#please heed the warnings in the ao3 tags though

[artificergorgug]

I wrote a 20k college years Fabian adopts his half sister fic feat. FabRiz qpr with FabMazey poly partners, Fig reconnecting with her friends, disabled/chronically in pain teacher Gorgug, nonbinary community leader Kristen, and what the system can do for you Adaine for those interested

[pedgito]

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒 | General Acacius x reader x Emperor Geta

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | General Marcus Acacius has one thing Emperor Geta doesn't, you.

author's note | @pr0ximamidnight is FULLY responsible for this. she had an idea, i flip-flopped and threw out another one, and here we are. paige thank you for being a constant source of inspiration in my life and pea brain, ily. and thank you for beta'ing.

content warning | 18+ smut, DDDNE, dubcon - power imbalance and forced cuckolding | additional warnings: reader is a servant (but also participates in s*x work), established situationship with the general, marcus is a soft but guilt-riddled man, geta is literally just a gremlin asshole with an ego and you know what? i'm okay with that, heavy degradation, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, fingering, f voyeurism/exhibitionism. extra note: please heed the tags and proceed with caution. do not read if this icks you out, that simple. also we can just say this is au to avoid the bs. i just wanted to write a fic with both of my blorbos <3

word count —2.7k

There was something special about being bedded by a General, one so illustrious and generous as Acacius, but an Emperor, that was a wholly different experience. 

He knew you belonged to General Acacius, in a sense. One of his loyal servants who had sailed across the sea with him to the palace of the Emperor brothers who ruled here—Caracalla, a slimy and disgusting man, alongside his brother Geta, who wasn’t much better. He was smarter, though—albeit not by much, but his choices were calculated, vengeful, planned.

He had his eyes set on you from the moment you entered his home, alongside General Acacius in your unsuspecting and flimsy garb, a white and pristine material to match that of your General, detailed with gold specks and a tie at your waist that kept you modest.

“Serve them, appease them,” General Acacius had told you, “they are tempered men, do not upset them.” He’d meant it as a warning; watch yourself.

Acacius was a caring leader, for the most part. You stayed out of politics and war, dutiful to him and his needs wherever and whenever he needed you—and if that meant buried in his sheets when you were away with him on one of his many triumphs around Rome, that was his business and your secret to keep. The gold necklace that hung around your neck was a gift from him, a thank you for all of your hard work, but a silent reminder that you were his. None of the other men touched you, like a brand on your body that had them running in the other direction.

But, not Emperor Geta.

He tips your chin up with his finger, your body shaking nervously under his touch as he uses his other hand to spread your legs apart at your knees, stripped out of his cloak and down to his tunic, but even that was hanging on by a thread. 

He’d commanded you to strip down in front of him, your clothes pooled somewhere on the floor near his bed.

You’ve been in plenty of situations like this before, sex with men you didn’t care for. If it meant sustenance and another day of breathing, you didn’t care. You did what you had to. But this, it felt off. There was a constant snarl to his face, his gold crown displaced beside your head as his finger trace and followed until he was gripping the underside of your chin in his palm and pushing up, fingering the necklace with a smug, salacious grin.

“He’s got you collared,” Geta breathes, “like a dog, doesn’t he?”

Don’t speak, he’ll hear the quiver in your voice.

“Answer me,” His voice booms, “does he fuck you in secret?”

You blink, watching his lips pull back in a thin line and his gaze—it was frightening.

You nod despite yourself, not prepared to see what would happen if you had lied.

The thing with Geta was he also disguised his intentions behind momentary kindness.

A kind smile as you offered him a full goblet of wine or refilled his plate, as you trailed alongside him holding another gaudy offering to appease the other ego-driven men who pursued this place—General Acacius knew he was losing you to him and there wasn’t a thing he could say or do without risking your life in the process.

His face softens for a brief moment, feeling the hard swallow from your throat as it strains, eyes droning into the bedpost above your head as his fingers flex, debating on whether he should rip the jewelry from your neck or leave it be. 

Eventually, he decides for the latter.

“Show me,” Geta commands, “how you please him.”

He loosens his grip on your chin and allows his hand to fall, watching as you rise up slightly on your elbows, breasts shaking with the movement and you can catch the way his jaw clenches, salivating at the sight. You pull at the tie on his skirt, finding that he was already bare underneath, his hard and aching cock springing from underneath as you pushed it away.

His confidence wasn’t a cover, you could confirm. He was large, not nearly as much as General Acacius but given the amount of situations you’ve caught yourself in, staring up or down at men who just needed a quick taste of you and the pleasure you had to offer, he was quite enough.

The tip, red and dripping already, he palms himself. A chuckle escapes his chest as he flings the rest of the fabric to the floor, his hand cupping around his balls and rolling them between his fingers before he’s gripping his shaft and then your own hand, allowing a few strokes before he intructs you to do as he’s asked. 

You squeeze, apply an ample amount of pressure as you pull at his shaft, watching as he slowly canted his own hips into your palm, his hand gripping into your scalp to keep you upright, hair tangled around his fingers as he breathes out roughly through his nose.

“Always know a whore when I see one,” He denotes and you have to fight the urge to bark back, “do you suck cock like one too?”

If anything, it was a silent order.

You push up onto your palm, feeling the strength of his grip as he yanks your head back, forcing your eyes to lock with his as he uses the other hand to guide his cock head to your lips, sneering as he spreads the glistening precome over your lips before pressing further. You open your mouth to him, allowing the heavy weight of his cock to split your lips apart, giving you very little time to adjust before he’s eagerly thrusting into your mouth, using your hand to cover the rest of his cock you couldn’t fit, feeling more shameful than you should about how you weren’t as bothered by him as you should be.

He wasn’t some strange man pandering you with a pile of coins on the street or around the dark corner of the palace—he was power. An emperor with little remorse.

You can hear him chuckling darkly above, his eyes wild as you suck at his cock, spit pooling in your mouth and dripping down your chin.

“Messy bitch,” He mutters, picking up the pace considerably as he began to fuck into your mouth, the tip of his cock pressing against the back of your throat forcing a garbled gag around him, “—are you of the thankful sort or are you ungrateful?”

He pulls you back suddenly, leaving you to gasp out in desperation at the sudden relief, looking up at him with watery eyes, swallowing against your sensitive gag reflex.

“Thank—thankful, sir.” You confirm with a weak nod.

“No sir,” He counters, “Emperor. Let me hear you speak it.”

“Thankful,” You affirm, “I’m thankful, Emperor.”

“Good,” His thumb traces your bottom lip, mixing with the spit and slick of him that was covering your mouth, “so you’ll take my cum and say thank you, won’t you?”

You nod obediently, feeling him loosen the grip on your hair slightly as he fisted himself, using the copious amount of spit as lubricant. You watch as his abdomen flexes under the guise of his impending orgasm, how jerky his movements become as his teeth dig into his bottom lip, a muffled curse slipping beyond his lips before he’s pressing his cock to your lips without warning and expecting, knowing that his obedient little whore would be willing and waiting. His cum pools in your tongue, salty and warm as he jerks himself a few final times before he pulls away, watching carefully as you swallow down the taste of him. It was then that he finally allowed you a break, releasing his grip on your scalp as you fell back.

“What a harlot you are,” Geta comments, but seemingly pleased as he leans back on his calves and pulls you upright, awaiting until you’re sitting less rigidly before he drags a hand across your breast, his thumb rubbing over your nipple and watching as it pebbled underneath his touch, “might I suggest an audience?”

You have no time to respond before he’s fetching for one of his other many servants, a name you’ve never heard before being thrown across the room and you scramble for the covers, desperate for some protection to your state of undress. Geta allows it, but he doesn’t hide the smirk or laugh that escapes him, his eyes creasing in amusement.

The servant peaks around the door dutifully, wide eyes dropping on you before quickly averting to the Emperor.

“Fetch the General for me, would you?” He asks, “I’ve been meaning to show him a proper good time.”

The servant nods meekly before departing and when Geta looks at you—he sees it.

“What?” He remarks like a child, “Don’t fear for your modesty now—“

The footsteps grow closer, heavy and slow as they thump, thump, thump against the floor, matching the quick beat of your heart.

“Emperor Geta—“ His voice brings you to tears, looking away in fear that he would judge, seethe, leave you to be eaten alive by the Emperor on your own and finally rid himself of you.

“General,” He boasts, still stark naked but using your legs as a makeshift cover over his cock, despite how bare you were, “won’t you join us?”

When you do look at him, he’s stoic. Fearful just as much as you. In fact, you’ve never seen him this worried. Not even in the depths of war.

“Are you asking, Emperor?” He counters, “Or ordering?”

Geta answers with a wave of his hand toward your naked body and Acacius pushes down the sigh that wants to escape through his nose, closing the door shut behind him.

“She’s quite the woman, you must know,” He comments and General Acacius' nose flares at the words, lifting himself slowly onto the bed to sit near you, still a distance away. If you reached out, you could touch him, “beautiful, obedient—the perfect whore, really.”

“Emperor, forgive me,” Acacius argues, “but I am not sure what you want from me in this situation.”

