which you do. Repeatedly. I should start charging.” He joked, then turned off the stove once their meal was fully cooked. 

                  She finally let go of him to grab some plates, grinning when she felt the admiration in his stare once he got a good look at her. “Is that new?”

                  “You like it?” she spun around coquettishly.

                  “Yes. Though it’s going to look even better crumpled on the floor.”

                  “Now who’s going on about ruining clothes?” 

                  He rolled his eyes but took the two dishes from her so he could serve them their food. 

                  They settled on the couch in the living room to eat, talking quietly between bites and relishing each other’s company.

                  There was an ease to their interactions now thanks to a deep trust and care, leading to them being equals in all measures. 

                  Nikita smiled fondly when Ari offered to clean up after they finished the pasta, and she took advantage of his short absence to stretch out along the couch cushions and adjust her appearance. After shedding her robe, she messed with the sweetheart neckline of the slip until it enhanced her cleavage better, and then fluffed out her hair. 

                  She struck a sultry pose and waited, her lips curving into an inviting smile when her lover finally returned. 

                  He halted upon seeing her. “What’re you doing?”

                  “I heard that when a couple moves in together that they should “christen” their living space,” she beckoned him forward with a crooked finger. “Since the bed is already well broken in by this point, the couch seemed a better option. Or, if you like there’s the dining room table…”

                  Ari moved towards her while undoing the top few buttons of his collar. “There’s also any of the walls, but that might get uncomfortable.”

                  “I think we could handle it,” she shrugged, sitting up when he stopped right in front of her. 

                  “We probably could,” he agreed, and then held out his hands to help her to her feet, drawing her willingly into his embrace. “There is something I’d like to ask you first, however.”

                  “What’s that?” she reached out to continue unbuttoning his shirt, resisting the temptation to just tear the fabric open after his earlier remarks.

                  “Not that I mind, but I have noticed that you’ve been fixated on the physical part of our relationship lately. I just wondered why.”

                  She paused, looking up at him and noting the concern in his eyes. “It’s silly, I suppose.”

                  He shook his head, his grip on her tightening. “Nothing you could say is silly, sweetheart. Tell me.”

                  Nikita inhaled deeply before explaining. “I realized that I loved you right when I nearly lost you. And ever since then, I still fear that you could be taken from me. It’s my biggest fear, actually. That’s why, whenever we’re alone, I want to express those feelings. I’ve always been better at actions than words and I need you to know how much I care. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time, Ari Tasarov. I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t here. I hope I never find out.”

                  Ari peered down at her, his expression softening thanks to her clarification. “I love you too.”

                  Her pulse jumped at the unexpected declaration. “But I didn’t –

                  “You didn’t have to,” he leaned in, kissing her tenderly and rubbing soothing circles along her back. “In fact, you’re not the only one considering our future together.” 

                  “I’m not?” her brow furrowed, only for her eyes to widen significantly when he pulled a ring out of his pocket. “Oh, please tell me that isn’t…”

                  “Calm down, it’s not exactly what you’re thinking,” he chuckled, presenting her with the bauble. “This is a promise ring that’s been passed down by my family. It simply represents moving forward together. I mean – that is what we’re doing, right?”

                  She nodded, at a loss for words, and then held out her hand so he could slide the sapphire and diamond studded band onto her ring finger. 

                  She admired the way the gems sparkled in the light, and then looked back at him. “It’s beautiful.”

                  “Like you,” there was such warmth in his gaze, directly solely at her, and it made her heartbeat skyrocket. 

                  Without warning, she lunged, claiming his mouth in a passion-filled kiss that expressed her emotions on the matter properly. 

                  He stumbled back for a moment, and then caught her. 

                  It never took much for their desire to escalate.

                  His shirt was cast aside hastily, leaving him in a simple white tee that she pushed up his stomach with insistence until he parted from her long enough for it to be whisked over his head. 

                  Free of the fabric’s confines, Ari picked Nikita up and carried her effortlessly back towards the bedroom. 

                  She wrapped her legs around his waist to make the trip easier. “Does this mean we’re getting on with that christening I suggested?”

                  “In a fashion,” the sea of blue that she often found herself drowning in glinted with what could only be described as mischief.

                  A startled sound escaped her when, without warning, he pinned her between his taller, perfectly built form and her bedroom wall.

                  Her breath caught as he slowly trapped her arms over her head, holding her there with one hand while the other stealthily began to creep up her thigh beneath the satin negligee. “Ari?”

                  “Stay still,” he commanded, which sent an enthralled shiver along her spine. 

                  He kissed her again, more demanding than before, and continued in his trek, stroking slowly along increasingly sensitized skin. 

                  His lips eventually strayed to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses along her throat, his tongue laving briefly at the hollow before delving lower. 

                  A jolt of heat gathered at her center when he managed to ease her underwear down her legs. She stepped out and turned her attention to his jeans. “Right here?”

                  “You were the one who wanted to try something different,” he lifted her nightgown away and tossed it to the ground, gooseflesh erupting the second cool air hit her exposed skin. 

                  She eagerly nodded and focused on getting him out of what remained of his clothing.

                  Once he was entirely naked, they collided in another searing kiss as he joined them with a quick, fluid thrust.

                  For balance, she curled her legs around him securely and dug her nails into his back, savoring how close the position happened to make them. 

                  He made a sound akin to a growl, smirking against her mouth before starting a rhythmic motion that she followed, canting her hips so he could change his angle and bury deeper.

                  Despite his experience, Ari rarely asserted dominance in their lovemaking. Nikita knew this was due to him preferring them on equal standing, and while she appreciated it, she also sometimes worried that she was getting more out of their coupling than he was.

                  This proved to be far from the case, particularly when he pressed her more firmly between his body and the wall as his movements, while precise, began to spiral out of control.

                  If anything, it was the most erotic moment she had experienced in her lifetime.

                  She risked losing her balance in order to wind her fingers through his hair, tousling it from the perpetually neat style that he always kept it in. She arguably preferred it astray, as he had been growing it out since joining her side, and it gave him a rakish appearance. 