“She’s yours, is she not?” He asks, flinging the necklace up lazily before it hits your chest again and Acacius eyes immediately draw to the jewelry. “This reeks of you.”

“It was a gift, for her diligent and loyal work.”

Because as much as you had served General Acacius in many ways, you were still tending to everything else without complaint and with a good attitude. In another life, if things could be different, you might have him as your own. But, that wasn’t possible.

“Do you fuck her?”

Geta knows the answer—all of you do.

“That is none—“

“As she is under my rule—it is my business,” He snaps, “Do you fuck her, General? Is she a good fuck?”

Lord above, put me out of this misery, you think.

Acacius offers nothing but silence.

Geta nods with finality, “Fair—you can watch and tell me if her moans sound the same while my cock is inside of her.”

And Geta catches the way your hand in his sheets inch closer toward Acacius out of instinct, wanting his touch just as bad.

He furrows his brow and nods toward the General.

“Prepare her for me,” He orders, “touch her.”

Your eyes flick up toward him, a silent and pleading echo of Marcus behind your eyes. Serve him, appease him.

He closes his eyes and breathes a deep sign, his fingers trailing down your stomach until they can hover over your cunt, his middle and ring finger placed and at the ready. You nod, mouth instantly falling open at his touch.

The Emperor smirks, watching Acacius dexterous fingers work over your clit and your chest rise and fall in quick succession, his hand fisting his own cock lazily. 

“I can see why you’ve taken such a liking to her,” Geta notes, speaking as if you weren’t in the room, as if he wasn’t fisting his cock at the entrance of you cunt, “I owe you, for bringing her to me—and leaving her with me.”

You can see the way Acacius' face twitches in anger, but his eyes never leave yours when they open again, using him as a solace in this complicated time. You grab for his wrist when you feel yourself growing near, breathing out a shaky moan.

“There, stop.” Geta orders and Acacius' hand drags away slowly, fingers drifting along the edge of your jaw with a fondness that was reserved for you alone.

You smile sadly.

I’m sorry, you convey silently.

In this world, Acacius knew you had no choice in the matter. It was survival and had you been born into a wealthier family, a better life, maybe you would be at the other end of this situation.

“Look at me,” He commands you, pulling your face away from Acacius grip and forcing your eyes on him as he presses inside of you slow, hand gripped at the base of his cock as he split you open, his face pinched as you squeezed him, cunt sucking him in greedily. 

You bite at your cheek, trying to stifle the involuntary moans from the stretch of Emperor Geta’s cock. You could deny and say that it didn’t feel good, but that would be a lie. Your selfish body was betraying you and you didn’t want to give the Emperor the satisfaction, not yet.

Acacius shakes his head minutely, a subtle movement you barely catch. Don’t defy him.

“Tell her,” Geta says through heavy breaths, his hips snapping into you steadily, your thighs being pressed tight to your body with his grip on the back of them, “keeping silent will do her no good.”

“Dove,” He comforts you, “let go.”

“You’ve named her!” Geta exclaims in amusement and genuine disbelief, “You’ve named your whore? Pathetic.”

“She was never a whore,” Acacius snaps through gritted teeth, “she is loyal—good, and she does not deserve this. She would give you anything you asked if you did it with kindness.”

“I’m right here!” You shout, fed up with the unjust tension, your voice riddled with the building pleasure in your groin, the feeling of Geta’s thumb ghosting over your clit.

“Grab her face and look at her,” Geta orders roughly, his chest flushed from exertion, “and be sorrowful that it isn’t you making her fall apart—seeing as this is the last time you will ever be allowed to see her.”

You sob out, both from the crest of your orgasm and the hate behind his words, eyes locked on your General for the brief interim that you fall apart, pulsing tightly around the Emperor’s cock until he comes with grunt, slipping out of you just in enough time that has seed doesn’t spill into you. The last thing he needed was a bastard son.

“You will learn to respect me,” He snarls, grabbing for his clothes haphazardly and retrying them around his waist.

You shake with a silent cry, hand still latched around the General’s wrist, too afraid to let him go.

“You have five minutes,” Geta bites, “say your goodbyes and leave my sight, both of you.”

The moment his footsteps finally descend and you feel the momentary relief, he deflates.

“Marcus, I never meant—“

He shushes you quickly, pushing the stray hair from your face as you lean up, reaching for him and he tucks you into his chest.

“You are safer here,” He promises, “I cannot protect you like I once could, and you’re smart—I know you are. Geta is a temperamental but immature man. Get in his head, manipulate him. Live.”

“Where are you going?” You ask with a somber tone.

“Away,” He replies simply, not willing to elaborate.

It tugs at your heart deeply, feeling the material of a blanket being slide up over your naked body.

“Fight,” It’s one of the last words he says to you, pressing a kiss against your forehead before he reaches your lips, and it lingers for a while, but not nearly as long as you wish, “if not for me, but for you.”

And you would, even if it killed you.

[gnocchibabie]

Desire and Blood (Chapter 1)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen/Strong OC(Jaenara Velaryon)

Tags: AU - canon divergence, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, Targcest (uncle/niece)

Wordcount: 4.9k

Summary:

Against all odds, the love between childhood friends prevails and the Dance of Dragons is avoided.

However, peace comes at a cost. With the unexpected proposal of marriage between Alicent Hightower's son and Rhaenyra Targaryen's only daughter, can love truly blossom between sworn enemies? Or will Jaenara Velaryon be reduced to a mere pawn?

Love may yet arise where enmity once thrived, but Aemond's relentless pursuit of power threatens to shatter everything they hold dear, including each other.

Notes: You can find the rest of the chapters on my masterlist!

If you like the first snippet of this series, please consider showing some love on my AO3 posting of this fic :) thank you x

Atop the cliffs that line Dragonstone, Jaenara Velaryon watches the tide crash against jagged rocks littered below. Crystal blue waters lap at the sandy shores and white wispy clouds pass by overhead. She thought it unfair that a picturesque day such as this be wasted on tragedy. Jaenara grips the ground beneath her, plush green grass filling her palm and tickling the skin. Gripping harder, she reveals the dirt underneath as grime is pushed underneath her fingernails. She is alone now, away from her mother and brothers. From her step-father and step-sisters. Away from all prying eyes and listening ears. Away from hushed whispers, the only sound that fills her ears are that of the breeze that whips around her and the ocean below. 

She is finally free to weep. 

Tears litter the ground she sits upon. Although she is alone she chokes back a cry, as if fearing that the winds would carry her sorrow back to the castle. Her tears muddle in the dirt below, and Jaenara recounts the events of the past fortnight.  

— — —

Sunlight spills into the Chamber of the Painted Table, where Rhaenyra and Daemon are positioned at the head. The war room had seen more activity this past week than it had in many years, Jaenara had thought. She and her twin brother, Jacaerys, had sat in on a few meetings with members of her mother’s council. The passing of King Viserys had left the realm in disarray, and while her eldest uncle had made no claim to the throne yet, Jaenara understood that time was not on their side. 

“The instruction of a mother can only do so much, especially for a boy as unruly as Aegon,” Rhaenyra had said to her council, “While Alicent may urge her son to heed the wishes of Viserys, Otto and his council are surely whispering ideas of betrayal and usurpation into my half-brothers ears.” 

“I will not wait to see if Aegon honors my rightful place on the throne. It is time to act.”

Her mother had said this before leaving for King’s Landing, much to the dismay of some of her council. The presence of Prince Daemon - no - King Consort Daemon, had helped to quell some of their anxieties, as well as Jaenara’s. Though she knew, better than most, that her mother was a force to be reckoned with even on her own. They had left Dragonstone on Syrax and Caraxes, a formidable warning to the Hightowers and anyone else who opposed Rhaenyra’s claim.

Jaenara’s desire to accompany her mother and step-father had fallen on deaf ears.

“Jace and I must ride with you,” she had urged her mother, “dragons are stronger together.” 

Rhaenyra smiled at that. “There is truth in what you say, sweet girl,” her mother ran a hand through her daughter’s thick black mane. So unlike her own white-bonde hair. “But this is a delicate time. We may yet be on the brink of war-

“All the more reason for us to come!” Jaenara pleaded.

“You, Jace, and Luke are needed here.” Rhaenyra had not raised her voice at her daughter, though her piercing violet eyes scolded her all the same. “Keep a watch over Joffrey, Viserys, and Aegon,” Jaenara let out an over-exaggerated sigh at that, turning away from her mother. 

“As well as watch over Dragonstone, atop Aetherion, Arrax, and Vermax.” Her mother added.

The princess turned around at this. 

“We can only hope your uncle and his council of vipers will allow this transition of power to be peaceful. But I need you and your brothers to remain here, to ensure that no one dares to bring harm upon this castle.”

The prospect of riding her dragon alongside her brothers seemed to satiate the princess’ desires. That had been the end of it. 

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

A week had passed. A cloud of tension hung over Dragonstone that Jaenara could only escape by mounting Aetherion. She patrolled the surrounding waters, in search of any signs of a siege on their isolated stronghold. Her dragon, still young and only slightly larger than a warhorse, danced across the waves below the castle. His dark, purple wings almost dip into the sea, allowing Jaenara to taste the salt in the air and feel the mist spray across her face. She had not a drop of Velaryon blood in her, though she enjoyed the water all the same. 

I am no true Velaryon, Jaenara had thought to herself - a truth she would never speak aloud. But I may yet prove to be the blood of the dragon.

She reins Aetherion upwards, into the clouds above.

The princess is handing Aetherion over to the dragon masters when she finally learns of her mother and step-fathers arrival home. Her ears perk at the faint roars of Syrax and Caraxes in the dragon pit, surely feeding by now. Without another word, Jaenara turns on her heel, and sprints into the castle. 

“Your mother requests your presence in the war room!” A servant had shouted after her. 

Still in her riding leathers, she makes a sharp turn down the hall leading to the room and stumbles into her twin. “Jace-” Jaenara catches her breath, “Mother and Daemon are home! You must come with m-”

“I know.” Her brother responds shortly. 

A pause.

“You have already met with them?” she asks.

Jaenara studies her brother and notices he will not meet her eyes. Her gaze drops to his fists, white knuckled at his side. “Go speak with her. We can talk afterwards.”

And before his twin has the chance to respond, Jacaerys is gone. 

A sickly feeling settles in the young princess’ stomach as she faces the large doors of Dragonstone’s council room. She decided that there was no point in stalling whatever awaited her on the other side. Jaenara pulls open the doors and steps inside. 

Queen Rhaenyra and King Daemon turn towards the young woman, and Jaenara feels even more unease spread through her. The feeling nearly subsides when she looks upon her mother.

“Nara,” Rhaenyra sounds as though she has not seen her daughter in years rather than days. Arms outstretched towards her daughter, Jaenara breaches the distance between them and embraces her mother. “Sweet girl” Rhaenyra breathes.

“Mother,” Jaenara exhales and realizes just how much she had missed her. 

A moment passes before Jaenara finally pulls away. She eyes Daemon, and notes an unreadable expression etched upon her stepfather's face.

“Well,” Jaenara breathes, “I would venture to guess things went well?” she jokes.

Daemon turns away from mother and daughter and walks towards the large windows, looking out to the sea. 

Rhaenyra looks upon her only daughter. The blood of her blood. Her long black hair spills over her shoulders. Her black and crimson riding leathers, crested with the symbol of House Targaryen, grips her form. She meets her daughter's lavender eyes. The rest of her daughter’s physical image, so unlike her. But not her eyes. Lighter than her own, but still undoubtedly Targaryen. 

A deep breath from her mother. Daemon remains silent at the window. 

“An agreement has been reached. I will take my rightful place on the Iron Throne, just as your grandsire intended. Alicent Hightower, members of the council, and even some lords throughout the Seven Kingdoms rallied to my cause - vouched for my legitimacy as heir. Your uncle, Aegon, seems surprisingly content with this arrangement. His mother tells me he has no true interest in ruling. He only wishes to retain his status so that he may live his life in his own…selfish ways.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “We have the gods to thank for allowing reason to prevail so that the realm may be spared from being plunged into needless war. There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, and no war so bloody as a war between dragons…” Her mother trails off but finds her voice once again. “But there are terms to this peace - I have agreed that your uncle has a seat on my council.”

Jaenara looks between her mother and step-father incredulously. A scoff breaks from her throat. “That’s it? Well this is good news!” she exclaims, “And Jace, he should remain your hei-”

“Tell her the rest of it.” Daemon turns from his place at the window, finally facing his wife and step-daughter. 

The princess looks to her Queen, eyebrows raised.

“Mother?” Jaenara looks to her mother and sees a woman haunted. 

“You are to marry Aemond Targaryen, and you will preside over Dragonstone together.”

Silence fills the room.

“Surely you jest, mother.” Jaenara bites out. Her voice is as cold and hollow as the room now feels.

“Your mother is not so cruel as to make a joke out of this.” Daemon says to his stepdaughter. The princess of Dragonstone stares at her parents. Rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. A position they have paid for with her hand. Her hand.

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra turns to her husband, “A moment alone with my daughter.” It is not a question but a command. He steps away from his place at the window and begins to leave the Chamber of the Painted Table. Daemon reaches his step-daughter and places a hand on her shoulder. Squeezes it. Leaves.

The door shuts and Rhaenyra moves towards her daughter, but not before Jaenara draws back.

“All my life,” she gasps, “All my life, you have told me you only wish that I may marry as I please. That I should not be in the position you found yourself in as a young girl. That I should not be some token of peace - some possession to be given away! You have allowed me to remain free in this position, even now at eight and ten!” Her hand finds her neck, as though she might start to choke. 

“And now…now you - you give me away to him. To that - that man. Who tormented me throughout our childhood together. Tormented Jace and Luke! Surely it will be a loveless marriage.” She looks the Queen in her violet eyes. Eyes that mirror her own. “But anything for your throne, right?” She spits out. 

Rhaenyra’s face falls at that. At a time such as this, she is reminded of herself in her youth and of her own mother. She remembers Aemma, her sweet mother, in her final days. Of when she had told young Rhaenyra that royal wombs as theirs are to serve the realm. Rhaenyra remembered the discomfort that had filled her, hearing her mother say this. And discomfort still surrounded her at the thought of her daughter following in her own footsteps. She remembered the gatherings of lords and their sons that had taken place in her teenage years. Auctions for her hand. Power hungry men only wishing to share her bed for a glimpse at the throne. 

There was the evident truth. She had given away her daughter, in exchange for the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra had condemned her only daughter to the same fate she had suffered.

Jaenara immediately regretted the vitriol she had spouted at her mother. Her mother, who faced hostility and disdain all her life - from even those who were supposed to be her friends. Her family. Deep down, Jaenara understood what was necessary to avoid all-out war. She had told herself she would do whatever she would need to, to secure her mother’s crown and to preserve House Targaryen. But it was not supposed to be like this.

As a dragon-rider, she was supposed to forge the path to the Iron Throne through Aetherion. Alongside her brothers. Her step-father and step-sisters. Her grandmother, Rhaenys.

Not through a marriage pact. 

Rhaenyra gathers her thoughts and speaks, “My love…this is not a decision I made lightly. You see now why our visit to King’s Landing lasted so long. The negotiations were a labyrinth to be navigated. I know this is not fair to you, but we inhabit a world that is unfair to women. A world that deals in our lives and in our misfortune. A world built by men, for men. But when I sit the throne…I will build a new world. I will forge a new path. One that your grandchildren may be happy to live in.” 

Jaenara physically recoils at the thought. The Queen continues, “Though for now…we do what we must.” She takes her daughters hands in hers, “There are whispers about my ability to rule. There have always been, though now they are more present than ever. But you-” Her voice wavers and her grip tightens, “You have the opportunity to help me in ending the question of my capabilities. You can unite our house - we would all be the better for it. You will do the realm a great service in avoiding a war of fire and blood.” The mother finishes, squeezing her daughter’s hands again.

Jaenara breathes, low and steady. “Mayhaps I would rather see the realm put to the torch than marry a man such as him.”

“You do not mean that, daughter.” Rhaenyra is quick and stern in her reply. Now, her words burn Jaenara as well as her eyes. Jaenara does not shrink back, though she does not mean what she says. Not really. They are empty words, born from the heat of the present moment. It is not her mother she is angry with. The princess of Dragonstone is angry with the world, that it was made only in the interest of men. Angry with the gods, for making her a woman. Angry with herself. Angry at her now betrothed, for being who he was - for hating her so.

“I do not.” Jaenara finally replies. “But mother, he will not have me! Just as I will not have him!” Aemond Targaryen knew what Jaenara Velaryon was.

Memories of hurtful epithets from her youth—bastard, his Strong niece, the daughter of a whore—echoed in her mind, whispered by Aemond and Aegon alike, haunting her even now

All phrases that had been hurled her way in the days of their youth from him and Aegon alike. Words that followed her and her brothers throughout the corridors of the Red Keep. Words that coaxed tears out of the eyes of little Jaenara in the darkness of her bed chambers, where no one may see them. 

Aemond would not settle for someone he viewed as inadequate as his niece, and Jaenara would not stoop so low as to marry someone as detestable as her uncle. 

It would be a relationship doomed from the start.

Her mother’s words surprise her. “Aemond has agreed to the union.” Rhaenyra reasons with her daughter, “Alicent is very persuasive in her ways. She knows you to be good natured-”

The remarks earned a bitter laugh from Jaenara.

“-And not unlike him! You have both changed since the days of your youth. You are more alike than you may think.” Rhaenyra continues, “You would not be far from me daughter. Not far from the protection of myself and Daemon. As well as Jace. You would remain at the Red Keep for a time - before and after my coronation and your wedding - and leave for Dragonstone when you are ready.”

“He is vile. He despises me. And you.” Jaenara tells her mother.

“And yet my time at King’s Landing revealed a different side of my half-brother. He was not pleased with this proposal - though he took it much better than you have, Nara.” Rhaenyra reveals. A certain glint shines in her daughter’s eyes upon hearing this revelation, though it leaves as quickly as it had appeared. “Taking his hand will keep you close to me. You will both hold significant positions of power. You need not worry about being shipped off to the Riverlands, or gods forbid - the North - to marry a lord you barely care for-”

“I do not care for Aemond.” Jaenara interrupts.