                  Their gazes locked in a mirror of their entwined bodies, Ari slowing a fraction so they could savor the fall properly, which prompted Nikita to pull him into one more embrace right as they reached their precipice and were lost – one, complete, and sated. 

                  “If I don’t carry you over to the bed now, I might not be able to,” her lover’s alluring voice had more gravel to it than normal and he shifted ever so slightly, the pair still interlocked while they calmed down. 

                  To be fair: Nikita was uncertain how they had not collapsed to the floor. They were propped up against the wall, and she was positive that if he set her down, she wouldn’t be steady enough to make the short trip. “I’m good with a change of location.”

                  Despite his exhaustion, Ari laughed, which rumbled pleasantly against her skin. “All right, hold on,” somehow, he managed to disentangle them and then scooped her up, carting her, bridal style, to their bed. 

                  The mattress felt like a literal cloud when he placed her upon it and she sighed, stretching. Once he joined her beneath the covers, she curled happily into his arms.

                  There was something comforting about laying together in silence, her fingers dancing across his chest to draw invisible figures. 

                  He caught her hand within his and caressed over the ring he had given her, dropping a sweet kiss to her forehead. 

                  “This is nice,” Nikita mumbled, drowsiness starting to take hold while she snuggled as close as possible. “Maybe we just don’t go in tomorrow?”

                  “I believe we have something planned with Alex tomorrow, but I already requested some vacation time for the two of us, so start thinking about places you’d like to visit.”

                  “God, you really do think of everything,” she nuzzled lazily at his throat. “If it’s possible: I’d love to escape to an island somewhere, but if that’s too difficult, there’s always Disney World.”

                  “Birkoff would murder us in cold blood if we went there without him. So would everyone else, for that matter.”

                  “Good point. Hawaii it is.”

                  His answer was laughter that ruffled at her hair, and she tilted her head so she could quell it with a kiss, at peace with the knowledge that, for the time being at least, neither of them would be going anywhere. 

The End

[fluffydavey]

you know i have to do it

fixing their tie for little romantic gestures

little romantic gestures || prompts

He's talking to Crutchie about his return to school in the penthouse, lazily looking up at the view above him as they begin guessing what Jack's new job will actually be like now that he's finally started, when Jack calls to his attention and he thinks he might die.

"I look stupid," he says, folding his arms and creasing the shirt, but also stretching the fabric against all the right places. Yeah, Davey's not going to survive today - cause of death, Jack dressed in a fine black suit, just like his new workmates.

"You do not," he says as he sits up properly, all too aware that he's been caught staring, by both Jack and Crutchie. It isn't his fault that the boy he's been going steady with looks so fucking good. "It's a good look."

"Let me leave the room before you tear that suit off of him," Crutchie says, and Davey can't tell if it's supposed to be a joke or a threat. Davey reluctantly takes his eyes off of Jack to roll his eyes in the other boy's direction.

Crutchie does decide to leave, which Davey isn't sure if it's a good idea or not. He's slowly losing some of his self-restraint, but he keeps reminding himself of how important this new job is to Jack. His stupid teenage hormones can wait a few hours.

"Your tie's all off though."

"What?" Jack asks, looking down as he began adjusting the length of the two ends. "I always hated these stupid things."

“Jack,” Davey says, getting up off the bed to make his way over to Jack. "You should have told me you can't tie them. Pop taught me how to tie them for my Bar Mitzvah."

He receives a grateful look, as he crosses the room to get to Jack, standing inches away, holding the fabric close and concentrating. He gently slides the knot into place at the base of Jack's neck and lets his hands linger just enough before he places three fingers against the underside of Jack's jaw, feeling Jack swallow hard.

"I really want to kiss you right now," he says, blurting out by accident. It isn't the smoothest move, and Davey's kind of kicking himself, until Jack pulls him in by the waist, pressing his lips onto Davey's, and he can feel his insides twisting and turning. He's still not over the sensation of getting to kiss Jack whenever he wants (which is always) and he doesn't think he ever will. It feels like pure bliss, every part of his body that Jack’s hands come into contact with feels like it’s on fire.

"Will I get a good luck kiss before I go to work tomorrow?" Jack asks, smiling, as he wraps his arms around Davey's neck.

He pretends to mull it over, although he's well aware that Jack's smart enough to already catch onto what that suit is doing to Davey. He's already trying to strategically plan how to rip that suit off of Jack without actually damaging it. "I suppose I can come by before school tomorrow since someone's got to do your tie," he says, as Jack grins happily.

"Help me take this off?" Jack asks, motioning to his suit, and Davey is more than happy to comply.

[subqtaneoussmut]

The Tea Girl's Gambit, Chapter Twenty

“Anyone who trains has an advantage over someone who doesn’t,” said Roxa matter-of-factly, as Mila swivel-kicked the pad again. She raised it up, and Mila, panting hard, jabbed it twice with her fist, then came back to guard. She could barely keep her arms up anymore. Roxa was a merciless trainer.

“Good enough.” Roxa let the pad drop. “Drink some water and then we’ll do some grapples.”

Mila stumbled over to the water jug and caught her breath between swigs. They had been trading off with the pad, taking turns, but Roxa was only lightly winded. Mila passed her the water and wiped her mouth with the back of her sore hand.

“Can I really have an advantage over someone twice my size?” Mila panted.

Roxa shrugged. “I do.”

Mila gave her a look.

“You don’t have as much reach as I do,” Roxa admitted. “You’re quick, though, and instead of targeting their torso, you’ll be attacking what they put inside your range—their limbs, mostly. That’s why we’re focusing so much on your footwork, so you can dance around at the edge of their reach. I’m hoping that adding some fist spurs to your jab and your cross will let you slice their hands apart every time they try to strike you.”

Mila frowned. “Fist spurs?”

Roxa went to her coat and pulled out a pair of extremely short, triangular blades, ending in T-shaped handles. A series of thick rings formed a knuckle guard. Mila hefted one—not that heavy, considering her arms were still trembling—slid her fingers through the rings and closed her fist around the handle. She tried a few jabs with it.

Roxa nodded approvingly. “Let’s do some shadow-boxing with those, and we can catch up on grapples next time. That way you can start carrying the spurs.”

Mila stared at the spurs in her hands. Ever since the ambush in the greencourt, and the cold realization that, in the course of pursuing her grievance with Roxa, or just in making her cruel and stupid point, Penelope had never meant for Mila to survive, a grim sort of fury had been smoking and smoldering in her chest.

Rage. An old friend. Mila knew from childhood experience that the bitter alchemy of transforming rage from poison to medicine began with acknowledging it. Starting to train with Roxa had helped. It was a beginning, at least. Mila’s latest private projects in the alchemy labs, covertly synthesizing substances more lethal than sensory weapons, had continued the process.

Holding and feinting with the puncturing tips of these bladed weapons, though? It was beginning to feel more and more real that she might actually have to strike with the aim to kill. But what if the precipice of the moment came, and she couldn’t?

Mila thought of mother Pazo, as strong and unbreakable as sunlight. She remembered her mother’s warm hand in hers on the day they had taken a walk together, out of the city, to the burial mounds covered in wildflowers, raised over the honored dead who had fallen in the ancient uprising.

The sea breeze blowing hair into her mouth when she asked her mother some question. The musical lilt of tiny birds chirping, swooping and alighting on stems.

Pazo Finnochio’s eyes were full of dark fire, as she watched the shifting shapes the wind made in the grass, and Mila knew in a deep and wordless way that her mother was gazing through time.

“There exist, walking under the sun like you or me, entire hives of those who wish to turn other people into objects—have already done so, in their own minds. They think nothing of treating living bodies of flesh as if they were made of unfeeling clay.”

She paused. Mila could hear the subtle, tensing flex of emotion in her voice. The air itself resonated with a charge, a pressure. “I have never understood what attracts men to such bleakness of power.”

Pazo looked down at Mila and it came to Mila that her mother was someone who could walk through the longest desert and keep walking.

Pazo took a deep breath. “To stay passive in the face of those violators is to drink slow poison, and to offer it unquestioningly to those still unborn.”

She raised her chin to the rolling grasslands, humped with riotously green and living burial mounds as far as Mila could see. “Let me be stripped of a mother’s honor and reckoned by all my ancestors, if ever I teach you to make your peace with the bootheel.”

The many-voiced bells of the city down in the valley overlapped and mingled with her words, and Mila imagined all her mother’s mothers speaking together at once. A tiny, scarlet-winged bird fluttered to a stem almost within arms reach, and clung there, swaying.

Pazo often went walking among the mounds, usually alone.

Years later, in the days before Mila boarded her ship to Harmine, mother and daughter walked there again.

“Here,” Pazo’s eyes flashed with pride and concern. “You’ll need this.”

Mila took the cloth wrapped bundle. It was a bell, no larger than the size of her fist, with a smooth handle of dark wood. She traced with her finger the swirls that blossomed cloudy in the silver-white metal.

“How did you…?” She glanced up at her mother.

Pazo took in the sight of her daughter face’s with pleasure. “My old shipmate, Venzi, took it off a wealthy merchant last year. She said he didn’t know what it was and couldn’t enjoy it anymore anyway, and agreed that your need befits its purpose. It’s good Kallish bellmetal, and well-wrought.”

Mila’s heart was swelling. There was no greater claim of belonging, nor of trust. She swung the bell in a glittering arc, and they both listened to the fine shiver of the song wave breaking and reforming perfectly, like blazing sand, until it trailed away. The wind made ceaselessly moving shapes in the tall grass that covered the burial mounds around them. All the wildflowers had gone to seed.

“This way, you’ll take a little of our harmony with you,” Pazo observed. “It could save your life there. Don’t hesitate to use it, when the time comes.”

Mila nodded, blinking away tears. “I won’t hesitate.”

Pazo smiled. “I know.”

Mila was wearing her tiny frown. Roxa watched her quietly, until she looked up.

“Show me.” Mila took a deep breath. "How to use these."

~ ~ ~

“Roxa?” ventured Mila carefully.

“Mm?” Roxa passed her a steaming mug, which Mila took with both hands, then sat down with her own.

“Remember that, um, lab assistant you bribed?”

“Yup.” Roxa grinned over the rim of her mug. “The one whose eyes were just begging for it.”

The serious line of Mila’s mouth curved, and she rolled her eyes. “Yes, that one.”

Roxa waggled her eyebrows provocatively. “Want me to dowse her out?”

Mila twisted her mouth wryly. As usual, Roxa was several steps ahead. “I don’t know for sure that she’s a tea girl, you know, but…”

She took a deep breath. Mila hated the way her heart beat faster, the way her internal alarms clanged, the new fear that was pressed into any mention of tea girls. She hated the new reluctance her mouth had acquired, the way it desperately tried not to say those words aloud.

Feeding her hatred was a vast sense of loss. Before this year, she hadn’t even had to imagine living this way, going stealth, fearing to name herself. It crushed everything that had nourished her, all her precious memories of sisterhood, into an airless, soundless, lightless crate of contraband.

Mila knew, as a rassa child, what it was like to be cast alone into a bleak desert of shame. To anticipate in advance the way that others would turn away from her, because of who she was. But that unbearable burning sensation had never been connected to her gender before. She had never thought the Imperiat could make her feel ashamed of being a tea girl.

Before, when Mila named herself, named to the world the way she listened to her body’s wordless wanting, and laid claim to what it meant, there had been only affection curled into that naming. Only care and belonging.

They are taking that from me, she thought. Pressing it out of the world in every moment they keep me silent. She wanted to hiss and spit and bite. She wanted to weep brokenly.

Instead she took a deep breath. “…But yes, actually.”

After a pause: “But probably not for the reason you’re thinking.”

“All right.” Roxa, bless her heart, had let her playfulness drop. “If she sees me, she’s likely to run, though.”

Mila nodded. “We would need a plan. But…I want to throw her a lifeline, Roxa.”

Her friend frowned thoughtfully.

“It might well put me at risk,” Mila said simply, “but still. I must.”

“To offer her protection, support?” Roxa raised her eyebrows. “You know we can barely protect ourselves right now, yes?”