“I would rather you take the hand of the devil we know rather than a devil we do not.” Rhaenyra remarks.

Jaenara left her mothers grasp and looked around the room before her. The room, which now belonged to her. And Aemond she thought bitterly. She had come to find profound comfort within the walls of Dragonstone. Some would call the castle dark and unwelcoming, though she knew its warmth came from the people within. Its merriment came from her time overhead, in the skies. But now, Aemond meant to ruin her home. Is nothing sacred? The princess wondered. In this moment, her thoughts felt so numerous that they may yet crack open her skull. Her emotions were so varying, she felt as though her heart would erupt from her chest.

Rhaenyra waits for her daughter to face her, and to finally give in to the Crown’s wishes. Instead, Jaenara lets out a noise akin to a wail and rushes out the door.

And Rhaenyra is alone.

— — —

Jaenara Velaryon’s tears finally stop and she feels as though she can finally catch her breath. She recalls the circumstances of the morning over and over, as if it were all just a bad dream she would soon wake up from. Wind whips her dark hair into her face. Salt kisses her lips. Salt from the air and from her teardrops mingle together.

A dragon does not weep.

“Dragons do not weep!” She echoes the words aloud, as if speaking them into existence will make it any more true. The words are carried away by the breeze and escape her.

“Everyone cries, child.” 

Nara does not turn around. She doesn't want her mother to see her cry, as though she were a child reprimanded. Rhaenyra settles into the grass next to her daughter and takes her into her arms. Jaenara feels as though a coldness inside her melts from the warm embrace of her mother, and she allows herself to cry. She was still her mother’s child.

“I am sorry, my girl. My Nara.” Rhaenyra wipes her daughter’s tears away as her own begins to pool in her eyes. 

Huddled in the warmth of her mother, Jaenara feels the anguish of her mother and sees the sorrow in her tears. How cruel it is, she thinks, that a mother could not save daughter from the same fate she once suffered — despite sitting on the most powerful seat in The Realm.

The princess understands sorrow to be a condition of life. A condition of womanhood, especially. But did sorrow have to become a hallmark of her life — for the rest of her life? Jaenara takes a shaky breath. She was a princess, a reality she had enjoyed as a luxury until now, when the weight of duty descended upon her. Marriage, a princess’s duty—she resolved it would not become her undoing, nor the source of her sorrow. Her duty is for The Realm. For her family.

In a moment of clarity, Jaenara understood the folly of her tears..

She sits there another moment, in her mother’s arms. She begins to picture Aemond Targaryen. His one eye, staring back at her with intensity. His sleek, white hair. The curl of his lip. Jaenara knew she could never come to love the man, and would never be able to love her. Duty, Jaenara thinks, is the death of love. 

The princess finally rises up to look at her mother. Sorrow has been replaced with resoluteness.

Rhaenyra had always seen echoes of her past lover, Ser Harwin Strong, in her daughter’s features and had cherished her for it. But now, watching Jaenara, she sensed a dragon’s fire within her.

“I will do it mother.” Jaenara begins, “I will do my duty, I will serve my kingdom and you as its Queen - I will wed Aemond Targaryen.”

— — —

The One Eyed Prince rises from a dreamless sleep. He remains in bed for a moment, his eye adjusting to the early morning light that had begun to creep into his bed chamber. He stares at the ceiling and wonders if today will finally be the day that an agreement would be reached. 

His half-sister and the Rogue Prince had descended upon King’s Landing on dragonback days ago. He regarded the gold and scarlet dragons with little interest. No matter, he had thought, mine is bigger. 

During their lengthy stay, Aemond observed the frenzy that had been set upon the Red Keep. A frenzy that had started after his father’s passing and had only grown. He had sat in on a few meetings between Rhaenyra, his mother, grandsire, and members of the former king’s small council. Some meetings he and Aegon had been privy to - some they were not. His elder brother did not seem at all perturbed by the prospect of his possible throne being wrenched out from under him. He understood Viserys had no intention of leaving him with the crown. And Aemond had thought that the realm was the better for it. 

Aemond and his mother had witnessed first-hand the kind of man Aegon had grown up to be. His sweet sister, Helaena, knew better than the both of them combined. It seemed the only person who wanted Aegon to sit the Iron Throne was their grandsire Otto - though he did not seek this out of the belief that his grandson could unite the realm. He only sought after a new puppet, one he could pull the strings of whichever way he pleased. 

Alicent and Rhaenyra had grown closer in the past few months before the King’s passing. Letters carried by ravens were exchanged, and now the two women almost seemed like the close childhood companions the court had once known them to be. Almost. It was still uncertain if time could truly heal all wounds.

Aemond thought his mother naive. Easily bent to the will of his half-sister. A phantom pain settles in the socket of his eye.

It was no matter now. As a second born son, Aemond had nothing to gain either way. If the gods were fair, he would have been born the eldest. And his weak, malleable father would have named him heir, rather than Rhaenyra. It was no matter now. Dwelling on fleeting possibilities would do him no good. 

Aemond is securing his leather patch over his sapphire eye when there is a rap at his door. Alicent Hightower stands before him. Dark circles sit below her eyes and loose, red curls frame her fair face. The negotiations between his half-sister and his mother’s family were taking their toll. “Your presence is needed in the council chamber. Rhaenyra and Daemon will be there, as well as Aegon and members of the small council.” She tells her son. 

“And so we finally relinquish our power,” Aemond breathes, “under what conditions?”

Alicent’s eyes drop from her son’s and she walks away without another word. 

His mother had always been a distant shroud. As a child she was wordless when he craved encouragement. Out of reach when he yearned for a motherly embrace. He tried not to blame her for this. He heard the stories that circulated the castle - of a girl who grew up without a mother of her own, forced to bring forth babes when she was not much older than one herself. 

So, he was used to her aloof nature. Though her lack of explanation at a time such as this did unnerve the prince. 

Aemond enters the council chamber where everyone else has already gathered. 

“The man of the hour!” Aegon bellows. 

Aemond regards his brother and wonders what has lifted his spirits at such an hour. Aegon delights in the misery of others, and in remembering this, Aemond feels unease.

“Aegon, enough.” Alicent is stern in her words, “Aemond, please sit.”

Prince Aemond sits opposite his half-sister Rhaenyra and her husband Daemon. Rhaenyra’s eyes rake over him, and he meets her neutral gaze with his cold one. Daemon lets out a wry chuckle at the wordless exchange. Ser Criston Cole, positioned at a corner of the chamber, stands stock still.

Alicent clears her throat and begins, “This council has come to a consensus,” Aemond looks to his mother.

“Rhaenyra…will be made to sit the Iron Throne, as King Viserys intended.” she shoots a sour look over to Otto Hightower, who sat on the far side of Aemond. Dismayed grunts and whispers circulate the chamber. “Aegon is to serve on Rhaenyra’s council. Jacaerys and Baela Velaryon are to stay here in King’s Landing. As heir, he will attend council with his mother and will make a place here.”

Aegon shifts in his seat and stares at a corner of the room, obviously bored. As if he had heard this to him recounted numerous times by now. 

“The more the merrier.” he says in a voice so low, Aemond wonders if anyone else had heard him. Aemond then wonders how his brother can be so content with relinquishing rule over the Seven Kingdoms to their sister. He hears Rhaenyra draw in a breath and his cold gaze finds hers once more.

“Aemond. We find ourselves in unprecedented times. One of the last things our father wished was for the infighting amongst his family to cease. We cannot expect the realm to watch as sister fights against brother.” She pauses and Aemond senses the hesitancy in her words. Alicent picks at the flesh around her fingernails. Rhaenyra continues.

“I only wish to unite our families and ensure that everyone has a place amidst my rule. Amongst my court. To do this…your mother sees it best to…” Aemond wishes she would just spit out her decree and be done with it. 

“I wish to wed you and my daughter, Jaenara Velaryon.”

Now that gives Aemond pause. 

Aemond had seen his niece a short time ago, when she and her family had come to King’s Landing to defend her bastard brother’s claim to the Driftmark throne. He had eyed her as Vaemond Velaryon was cut down by Daemon, intrigued by her unwavering gaze despite the horrific scene. He watched her at dinner that night, finding a smile gracing her face at times. He noted the joy she took in watching Jacaerys dance with Helaena. He felt her burn holes into him as he toasted to Jaenara and her brothers. His Strong niece and nephews, he had said. 

She despised him. And he gave her many reasons to. He did not have time to recount the enumerable times he had tormented her and her brothers during their childhood together at the Red Keep. A torment that was dealt back to him by the hands of his nephews.

Though Aemond could not deny, he held some sort of strange admiration for his niece. 

His half-sister's voice returns the prince from his thoughts. “Aemond?”

Aegon does little to suppress his glee. “What do you say, brother?” He laughs and gives him a rough slap on the back. “Will you have your bastard bride?”

Daemon Targaryen slaps a hand down on the table. “Daemon.” Rhaenyra stops her husband before he can speak or act. Aegon quiets once more, though a smug smile settles on his face.