Mila nodded seriously. “I can’t let her just get caught, alone. I have to try, at least. Even if I fail and we both get hunted down.” She took a deep breath and her exhale was full of tiny tremors.

Warm green eyes sought and found her own, then Roxa reached for her hand and Mila clasped it gratefully. The taller girl squeezed for a long moment, her lips pressed together in a firm line, her jaw set.

“Okay. But until we can actually count on her to keep her mouth shut, we cannot shy away from blackmailing her. We need to hold something over her head that will compel her, in order to protect ourselves. Her most vulnerable secret, if we must. You in particular cannot afford not to do that.”

“I know,” said Mila reluctantly, “and I can’t just tell her that I’m a tea girl, too. At least right away.”

Roxa looked pained. “Mila…I think we need to assume that if we noticed her, then someone else has, too. There are many here who wouldn’t hesitate to hang her out to dry immediately, but I’m sure that most would see an opportunity and be tempted to hold her secret over her head for their own purposes. Even if she appears to be uncompromised, she may already be under someone else’s controlment.”

Roxa hesitated. “It may never be safe to make yourself vulnerable to her like that.”

Mila had set down her mug. She stared at her hands, resting on her thighs. “If we can offer her friendship, while keeping ourselves protected, we all may be able to find a way to unsnare each other from this vile, compulsive game of power and control.”

She looked up, and the dark gleam in her eyes jolted Roxa’s heart. “Just as you and I have.”

Roxa’s cheeks dusted pink. She leaned her head on one hand and gazed into Mila’s warm eyes, biting her lip unselfconsciously.

Mila arched an eyebrow. “What, no witty retort? Surely there’s a dirty joke in there somewhere.”

Roxa shook her head in apparent wonder. She still looked bashfully smitten.

Mila leaned forward, a satisfied little smile playing on her lips, planted her hands on either side of Roxa, and stroked her cheek against the side of her friend’s face.

Roxa sighed dreamily and nuzzled her right back. She inhaled sharply as Mila caught her bottom lip with a hungry mouth. Their tongues met and danced, slow and sweet.

After a while Mila leaned back, eyes fluttering open. Roxa stretched like a cat, grinning. They smiled lazily at each other, both savoring the honeyed magnetism unfurling and blossoming and rippling between them.

Mila sighed happily.

Roxa reached out and brushed her thumb along Mila’s nape. “Lucky me,” she murmured softly, watching her friend arch in response.

“Mmhmm,” agreed Mila, her eyes alight. “So. Haven’t we freed ourselves from the threat of each other? At least in the way this place seeks to entrap us all, and force us to seek advantage over one another. Admit that it is possible, Roxa!”

Roxa only sighed in admiration. “Keep speaking like this, and I will admit to anything.”

Mila rolled her eyes, her heart rising like a sun. “Just dowse her, you loon.”

Roxa jumped up and started going through her desk drawers. “It’s in here somewhere. I made it weeks ago,” she muttered. “Found it!” She hefted a jar and glanced at the long, dark hair inside. “Oh, um, Mila?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know her name?”

“Ah, well—no.” Mila’s cheeks colored. “I’ve been calling her Petrel in my head.”

Roxa glanced at her, amused. “Petrel?”

“A seabird.” She smiled fondly. She had so many memories of watching their uncountable flocks, wheeling and diving above the harbor. “Their young look like little balls of fluff.” Mila shrugged. “She reminds me of a hatchling.”

Roxa chortled. “Cute. All right, here we go.”

Casting the spell was the work of a moment. They both watched the string jerk as it came suddenly alive, and swivel to point at the wall.

Roxa frowned as it flickered and stabbed, trembling with an energy that boded proximity. “Well, this can’t be right…”

[yourlocalsimpsonsandsanriofan]

Dunno what to name this story so UH HERE U GO (PART 1)

here you go!!! As requested by @lazyghostmiserishere and @doughbrainer !!! (Sorry if it sucks by the way, my writing skills still aren't that good 😅💀💀)

One of Heat Miser's minnions ran up to Snow Miser's ice castle in a panic. He kept slipping and falling on the ice but he continued going. Eventually, he got to the door. He knocked on it. One of Snow Miser's minions answers it. He sighs. "Not you again." "Look can I just come in?? I need Snow Miser's help!!!" The icy minion raises an eyebrow. "What for?" "I don't have time for this." He aggressively pushes the other minnion aside and runs up to Snow Miser. Snow Miser automatically grimmaces. "I thought I told you not to come over here." Heat Miser's minnion sighs. "I know but- your brother is missing!!!" Snow Miser rolls his eyes in annoyance. "Again? Why does Hot-Head keep leaving all the time?! Who cares if he's missing, anyways." The minnion frowns. "Please!! I think he might actually be hurt this time!!" Snow Miser scoffs at the firey minnion. "Do you know how many times I had to save his fat ass?? ABOUT A GAZZILION TIMES!! I'm staying right here and relaxing." The minnion glares at Snow Miser. "WHY ARE YOU SO SELFISH? ALL YOU EVER CARE ABOUT IS YOURSELF!!!" Snow Miser holds a mirror in front of his face and admires himself. "Now I wouldn't say tha-" The minnion breathes fire onto the mirror and causes it to melt. Snow Miser flinches. "WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!" "We need to go look for him." Snow Miser picks the little minnion up by the neck. "YOU DIDN'T ANSWER MY QUESTION." The minnion glares at him again, then bites his hand. "AH-" He drops the minnion. "IF YOU WON'T LOOK FOR HIM, I WILL." Snow Miser laughs. "You? REALLY? as TINY as you are?? You won't survive out there!!" The Minnion stomps out the door. Snow Miser's minnions laugh at him and slam the door shut behind him. The little minnion sat on the ground and closed his eyes, trying to think of something. That's right! He thought. I can just ask mother nature for help!! He gets up off the ground and quickly runs back a cross the bridge that leads to Heat Miser's volcano. He opens the door and runs inside. The lead minnion looks up from the console he was monitoring. "Any luck?" He shakes his head. "No, icicle face flat out REFUSED to help me, but I know who will." Before the other minnion can ask, he sprints right back out the door. After lots of running, he finnaly makes it to Mother Nature's home. He knocks on the door and stands there patiently. She answers the door and looks down at him. "Oh hello there! I wasn't expecting company!! Please, come in!!" The minnion runs inside. "Why isn't Heat Miser with you?" "BECAUSE HE'S MISSING!!" Her eyes widen. "Really???" "Yep!! I tried to tell Snow Miser but he REFUSED to help!!" Mother Nature frowns. She mutters something to herself, but it cannot be heard. She snaps her fingers and within a second, Snow Miser appears. A bead of sweat runs down his face. He knows he's gonna get yelled at. "What is it.. Mother Dear-?" He nervously asks. "WHY DIDN'T YOU HELP HIM WHEN HE ASKED YOU TOO?!!" She bellows. Snow Miser cringes. "Because I'm b-busy- mother-" "THAT'S A BUNCH OF CRAP AND YOU KNOW IT." Snow Miser cringes again. The bird that usually sits on Mother Nature's head flies away and leaves. "Oh no you DON'T." She AGGRESSIVELY grabs it by the neck and places it back on her head.