Despite the truth in his brother’s words, Aemond takes offense to them. He found himself feeling that way more often lately, when the slights towards his niece had not been dealt by him. His thoughts return to the situation at hand. 

Aemond understands the position that he is in. This is not a request. It is a command by his new Queen. And by his mother. He considers that this may yet be a fortunate outcome for him. As the second-born brother, he has a small hope of ever sitting the throne. He had dreaded the day his mother would finally pass his hand onto the daughter of a lord that the Targaryens and Hightowers only wish to form political alliances with. Is that the only purpose children served? We are the bartering chips of our parents, he had thought bitterly. But with his niece - with Jaenara - Aemond would rule over the ancestral home of House Targaryen, and that seemed a better lot in life to have. They would retain their status. It could prove to be a comfortable position. But Aemond wondered if this is how low his family truly thought of him - to marry him off to a bastard. A so-called pure-blooded descendant of Old Valyria with hair as dark as the night. 

It was no matter now.

As Aemond considers the future that has been thrust upon him, a new thought crosses his mind. The line of succession.

Jacaerys is her heir.

And if something were to happen to his betrothed’s twin brother before he were to have an heir himself? If The Stranger were to come for the eldest male heir of the crown? Well, then Jaenara would be next in line. The realm had already accepted Rhaenyra as their ruler - surely they could come to accept another woman.

Jaenara Velaryon - or Targaryen - Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. And her King Consort:

Aemond Targaryen. 

It was hard to suppress the wry smile that began to tug on the prince’s lips. Aemond may yet use the cards he had been dealt to his own advantage. He could feel the cold steel of the Iron Throne beneath his fingers - power he may yet reach through his niece. He sat there another moment, as if still mulling over his options.

A sigh escapes him as Aemond once again meets the violet eyes of his half-sister. 

“As you wish, your Grace.” The One Eyed Prince bites. 

[turtletaubwrites]

Sweet Abduction ~ Part 1

Thank you anon for this super cute request! I loved the idea, and I hope you enjoy the fic!

Pairings: Charlotte Katakuri x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4084

Ao3 Link

Summary: Times are tough, and you're afraid you'll have to give up the family business, until you find people who cherish your work. Who knew making doughnuts would gain you the attention of an Emperor of the Sea, and her second son? Will your new life be as sweet as it seemed?

Rating/Warnings: SFW, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Fluff, Grief, (reader's dad has passed and she thinks about him a lot), Arranged Marriage, Forced Marriage, Kidnapping, Minor Violence (hardly anything, just being grabbed by the arms briefly), Kissing, No Smut, Human/Monster Romance, He's freaking 16 ft tall, Reader is too sweet for this world

A/N: Turns out Katakuri is over 16 ft tall. I stuck with canon, hope you don't mind! Please heed the tags! This is very sweet romance type fluff, but there is some kidnapping and shit, so be wary 😅

Your body naturally woke you in the quiet, early morning light, but you still felt like you were in a bad dream.

After all your years of struggling to get by, of trying to make a living off the only skills you had, you still had nothing. You had kept your dad’s shop running, learning all you could, trying to honor his memory. But now that he’s gone, prepping these early mornings alone felt like losing him all over again.

Especially since hardly anyone in this town could afford to waste their berries on sweets.

Even buying ingredients for one day's batch was brutal.

I’m sorry, dad. I don’t want to sell your shop. Please, I wish you were here to tell me what to do.

You blinked back your tears as you started frying the morning's first batch of doughnuts.

Falling into your rhythm, you glazed and displayed each doughnut with care. Still taking pride in your work, you treated each pastry with love, even though they would probably be wasted. 

You gave a little yelp as the tiny bell on the shop’s door chimed.

Your mouth hung wide as you looked at the two potential customers. Shaking yourself, you greeted them, turning on your customer service charm.

‘The best way to keep a customer is to show them you really care.’

Your dad’s sweet voice filled your mind, and you smiled, genuinely hoping that these people would have a wonderful day. And that if they tried your doughnuts, it might make their day even brighter. 

The two strangers made their way to the display case, reviewing the little menu above the counter, and they asked you detailed questions that surprised you. 

You had been too busy trying to make sense of the colorful, almost outrageous way they dressed, that it took you a second to realize how excited they seemed to be here. 

They can’t be from around here. Everyone here is too poor to be that colorful.

You pinched your wrist at the sour thought, reminding yourself of your dad’s view of the world. He’d tell you to focus on the good things happening right now.

The two customers ordered four doughnuts each, and you carried their plates to the dingy little table in the corner, filling their cups with coffee.

The urge to stare was almost too powerful. It had been so long since someone new came to enjoy your work. 

They smacked their lips, and licked their fingers, and their bright eyes warmed your heart. 

‘There’s nothing better than watching someone enjoy the work you put your heart into.’ 

You cleared your throat, turning away from them as you wiped away a tear at your dad’s words in your mind.

“Ooh, Mama’s gonna enjoy this,” the taller one hissed in a mock whisper.

“Excuse me,” the other patron called, waving you over. 

You wiped flour off your hands, grabbing the pot of coffee. You felt their eyes on you, feeling examined as you refilled their cups.

“Is there anythi–”

“How would you like a sponsorship to open a shop in the sweetest capital of the world?”

“... I’m sorry. What did you–”

The tall one grabbed your wrist, eyes almost manic as he leaned toward you.

“We’re scouts, you see. We’re from Totto Land, and we’ve been looking for someone with your talents. Everything will be taken care of. We already have a doughnut shop that's just waiting for an artist like you.”

Your eyes were so wide it was almost painful, and part of you told you to run from these strangers. 

‘Don’t fight miracles, sweetheart. Sometimes good people really do get good things.’

“Okay,” you stuttered, following your dad’s advice one more time. 

~ 

You had heard the name Big Mom before, seen her wanted poster. She didn’t seem like a real person when you were struggling in your run down town. 

And you thought that Emperors of the Sea were meant to be terrifying, almost demonic. 

But here you were on her archipelago, her myriad of islands filled with so many happy people. So many people who love what you do.

It's surreal! 

You’d been given a doughnut shop on Komugi Island, along with a beautiful apartment above the shop. You wanted to explore and meet people, but you couldn’t think of closing the shop for even a day. 

All the ingredients you could dream of, equipment that you’d never seen before, and a dining area inside and outside with plenty of tables so you could enjoy the happy noises people made when they ate your doughnuts and pastries. 

It was heaven. It felt like your dad was there with you, kneading the dough, pouring the coffee. You could almost hear his laugh, his silly songs that he used to hum.

It felt like home.

After a few days, you noticed that the shop cleared out a little before lunchtime. You had been having a steady stream of customers all day since the day you opened, but now it was empty. You tried to remind yourself that things wouldn’t always be that busy, and that it didn’t mean anything.

I guess I’m just worried, dad. I want to do well here. I want to stay.

You had a pile of plates in one hand as you wiped down a table outside.

“Good afternoon,” boomed a deep voice from above, and your ankle shifted against the stone tiles.

You were slipping, trying and failing to keep a grip on the porcelain plates.

Then a huge, warm hand held you steady, and your mouth gaped at the sight of another gloved hand catching the plates before they fell.

“I’m so sorry,” you choked out, heart racing.

Shifting away to look at your new patron, you steadied yourself, pressing your palm against the warmth beside you.

Your breath hitched as your hand touched firm leather. You stumbled back a step, and he grabbed your shoulder to steady you, before setting the dishes on the table, and towering over you.

“I apologize. I should have waited until you set down the plates.”

The deep, measured voice made you shiver as you looked up at the man it belonged to. 

He was so tall. Insanely tall.

Is he a giant?

He sat down beside the shop on what you just now realized was a bench, made for someone his size.

Realizing how rude you were being, you cleared your throat, giving him a smile.

“No need to apologize. Thank you so much for saving my plates!”

You dipped your head, letting your eyes go wide as you looked at the ground after getting a better look at him. 

He had deep crimson hair, with eyes to match. Those intense eyes were framed with arched brows, and eyelashes so dark and thick that you could see them from where you were.

You brought your head back up to meet those eyes, and you bobbed on your toes as you tried not to gape at the rest of him. 

You’d never seen anyone like him before. He wore a layered scarf that draped around his shoulders, covering his neck, and the lower half of his face. 

Below the scarf was an expanse of muscle, pink tattoos accentuating his chiseled abs. His leather vest covered nothing, but it matched the leather across the rest of his body, belts, straps, and spikes giving you so much to look at.

Then you looked back at his eyes, and realized you’d been staring.

“I–I am so sorry. I’m new here, and my head is a little off still. Would you like me to bring you a menu?”

He hardly spoke while he was there, but his gaze felt heavy and warm. Thankfully, no one else came by to witness you making a fool out of yourself. 

He made a huge order, and you packed three large boxes to the brim.

Your dad would have been so happy in that moment. You could picture his smile. Practically hear his voice.

‘Look, sweetheart. Your love is gonna touch all those people that eat your sweets. Isn’t that just lovely?’

“Are you afraid?”

“What,” you choked out, quickly brushing a tear from your eye as you thought of your father.

He’d taken the boxes from you after paying, but now his brows were furrowed as he looked down at you.

“Oh my– oh no! I’m sorry,” you panicked, realizing what he meant.

“I wasn’t crying because of– I was just thinking about my dad. He would have been really happy with your order. You picked all his favorites!”

He stiffened, one of his gloved hands flexing on his knee.

Clearing his throat, he stood, his height leaving you speechless again. 

“Thank you, miss. Have a pleasant day.”

“... Th-Thank you! Please, come again soon!”

You were waving at his back, and he froze for a moment at your words. But he kept walking, finally leaving your sight. 

Slumping into one of the chairs, you felt the blood rushing through your body, your head feeling fuzzy after all of that. 

Then a line of customers started trickling back in, and you poured yourself into work. 

What an interesting place this is. 

~

He came back again. And again. And you always forgot to ask for his name. 

He never said much. He always ordered at least three boxes. And you always spaced out as you stared at him at least once before he left. 

Luckily he always seemed to come during a slow hour, catching you cleaning with no other customers to attend to.

You wanted to ask if he liked them. If he liked your dad’s favorite recipes. It seemed like a silly question, since he ordered so many every time.

But you liked his voice, and you thought it would sound really nice if he said it. 

You caught yourself grinning in the mirror at the thought as you got ready for the day.

I think I like it here.

“Good morning, miss Y/N!”

You had just stepped downstairs, morning light still not quite touching the world, but your shop was full of people.

“I… I’m sorry. The shop’s not open yet. But I’m happy to share my pot of coffee with you if you’re willing to wait on the doughnuts!”

You felt extra grateful that you’d dressed for the day before coming downstairs.

“Thank you dear, but you’ll be coming with us.”

A tall, thin woman moved toward you, a rough scar bisecting her face, and you clenched your fist to stop yourself from recoiling. It was too damn early for someone who looked like a gnarled old witch to break in and threaten you.

Is she threatening me?

“Sorry, uh,” you said awkwardly as you moved behind the counter. “I’ve got a lot of doughnuts to get started for the day.”

“Not today, sweetie,” the witch-like woman said, her reddish nose bobbing as she shook her head.

“I don’t– Did I do something wrong?”

You shrank back against the wall as guards moved against you, gripping your arms.

“Not at all,” the woman nearly shrieked, failing to sound comforting. “In fact, you are being granted the highest of honors. You are about to become part of Big Mom’s family!”

You had been squirming only slightly, not really fighting against the men holding and moving you. But now you slumped, confusion hurting your brain too much to keep steady.

“What do you mean? What’s happening,” you asked, panic building in your throat the closer they got you to the door. 

“You have been chosen to wed the shining star of the Charlotte family. Our strongest warrior, a man whose back has never touched the ground. My perfect big brother, Charlotte Katakuri!”

Your mouth hung open as she continued, her voice manic, louder with each word. She may as well have been speaking another language. 

She pointed a long, twig-like arm at you, and you tried to clear your head to understand.

“You can call me Brulee, sister in law. Tomorrow you will become Charlotte Y/N.” 

You stood, frozen and dizzy.

“Come now, lots to do, sister,” she tutted, snapping her fingers.

“But why? Why me?”

She reared on you, her red nose inches from yours.

“You’re special, of course. You were chosen. And you’d better learn not to question Mama.”

“Please,” you pleaded, twisting against the guard's hold. “I don’t–”

“Don’t question mama! And don’t even think about refusing her.”

The guards tightened their grip, leading you toward the door.

“Wait!”

“Don’t res—”

“Please change the sign! Please let my customers know I’ll be gone, I don’t want them to wait out there for me.”

Brulee frowned at you, but had one of the guards write a note, hanging it on the door.

“Thank you,” you sighed with relief, giving her a grateful smile.

She frowned again.

You didn’t resist, and the guards let you walk freely. You felt the stares of citizens on you, and watched a group of onlookers waving as the ship departed for the main island. 

Whole Cake Island. 

It was incredible. The sounds, the colors, the smells! Excited locals rushing around, as if preparing for something big. 

Like a wedding.

Brulee spent the travel time regaling you with stories of her brother. 

The second son of the Big Mom Pirates. One of the Three Sweet Commanders. The Minister of Flour who governs over your new home, Komugi Island.

“When he was born he stood straight up, and slept on a chair. His back has never touched the ground. He’s never laid down, and never been knocked down either.”

“That sounds tiring,” you muttered under your breath, but she turned, grasping your wrist.

“Not to my brother. He’s more than strong. He’s superhuman. He’s noble, and cool-headed. And you are going to be the perfect wife for my perfect brother. Got it?”

“I-I got it.”

She released your arm, and you tried to fight your nerves, but you couldn’t stop shaking. 

You were led through a massive castle that looked like, or was it a cake? The ceilings were so massive, you had to crane your neck to see them.

Brulee left the guards outside, leading you into a gorgeous bedroom, with an extravagant bathroom, and at least ten servants carrying all sorts of fabrics, powders, shoes, and more. 

You felt like you were in a whirlwind, just staying still and letting these strangers touch you, pamper you, fit the white dress to your body.

Now and then you’d pay attention to what they were saying between their giggles and demands. 

“She’s so lucky.” 

“I wish I could join the family.”

“I wonder if his children will be as perfect as he is?”

Finally, you were freed from their hands. Dinner was brought to your guarded room, and you watched the night fall.

You curled up in the luxurious bed, and sobbed silently. You caught yourself whispering under the blankets, eyes burning as you tried to make sense of it all.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I’m trying to see the good here. But I’m scared. I love this place. I love making people smile. But what if this man… What if my husband is a bad person? What if he’s mean? What if he doesn’t like me?”

Visions of terror filled your mind. If they could kidnap you for this, could they really be good people? This land seems so happy and prosperous, could this marriage be a good thing?

“Is this a miracle, dad? Should I let it happen, and hope for the best?” 

“Will they kill me if I try to run?” 

“I’m scared, dad. I wish you were here.”

Finally, your quiet sobs fell into slow breaths as sleep pulled you under.

Morning arrived, and the servants were buzzing with excitement as they prepared you for the wedding. You felt empty, hollow. They kept pinching your cheeks lightly, trying to wake you up, to convince you to be happy.

All you could manage was a weak smile as you looked at your reflection.

“You look beautiful, sister,” Brulee praised, patting your hand. “It’s almost time.”

She led you to a massive stone room, guiding you to a small bench before leaning over you. 

“Just wait here. It won't be long.”

She left, and you didn't turn to watch her go. You thought about running. There were no guards in this chamber. 

You bit your lip to keep from crying, afraid of what might happen to you if you ruined your makeup.

“Y/N…”

A choked gasp left your throat as you turned, looking for the owner of that deep voice.

Your favorite customer was there, his height looking almost normal in this massive room. He sat along the wall on a giant bench, leaning toward you.

“Oh, hello,” you practically squeaked, throat caught with unshed tears. “What are you doing here? I’m sorry I couldn’t make your order today!”

“Please,” he stopped you, holding out his gloved hands. You blinked at him, noticing that his normally black attire was white, somehow making his hair and tattoos stand out even more.

“What are you…”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I shouldn’t have let this happen.” 

“Let what happen,” you asked, your mind moving so fast it felt like it was tripping over itself. You stood without meaning to, walking closer.

“You were brought to my island as a gift. For me.”

His dark eyes poured over you as you stood, silently waiting.

“I shouldn’t have told mama that I liked you. I tried to convince her to stop, but there’s no way to stop this without violence now. And I cannot hurt my family.”

Violence? 

Your heart beat in your chest like a bird, wings flapping desperately to escape a cage. 

“Mama is a decisive woman. When she makes her mind up on something, it will happen. I am usually the one to make it happen. Most of my siblings have their marriages arranged. I didn't…”

Regret tinged his voice, and you met his eyes.

“Why me?”

He looked away, sighing as he leaned back against the wall.

“My siblings brought you to my island because they thought I would enjoy your doughnuts. I happened to mention how much I’ve enjoyed your work, and your… company. So Mama has decided that you’ll be joining the family. That you and I will marry. In less than an hour.”

You’d never heard him say so many words at once, and his voice rolled over you while you tried to comprehend everything. Your mouth hung open as you stared at him.

“You must be frightened.”

He shifted on the bench, looking almost uncomfortable before he caught himself. He adjusted the movement, making it look deliberate. But you noticed.

He’s just a person.

“I think having a first date might have been nice,” you teased with a small smile. 

He stared down at you for a long moment, before his brows furrowed.

“You shouldn’t have to marry a monster.” 

“What do you mean,” you questioned, starting to feel lightheaded from everything.

“When we kiss, it will be over…”

“We’ll be married?” 

“No.”

You hadn’t thought his eyes could get any more intense, but they sure did. You stood, still as a statue, waiting for him to explain. 

“There’s something I have to show you.” 

Katakuri unraveled his scarf, slowly revealing the lower half of his face.

Your eyes went wide at the sight of his large mouth, scars stretching from ear to ear. Sharp teeth or fangs jutted out at the edges of his lips. 