[honeyandteatime]

Boiling Seas, and Bastard Blood-1981 words

AN: Chapter 13 of my fic on Ao3 I really liked this chapter so I decided to cross post it to tumblr. If you want to read the whole thing heres the link. A Dragon Born Amongst Salt And Smoke - Chapter 1 - HoneyandTeaTime - House of the Dragon (TV) [Archive of Our Own] Anyways here is the actual chapter im done yapping now. - - -

Alys did not scream, though she could vaguely hear a few other ladies of the court doing what she should have. Alys inspected, the now bloody stump of her left arm. She could see the wh

e of her bone, the red of her flesh. She looked at Cole, then Aemond, he was raging. He shoved the Kingsguard knight aside in order to catch Alys as she collapsed. She wondered if it would break the bond between the two. Somehow, she thought not. Alys looked up at Aemond, her blood already staining her dress and hair.

Alys saw Aemond’s lips moving, but she could not hear him, her ears ringing. She looked at him, clinging to his strong arms. She felt hands go to where her hand had once been, and Alys cried out finally feeling the pain she ought to have. It was a burning, piercing, cold pain. Alys felt a thick cloth pressing onto her forearm. Trying to stop the bleeding, she rationalised, but the primal part of her, the part of her that told her to escape, to survive. It tried to struggle away from Orwyle’s hands. She looked at Aemond again, who grimaced.

Alys felt her eyes close, or perhaps the life began to drain out of her, along with her blood. Either way, she felt her consciousness slip away. She no longer felt hands holding her, and soon her mind fell into the darkness. She wondered about her children, would they die alongside her?

- - -

Alys awoke in the dark rookery. Laying on her back, she raised her arm, still bandaged, her hand, gone, forever. Oddly enough she could steel feel it. She tightened her fist, remembering the betrayal.

Alys glanced around, finding Aemond, sitting beside her, asleep in a wooden chair. She could hardly believe what had happened, and only wished that she had succeeded in killing Aegon.

Alys stood unsteadily, and then, she almost fell. Aemond, already awake from her movements, caught her. “Did you plan on running?” “Take me to Silverwing.” Alys demanded, her one remaining hand tightening onto his forearm hard enough to leave bruises. Aemond winced, but didn’t pull away.

“You have to stay in the keep.” He said, not meeting her gaze. “Might as well put me in the black cells if I’m going to be held prisoner.” “Aegon wanted to, but I made sure he didn’t.”

“If you take me to Dragonstone now, and swear your allegiance to my mother, you will not be called a traitor, Aemond.” Alys said pleadingly. “Please, come with me, Aemond.” She repeated. Aemond’s fingers tightened slightly on her arm. “I cannot.”

Alys scoffed, and tried pushing him away, but he was too strong. “So you will commit treason for your cunt of a brother?” Aemond’s eye narrowed, releasing her and stepping away. “Do you care nothing for me?” Aemond demanded, “What of Helaena? Her children? Their lives could be in question, should your mother ascend the throne.”

Alys couldn’t believe what he was saying. “What are you talking about? What do you think my mother is capable of?”

Aemond’s shoulders slumped. “I have to go treat with lord Baratheon.” He said tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For what Aemond? Are you trying to get the lords of the realm to forget their oaths?” “Words are wind, the lords will know their true king.” False words Alys thought, Aemond surely did not believe it.

“You would’ve been my king one day.” Alys said quietly. He said nothing. “Do you intend to lie to me, Aemond?” She demanded, fire alight in her veins. “I know your ambition, I know what you want, I know who you are, Aemond.”

Aemond took a menacing step towards her. Time seemed to slow, would he hurt her? She could hardly defend herself. Still weak from the loss of her hand and the blood that flowed with it. “Your consort you mean?” Aemond was shouting now, “What power would I have, hm? If I even live that long. Your mother may have me killed before that, to ensure her alliance with Dorne!” Aemond’s breath was heavy, his chest heaving. How long had this been pressing against his chest? Crushing him, did he truly fear Rhaenyra?

She realised then that she truly did love him, even if he was a traitor and a usurper. She wouldn’t be able to let him go. How could she? The father of her children and her heir, would be dead. If he continued along this path. “You intend to start a war.” She said quietly her one hand almost reached up to touch him, then settled once more on her pregnant belly. 

Aemond shook his head.

“No, your mother will start a war, I-” He cut himself off. “We must prepare for it.” Alys was silent. The fire that alighted her veins, sunk like cold water. Her very soul felt heavy. Like the sea.

Aemond said nothing, and he left, he ran like a coward, and Alys was left alone. 

 - - -

Aemond shouldn’t have been here, he knew that much. A feeling of deep wrongness permeating inside of him. It was stormy, rain pelting down as he made his way inside of the keep. He looked at Lord Baratheon, he was supposed to be a younger man, though he did not look it.

“Greetings my lord.” Aemond said in a clipped tone. “My prince.” The lord said in a dismissive tone, and Aemond’s eye narrowed. “I’m here to ensure that you swear allegiance to the true King, Aegon the II Targaryen.” It sounded wrong just speaking the words. Aegon most certainly wasn’t fit for The Iron Throne. Neither was Rhaenyra.