Your first thought was that he did look like a monster.

‘You can’t tell somebody’s heart from the outside, sweetheart. Always give people a chance.’

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, after you stood there too long, thinking of your dad’s voice.

You watched those huge hands start to drape the scarf, looking away from you as he covered his scars.

“Wait,” you commanded, voice almost too loud in the echoing room. You reached up to put your hand on his knee, shoving aside a brief thought about how things would work with his height.

“Will you be kind to me?” 

He paused his movements, face still uncovered. Your whole body rolled with warm shivers as he laid his hand on yours.

“I will be kind to you. And I will protect you.” 

“And you’ll tell me how much you like my doughnuts?”

An almost surprised huff left him, and you were pleasantly shocked to see his wide lips twitch up, a hint of a smile there. 

“I love your doughnuts. They make me very happy.” 

Your toes curled in your shoes as you grinned up at him

“Okay,” you nodded, dread shifting to excitement. “I guess we’re getting married then? Please, promise to be kind.” 

“I promise,” he agreed, head tilted as he looked at you, before wrapping his scarf back around. 

You were practically bouncing on your feet now, and your words came out high and fast.

“So, your name is Katakuri?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true you never lie on your back?”

“We’ll learn a lot of interesting things about each other later,” he promised, voice low as he patted you on the head.

“Right now we have somewhere to be.”

There were so many people. So much food, so many sweets. 

Big Mom was enormous, even taller than Katakuri. All of her children looked so different, so interesting. 

Everyone seemed happy.

I’ll choose to be happy too, dad. I just wish you were here with me.

The ceremony and vows flew by, and luckily you remembered what to say. Then the end arrived, and you realized that you didn’t know what to do.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may start your marriage with a kiss!”

How am I supposed to kiss him?

Your question was answered as his large hand scooped down beside you. Looking into his face, you could have sworn he was smiling by the slight crinkling of his eyes.

A giggle left your lips as you nodded, and you gasped as he grabbed you gently around the waist, lifting you up.

You heard the cheers of his family as he turned away from the crowd, keeping his face from their sight.

“I am sorry, Y/N.”

His whisper made your heart ache for this strange man. He seemed so lonely, even with all of his family looking up to him. 

Maybe neither of us have to be lonely anymore.

You touched a hand to his cheekbone, and he seemed to freeze.

“Don’t be sorry, Katakuri. Let’s just be good to each other.”

You felt a hum move through him before he carefully pulled his scarf down, just enough, just for you.

He’s so big!

That thought hit you again, but you’d already decided. You were already his. You leaned forward, and kissed him between the sharp fangs at the edges of his mouth.

His lips were warm, and soft, and sweet.

You let out a hum of contentment, wiggling slightly in his grasp. He pulled back, covering his face, then he stared at you. 

“Hi,” you said softly, feeling your skin flush as you felt suddenly shy.

“Oh mama, mama,” Big Mom laughed, making him turn to face the party.

“My family is getting bigger and bigger! What a wonderful day. Let’s start with the cake!”

~

Katakuri didn’t join in on the fun, sitting on the edge as if keeping watch over his own wedding. Everytime you tried to talk to him, new in-laws would drag you away, light conversations and laughter hogging the day. 

Finally, you were ushered away, waving back at the crowd as your husband joined you. 

Instead of a carriage, you were carried away from your wedding on Katakuri’s shoulder, adjusting the scarf so that it would stay in place. 

A procession of onlookers applauded, calling his name. You even heard your own name once or twice. It felt like the entire island was cheering for you, and you were caught in the chaos of a world you never could have imagined. 

Your mind started racing as the wedding was over, the real world starting to return. A million questions tore through you, and you didn’t know where to start, until one came tumbling out.

“How are we going to sleep if you never lay on your back?”

He let out a sound that could have been a laugh as he kept moving toward your new home. 

“Don’t worry, Y/N. I’ll show you.”

Likes and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you so much!

a/n: Once again, I'm so happy to take requests! I probably wouldn't have thought to write for this big guy, but now I love this lil doughnut man. He's so sweet 😭😭 (Let me know if I should write the honeymoon... 😳)

Tag List: @shewrites02

Part 2

| masterlist | about me | rules | ao3 | ko-fi |

[simping-overload]

ᴀ ᴛɪᴇꜰʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴛᴀɪʟ - ꜰʟᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴꜱ

a/n: halsin with baby fever <3 make this man a daddy

tags: halsin, he wants kids so bad. gn reader, zevlor cameo, just fluff.

『read on ao3』

synopsis: Halsin watches as you interact with the children of the Grove.

ヾthis is a multi-fandom blog that is designed for mlm/nbmlm identifying readers! so if you're female or fem please do not follow or interact with my mlm related post!! you will be blocked if you do not heed this warning ゛

The festival was bustling, children ran around and played whilst the adults drank the evening away. Bards sing their songs by the fire, occasionally starting sing-alongs.

Halsin sat separately, in a smaller, quieter corner, leaning against a wall as he watched over the party, making sure things won’t get too rowdy.

His gaze wonders over the crowd, looking for a familiar face before he lands on you. Sitting down on the ground and making flower crowns with the children. A child places one on top of your head, mindful of the horns.

The children braid and weave flowers along your tail and horns. Maybe at the right angle, you’d look like a statue wrapped in overgrown vines and plants.

Seeing you interact with the children stirs an all too familiar feeling in his chest, his desire for children of his own. Whether adopted or somehow biological, he wants ones of his own.

To see and hear the pitter patter of their tiny feet thumping against the wooden floor of your cozy home. Teaching them how to cook, clean, and maybe, if they wished, he can teach them the ways of the druids.

He’s already accustomed to the cries and screaming of children. Over the long years he has been alive, it’s safe to say he already knows how to handle it, especially when he took over as Arch druid of the Grove.

As much as he wants children, he doesn’t know if you wanted them. You never gave any indication if you did or didn’t.

Halsin tears his eyes away from you when he feels a nudge on his side. He turns his head, locking eyes with the person. It was Zevlor, a good friend of his.

“Something on your mind, Halsin?” The tiefling leader asks.

“Its—it’s not something to get into now, but how are you, friend?” Halsin tries to deflect the conversation away from him.

Zevlor raises a brow. “I’m well. The party is a bit more crowded than expected. Aside from that, don’t you dare try to change the topic. You’ve spent enough time of your life hiding your issues and feelings. Speak, my friend. I’m all ears.” Zevlor takes a sip of his wine.

“Do you think Tav and I would be good parents?” He suddenly blurts out, shoulders tensing at what he just said.

Zevlor grins. “I think you’d be one of the best parents in Faerûn.”

Halsin smiles at this, looking away from his friend and back at you.

“Though I would recommend waiting. Maybe a few years after the fame from your adventures, die down, and when you finally settle down. Did you ask them yet?”

Halsin chuckles nervously, “Well. No. I was waiting for a good time, but that moment never came.”

Zevlor huffed at this, smacking the druid’s calf with his tail. “Go ask.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Gods know you probably wouldn’t ask for another year! And look, they’re already on their way.. I’ll leave you to it.” Zevlor pats Halsin on the shoulder before slipping off.

Halsin watches as you approach, and by the Oak father, you look divine. The bear in him just wanted to ravish you more than and there. He pushes the feeling away as he pulls you into his warm embrace.

You wrap your arms around him, curling into him as you soak in his comforting warmth. Pulling back slightly, you look at your lover, adoration laced in your expression.

“Hi love.”

“Hello, my heart. I see you had quite the time for the children.” He brings a hand to the flower crown that lies on your head.

You chuckle, nodding, “Yeah, it got a little out of control.” You gesture to your tail. It had all kinds of flowers laced together covering it.

With a fond smile, he gently caresses your cheek with his hand. Pulling you forward, and presses a loving kiss to your lips. He faintly tastes like honeycomb and tobacco.

You shut your eyes, falling into the kiss. Getting lost in the sensation of his lips on yours.

He reluctantly pulls away when the need for air becomes too strong. He settles to rest his foreheads against yours, looking into your eyes with a longing your’re oh-so familiar with. You can see his eyes flicker with uncertainty. It seems he’s having an internal conflict with himself.

“What’s on your mind, Halsin?” You ask, cupping his face in your palms so he can’t turn away.

He sucks in a breath before letting the words flow from his lips. “I have something to ask of you.”

[needtoloveoutloud]

Shadows Of Our Past, Present, and (possible) Future — Series

My Hero Academia — Female!OC Fanfiction on AO3

Part One (Completed — 93k words):

The one where Shota Aizawa stumbles upon a back alley full of stray cats and ends up adopting a child

“Fine, then a cat? We both know how much you love those little furry…things.” At this, Shota paused the game and turned to the pushy blonde next to him. “I actually have considered that.” “And?” “And: also, no. It makes no sense.” Hizashi looked almost scandalized. “Makes no sense?” “I made a pro and contra list.” “Of course you did.”

When underground hero Shota Aizawa, twenty-two years old, is out on patrol one Friday evening, he doesn't expect that a single meow from a cat would lead him to find a homeless girl called Yoru. From then on, Yoru and Shota grow up together, make mistakes together, and try to overcome every obstacle life throws at them.