Boros Baratheon scratched his chin. “I seem to recall my father once swore an oath to Rhaenyra Targaryen once.” “We both know Rhaenyra is not fit to sit on The Iron Throne.” Aemond said,. Alys would kill him if she heard him say that, she might kill him anyway. “Tell me, my prince, because if I march my fighters away, the Dornish are likely to attack my people, what would I get in return for that hmm?”

Aemond thought for a moment, would Alys’ betrothed march for her? Or would Dorne stay neutral? The Dornish were cowards, hiding in their desert and their mountains. “What is it you want then?” “I want your brother, Daeron to marry one of my daughters, he can pick any amongst them.”

Aemond blinked in surprise, was Lord Baratheon so brazen as to outright demand the hand of a prince? It seemed so. The Baratheon host was large, and Aemond didn’t know much of Daeron, but it was a small price to pay for their allegiance.

“Done, I will speak to my-“

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon comes with a message my lord.” A knight called, and Aemond turned, gaze hardening as it fell on the younger boy. He looked terrified, not much different than the times he spent on Dragonstone with Alys. Aemond couldn’t stop the words crawling out his mouth. He was angry, still, after so many years. Every time Aemond had walked past him with Alys in the halls of Dragonstone, Lucerys had always watched him with disgust and fear. He could kill the bastard here and now. Perhaps being a kinslayer was worth the revenge. 

Aemond’s knuckles were white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. His blood boiling, how good it would feel to tear out Lucerys’ eyes with bare hands. To feel them pop in his grip? To hear Lucerys’ screams and his pleas for mercy? To make Lucerys feel what Aemond felt so very long ago? He still remembered the pain, in his nightmares, and sometimes when his skull throbbed on a particularly bright day.

“I have brought a message, from my mother-“ Another glance at Aemond, Lucerys swallowed. He was terrified of him, practically shaking at his mere presence. “The Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

Lord Boros Baratheon laughed, “I expected a Targaryen prince, not a whimpering pup.” He sneered. Lucerys stepped forward, holding out a letter, which one of the Baratheon knights took to their lord. He unrolled it, looking at it for a moment, before calling for a maester. Who whispered to him the contents. He seemed enraged.

“Now tell me, my prince, which one of my daughters will you marry?” Lucerys paused. “I am not free to marry, but my brother Joffrey-“ “Your brother who has not even seen eight years? I will not take such an insult.” Lord Baratheon scoffed.

“Tell your mother that the lord of storms end is not a hound to be whistled up on command. Someone take the prince back to his dragon.” Two knights took a step towards Lucerys, who turned away.

“Wait.”

Lucerys froze, turning back around to look at Aemond. “You owe me a debt, my lord Strong.” Aemond said coolly, he wondered what Alys would think of him, if she could see him now. How angry she would be.. Aemond took out his knife and flung it at Lucerys’ feet. “Just the one, I wouldn’t blind you.” He would, if given the chance. “No, I came here as a messenger, not a warrior.” Aemond grimaced, and he felt burning heat rise within him. He strode toward Lucerys, plucking his knife from the stone floor.”

“Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!” Aemond shouted, and Lucerys began to draw his sword. Lord Baratheon shouted a command then, and Aemond narrowed his eye as he came to a halt. “Stop this nonsense now.” The Baratheon lord shouted, and Lucerys once more turned away from him. 

Aemond slid his dagger back into his belt, glaring at Lord Baratheon. “I will tell King Aegon of your loyalties my lord.”

 - - -

Aemond mounted Vhagar, and she sensed his anger, growling as her head tilted towards him. They ascended into the sky, her wingbeats slow and powerful. Aemond saw it then, a flash or ivory in the storm. Vhagar turned towards it, not even by command. She knew what he wanted, and Aemond wouldn’t deny her. 

Arrax was faster, though Vhagar’s wingbeats propelled her further, and soon the great she-dragon caught up with Arrax.  The younger dragon let out a shrill cry, and Vhagar’s neck extended, and she snapped at Arrax like a coiled serpent. Arrax flew away, flapping away as fast as his little wings could take him. Arrax dived, flying between canyons. 

Aemond shouted after him, cursing at Lucerys in Valyrian. Though he doubted he could be heard. Vhagar lost herself in the clouds, wing stirring up the moisture heavy air. Vhagar broke through a bank of clouds, the sun oddly gentle. He saw it then, Arrax, Lucerys ontop of him. Aemond realised too late what Vhagar was doing, and with one last wing beat, Vhagar grabbed Arrax with her massive jaws, there wasn’t even enough time for the young dragon to scream as they were torn apart.

“No Vhagar No!” Aemond commanded in Valyrian, Vhagar roared in triumph, Aemond leaning over her saddle to see the two parts of Arrax falling into the sea.. and then, clinging to Vhagar’s saddle was Lucerys, clawing his way up the side. A testament to the will of the bastard to survive. Aemond reached out for him, Lucerys didn’t take it, springing upon Aemond and attacking him, the forces of his punches rattling the sapphire in his eye. Vhagar roared, shaking herself to try and get Lucerys off of him. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you!” Lucerys roared, and Aemond threw up his hands, trying to defend himself, and with a kick. Lucerys lost his balance, he tumbled, trying to claw at Vhagar’s scales, but the rain had made them wet and instead of their rough texture. They were slippery. Lucerys realised this too late, and with one last strong shake from Vhagar, the bastard fell into the sea.

[fahrni]

Saturday Morning Coffee

Good morning from Charlottesville, Virginia! ☕️

It’s been a fun week at work. I’ve been fixing bugs here and there. For some reason I enjoy this type of work. I spent a decent amount of time looking at memory graphs for object retentions problems and fixed a couple of good ones this week. That always feels great!

As for Stream for Mac, I started off the week in a bit of a funk but thanks to some amazing Mac devs I was put back on the right path. Stream for Mac development is moving forward once again. Fingers crossed I can keep up the momentum. 🤞🏼

Nikita Prokopov A.K.A. Tonsky

So all this time I was living under impression that, for example, if the average web page size is 3 MB, then JavaScript bundle should be around 1 MB. Surely content should still take the majority, no?

Some of the examples Nikita gives seem ridiculous. It makes me wonder if backend processing that spits out pure HTML will ever become a thing again?

Harry Cheadle • Eater, Seattle

But Tony Delivers doesn’t need to be anything bigger than it already is, which is one guy on a bike showing up to deliver food, probably smiling, probably asking how you’re doing, a bolt of disarming kindness in a city that even before we all got addicted to screens was known for being standoffish. That seems worth $5.

Tony has become a Seattle hero! I can’t believe he’s able to survive on $5 deliveries but bravo for making your own little niche!

Nish Tahir

I’ve been learning more about common attacks that appear in my Nginx logs to learn more about what happens beyond the log entries.

Nish is geekin’ out again. I wish I had his brain. The things I could accomplish! 🧠

Gunnar Anzinger

Also, do not worry at this time about acquiring the resources to build the house itself. Your first priority is to develop detailed plans and specifications. Once I approve these plans, however, I would expect the house to be under roof within 48 hours.

This piece is ridiculous in all the best ways. The paragraph I chose to feature really hit home. Yes, yes, take your time. We need it in two days. 🤣

Claire Elise Thompson • grist

If you like the idea of a perpetual three-day weekend, you might be one of a growing cadre that supports the concept of degrowth: a school of thought aimed at shrinking economies and moving away from GDP growth as a metric of success, while instead emphasizing universal basic services and social well-being.

With the rise of AI companies believe they can replace us with software for many types of work.

I think that’s cool! Let’s replace workers and figure out a way to allow folks to do whatever they want and still receive a paycheck. Like, perhaps, Universal Basic Income, Single Payer health care, and free university for everyone! Of course the rich people won’t like that idea.

Trust me when I say I could find plenty of things to work on.

Michael Szczepanik

It’s time for the NATIVE mobile development to end.

I don’t agree. I’ve been working on a project that involves React Native and I see the value in it, but that doesn’t mean native development should go away. Your mileage may vary. For me it’s native or bust for my personal projects.

Mike Elgan • Computerworld

More to the point: Most companies cannot show actual monetary benefits from RTO mandates. But most employees can show actual and significant monetary costs from RTO mandates.

This is an interesting take on the cost to employees to return to work. I’ve never thought about it in those terms. For me it’s always been about the flexibility working remotely gives me. I save between 40-60 minutes a day by not commuting, I can have afternoon coffee with my wife, and if I need to work late it’s so much easier to stomach because I’m already home.

If WillowTree asked us all to return to the office full time, I would. I just prefer working from home.

Jacob Phillips • Evening Standard

The Kremlin has said it will use its “entire strategic arsenal” and fire nuclear missiles at London, Washington, Berlin and Kyiv if it is made to give up the areas of Ukraine it has invaded.

We need to get our act together and get more aid to Ukraine. The GOP loves their orange American Dictator who, in turn, loves Putin so they’re keeping aid from Ukraine. What happened to all those Patriotic Republicans with their flags and love of all things military? They’re too cowardly to stand up to Trump. It’s really shameful.

Chris Evangelista • /Film

Stephen King Hates The Only Movie He Ever Directed

I liked Maximum Overdrive for what it was. It’s a popcorn movie. Get your popcorn, soda, find your seat, and sit back to watch the mayhem unfold. It delivered and I had no idea Stephen King directed it.

[howthesleeplesswander]

[[Happy Birthday, Xiao! ✨]]

"Don't ask me how I know; it's as much a surprise to me"—Leo held up a palm in surrender, like he was expecting this to be taken as an offense—"but I did hear, somewhere, that today might just be a tad bit special. And, no, before you argue..."

That same hand raised a single finger: as much a shh, don't interrupt me as a but wait, there's more!

"I know this probably just sounds like a bunch of dumb 'mortal nonsense' or whatever, and yeah, sure, it's a bit silly, but... Y'know, one day," he said as he tapped that finger to his temple, "you might find that 'silly' isn't actually that bad." He was grinning now, wide enough to flash the whites of his teeth.

Then, finally, that other hand stretched out, a fist unfurling as if to expose something... only for there to be nothing but an empty palm. Temporarily. Because then Leo swallowed his "I'm going to die" nerves and settled that hand right there in the bend of Xiao's elbow.

"Happy Birthday, oh mighty Conqueror of Demons. Your gift is the one and only me." He shuffled closer, mischief flickering like fires in his gaze. "I'm going to force you to not slay a single enemy today, and if that means sitting on you... so be it. You've been warned."

No matter how much exposure Xiao had to humans, there would always be absurdities about them that he would never understand. The mortal concept of "birthdays" was a prime example.

Mortal lifetimes were pathetically short, and yet every year they celebrated that fact. In their limitless lifespans, adepti did not celebrate something so inane as surviving for another year. And now, the fact that there was a mortal before him who desired to celebrate Xiao's birthday in spite of the irony was truly incomprehensible.

Surely there were better things Leo could be doing with his precious time. Why was he so determined about this? What could there possibly be to celebrate about a creature so tainted?

But none of those questions were given voice. Instead, Xiao simply listened as Leo said his piece. Golden eyes studied the giddiness on his face as if he might miraculously understand why through careful enough scrutiny. A flinch traveled through the adeptus' frame when Leo's hand rested on his arm, and his sharp stare flicked down to that brave yet undeniably stupid appendage.

"...What would sitting on me accomplish?" Xiao finally questioned after a stretch of silence. To suggest such a thing...of all the humans he'd met, Leo was one of the most absurd by far. "Even if you managed it, adepti are ten times stronger than humans. Moving you would take no effort at all."

And yet, contrary to how such a blithe comment might sound, both Xiao's expression and posture softened as he glanced at the mortal sidelong.

Leo had once called them friends. Xiao hardly remembered what it meant to have such close companions, but...This strange sense of comfort exuding from Leo's presence, this inexplicable happiness at the knowledge that he wanted to spend time together despite the corruption tainting Xiao's soul...

Distant though they were, those feelings were familiar. Thanks to people like Leo, perhaps he was starting to remember the meaning of that fleeting and treasured word, bit by bit.

"There is nothing special about today," Xiao insisted. His arms remained stiffly crossed, but he didn't withdraw from the human's touch. Yet another odd sensation bubbled beneath the familiarity, and when his brows pinched in annoyance, it was directed not at Leo, but at the tangle of words perched on his tongue.

"With that being so...I will spend it with you, if that's what you wish. I can't promise that my duty won't call me away, but I'm aware that humans value sharing days such as this. I...I suppose I would not mind that."

[elysia-nsimp]

And now, even MORE TWST as things my friends and I said!

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6

CW: stuff like. sex jokes and friendly bullying/threats (all lighthearted and in good fun)

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Yuu: And by that, I mean Jade

[THUNDER CRASHES OUTSIDE]

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Idia: all condoms are recipes for allergic reactions to me though because I’m actually allergic to sex /j

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Lilia: I have arriven

Lilia: it’s like arrived but fancier

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Dude at school: HEY CAN YOU GRANT THREE WISHES

Lilia: three wishes?

Dude: yes

Lilia: Hmm… if you give me your name!

Dude: Great! My name’s Blake

Lilia: Be careful what you wish for.

…: I wish for a [describes a super specific car], enough money to buy a house, and a sailboat that can take me across the sea

Lilia: Great! Your car doesn’t work, you can only afford a tiny shitty ass house—

…: [LAUGHING HIS ASS OFF]

Lilia: And your sailboat will sink after one trip across the sea.

Lilia: Enjoy your wishes! And thanks for your name, I’ll take good care of it~

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Floyd: My parents—who I KNOW can hear me right now—are going to be so disappointed when they start finding tiny plastic babies around the house. I will hide tiny plastic babies around the house. This is both a threat and a promise.

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Cater: Some people just know where they belong. Like me! I belong in horny jail.

Cater: Which is really ironic because I’m demi… it’s like I’m not usually horny, but then I really am!

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Azul, playing DnD: My character lets out a shrek- SHRIEK-

Idia: Azul let out a SHREK /j

Idia: who let the dogs out but it’s badly rendered Shrek models t-posing /j

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Cater, pointing at a drawing of a dead flower (x eyes and all): that’s me

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Ruggie: I’m so fucking god that it’s cold

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Azul: jumps several hundred of feet off a cliff, survives

Idia: mecore

Azul: WHA- WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

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Idia: CAUSE BABY TONIGHT, THE CREEPERS TRYING TO STEAL ALL OUR STUFF AGAAAAIIII-

Azul: I am going to slit your throat

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Idia: this is so sad, Ortho play despacito

Idia: WAIT DONT ACTUALLY

Ortho: okay, playing Despacito

Idia: NOOO

Ortho: Aye~

Idia: SHUT UP. SHUT. UP.

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Cater: WHY DO YOU KEEP REBLOGGING ALL THE POSTS I REBLOG

Ace, giggling:

Cater,giggling: IM REBLOGGING A GOUGER SO TJEN YOULL HAVE TO REBLOG A GOUGER

Ace, still giggling:

Cater: REBLOG THE GOUGER ACE

Ace, reblogging:

Both of them, giggling their asses off:

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Azul: Im just gonna cross my fingers and hope that if I stop responding then you'll stop

Idia: blOWS UP, THEN YOUR HEALTH BAR DROPS YOU COULD USE A 1 UP

Azul: I was mistaken. I was very sadly mistaken

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Lilia: Malleus, are you going through the five stages of grief right now?

Malleus: yea

Malleus: thnx for noticing

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Ruggie: I'm deathly allergic to cats, if I eat a cat, I will die

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Cater: if your house is on fire, and you got one of those little meow meows, just chuck it out the window, it'll be fine

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Malleus: Yuu don’t do this, I might actually start crushing on you—this is a dangerous game. YUU BE CAREFUL

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…(Blake): ELF- ELF EARS

…: OI

Lilia: Hm?

…, in a Scottish accent: Hi can I have more wishes :D

Lilia: Even after last time?

…: Ehhh, it worked out in the end!…. Eventually.

Lilia, shaking his head: So greedy…

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Deuce: What is a socialist? And where can I buy one?

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Ace: The girls are fighting and Barbie is winning

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Idia: I had a depressive episode called “quarantine”

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Kalim during CH4: Awww poor snake

Yuu: the SNAKE is making BAD CHOICES.

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Lilia: Eating a plum at 3 am (gone wrong) (police called)

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Deuce: crap

Riddle: LANGUAGE

Deuce: I JUST SAID CRAP

Ace: Fuck.

both gasp, then go incredibly silent.

Deuce: …

Deuce: LANGUAGE…

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Leona, gesturing to Cheka: This child is a piece of shit. Get the parents involved before I fistfight him myself.

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Vil: do you want to be the monster that runs into a wall and dies?

Lilia: YES????? HELLO????????

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Ace: but was the grink there?

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Jack: I promise I’ll protect you from Danny DeVito /gen

Yuu: thank you

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Lilia: I need to do more roleplays in furry games

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Ace: Fishing is like tinder for fish kissers

Floyd: fishr

Jamil: what

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Sebek: You’d think having longer ears would mean I could hear you better, but no, I have an auditory processing disorder.

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Crowley: Number one! E! As in… E.

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Cater: Can you feel it in your bones, Kalim

Kalim: I CANT. MY BONES ARE FAILJNG ME.

Kalim: I THKNK I HAVE A BONE DEFICIENCY

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Cater, to Riddle: Don't be British in front of your mom

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Floyd: Don't kidnap the local tiger, he doesn't wanna live in your bathroom!

Yuu: Why would you keep a tiger in your bathroom??

Floyd: Uhhhh.. um.. D- Don't ask questions you don't want answers to! A- And don't look in my bathroom!

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Lilia: modern jesus is staring at me blankly. except modern jesus has no face.

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Anyway that’s the end. I still have more. Plus a whole other server of quotes that I haven’t touched from a few years ago…

Already making another one bc I didn’t wanna put too many in this post lmao

Tags: @aetherphobia @thesunshineriptide @end3rm1st lmk if you wanna be tagged lmaooo