>> Read on AO3 <<

Part Two (Ongoing, regular updates — growing long fic — 231k words so far — READ PART 1 FIRST, PLEASE AND THANK YOU):

The one where Yoru Aizawa tries to navigate through life at U.A.

Two days after her fifteenth birthday, Yoru decides to drop the bomb on him. “I want to go to U.A.” “You want to go to U.A.” Her Dad puts the book he's been reading down on the glass balcony table.  “Yes, I want to go to U.A.” She slumps down on the outdoor couch next to him, grabbing the discarded book. “What are you reading?” ‘A Book of Five Rings by Miyamoto Musashi — The classic guide to strategy ’. She raises an eyebrow. “Reading that for fun, huh?” “Why do you want to go to U.A.? You never cared much about heroes. Besides Edgeshot, that is.” Yoru smirks up at him. “What, jealous?” “As if.” “You know, even if they sold Eraserhead posters, I wouldn’t hang them up. It would be super weird.” “Good to know where your loyalties lie.” He rolls his eyes. “Back to the topic at hand, why do you want to go to U.A.? Because Shinso wants to go?” “No.” Pause. “Okay, that may be part of it. But I’m serious. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and I really want to go.” “That might be so, but you still neglected to tell me why you want to attend there.” Yoru plays with her hair, noting how it’s time for another hair cut when she finds some splint ends. “I wanna be a hero.” Her Dad blinks. “A hero?” “Yes. Well, I want to help people and do some good with that shitty quirk of mine.”

When Yoru tells her Dad that she wants to attend U.A., she expects it to be a difficult path. She didn't expect all the awkwardness, blossoming friendships, confusing feelings, and near-death experiences, though.

>> Read on AO3 <<

Please heed the warnings/tags (TWs in the author's notes of chapters where they apply to).

This story is a mix of:

Slice of life

Hurt/Comfort

Angst/Fluff

Humor

Dadzawa

SLOW BURN Romance — Enemies to Lovers (Bakugo x Yoru)

Growing up, coming of age (hopefully lol)

Teenage awkwardness

Mixed media (pictures, music, chat screenshots (later on in Part 2), etc. — chat screenshots will always have the written text below, to make it accessible for visually impaired folks or people who use screen readers)

Author: NoBecksPleaseNo on AO3

Please don't copy the work, the character, the premise, etc. Also, no cross-posting anywhere, please and thank you.

Disclaimer: Yoru's image is AI generated and then edited/adjusted by the author. The other character images in the header are from Pinterest (besides the one of Present Mic/Midnight, that one's from the light novels) — unfortunately without a source. If you're the artist, and you're not okay with me using them, please message me and I will remove them. If you're the artist and are okay with me using them, please tell me, so I can credit you.

Besides the OC characters, I don't own any already existing characters from the My Hero Academia Universe — that honor belongs to Kohei Horikoshi.

[seoafin]

dog days are over | chapter one

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru warnings/tags (for this chapter): none, but please heed overall fic warnings word count: ~3.2k

fic masterlist read on ao3

“Suguru…you’re getting married?”

Your eyes are wide as you examine Suguru in a new light.

Marriage…that’s…that’s a big step isn’t it? Already? Do people get married at twenty-two nowadays? You aren’t sure. In fact, you don’t really know what people your age do. But you’re sure that whatever Suguru decides, you will support him fully. Even if he desires to get married at the early age of twenty-two. Who are you to come in the way of Suguru's apparent desire to get married?

Suguru doesn’t even blink at your words. “Of course not,” he replies smoothly, expertly dicing carrots into small cubes on the cutting board. He finishes, puts the knife down, and looks at you reassuringly. “It was just a matter of propriety. I couldn’t just leave that girl waiting for hours on end for Satoru, now could I?”

You shake your head, smiling back. Of course he would. Because Suguru is a good person who would keep a girl company at a matchmaking ceremony that Satoru either refused to show up to or forgot. You aren’t surprised to hear it. Both the fact that Suguru spent his afternoon entertaining her, and that Satoru had neglected to go to it in the first place, or even mention it to you.

Marriage…

You think of white dresses, veils, shiromukus. Endless white fabrics. Black kimonos. Cups of Sake. You think of temples, the reception, the planning. All the different options for catering and flowers and wedding invitations. Your head spins. Weddings. Marriage. Abstract concepts to you. Foreign in their conventionality. You’ve never had the luxury of dwelling too long of what a hypothetical wedding would entail. You had no use for it, really. Though you did occasionally think about how Shoko would look on her wedding day. 

Suguru is calling your name.

You blink, regaining the smile on your lips, hoping he didn’t ask you a question you had not heard. “Y-yes?”

“Just keeping you with me,” he hums, getting started on the mushrooms and potatoes. “What were you thinking about?”

“Weddings are complicated,” you say seriously. But then you think of Shoko in a wedding dress, Suguru and Satoru in black kimonos, and decide that Shoko would make a lovely bride just as Satoru and Suguru would make lovely grooms. “I hope I get to see all of you married one day.”

Though the thought of Shoko getting married disturbs you. You think of seeing her even less than you usually do and frown. Twenty-two really is a bit too young, isn’t it? She hasn’t even finished medical school yet! You force yourself away from your thoughts, regarding Suguru brightly.

“What did the two of you talk about?” You ask eagerly. 

An amused glint flickers in his dark gaze. Almost teasingly. “Flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“Flowers.”

The girl had invited Suguru to see the sprawling garden at her estate and the special lotuses she tended to daily. He politely declined. You are slightly disappointed at this. You think of Satoru and Suguru’s wedding. You think of a faceless third, a potential bride that could handle Satoru and Suguru’s tempestuous natures. A calming, dignified force. You think she’ll be beautiful, befitting the two of them. 

“Was she pretty?”

Suguru stops, knife pressed to the cutting board, mushroom split in two. He lifts his gaze, returning to your expectant gaze with an unreadable one before his expression softens. “I suppose.”

You stare at him. He…supposes? Just what is that supposed to mean? Some new cryptic way of conveying his interest? Maybe he’s embarrassed. Maybe he doesn’t want to admit it.

The amused smile returns to his lips. “I was just a temporary fill in for Satoru, nothing more.”

He resumes cutting. Finishes. Heats up oil in a large pot and pushes the vegetables into it with a knife.

He’s too modest. You’re sure he’s downplaying himself. She had invited him to her estate for a second meet, hadn’t she? You guess Satoru and Suguru and yes, even Shoko are at an age most would consider eligible for marriage. They’ll get married soon, embark on the next adventure of their lives and you’ll…

You’ll be content.

“Have you thought about it?” He asks nonchalantly. “Marriage?”

You falter, a lapse in your thoughts at Suguru’s inquiring gaze. “Not at all,” you say truthfully. “I can’t even imagine it.” Someone loving you? The thought of someone finding something worthwhile in you makes you feel greatly disturbed when you decided long ago that romantic endeavors were useless in your case. But even that line of thinking is arrogant of you. Nobody has ever shown interest in you in the twenty-one years you’ve been alive, and you are sure that even the slightest interest in you would only end with disappointment.

There is something fundamentally wrong with you. You would rather the vulnerable truth of it all not be laid bare and dissected by a scorned lover you disappointed in some way, because you had not been able to live up to the expected standards of romantic love. You would say something wrong, do something wrong. You wouldn’t understand. You don't think you'd be recover, and even the thought of it makes you feel vaguely ill.

You’re not naive. You know that love doesn’t have to be a factor in marriage, but if marriage was a necessity, then what was wrong with hoping for love, romance, passion? You’ve seen the well bred women of jujutsu society, the ones whose last names hold importance on some level, cultivated for the singular purpose of being a wife, a mother, sheltered away in their estates awaiting the inevitable. You think these girls deserve far more respect for being able to flawlessly navigate jujutsu society than you do, as a working jujutsu sorcerer. 

You also think you want better for Satoru. You think he deserves love and everything else he’s found in Suguru. You’re happy for him. For Suguru. Because even someone like you knows how rare it is to find what the two of them have.

You exhale. “But nothing’s expected of me anyway." You've never even been kissed. "I don’t have a lover, or even parents. I’m nobody important. But you, Satoru, and Shoko…" A self deprecating smile. "It seems that I’ll have to learn to live without you guys soon.” You’d be lonely. But you at least had Megumi and Tsumiki, and even Mimiko and Nanako. You were sure they’d still need you for a few more years. And then…

You’ve never thought about the future. Not to this extent. You’re unsure of what your life would be without Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko. You’re unsure if you’d even exist. 

As long as you’re alive, you’d persist. Somehow. And if you died along the way, well. You suppose you wouldn’t have to put too much thought into the future then, would you?

You must look troubled. Suguru clears his throat. You look up, just as the smell of curry fills your nose. 

He lifts up an inviting spoonful of curry. “For you.”

It takes you a few seconds to completely pull out of your thoughts, and to register the spoon in his grip. You learn forward automatically, mumble ‘thank you for the food,’ and eat his offering. The curry is delicious, savory with a sweet note that can’t just be attributed to the apples you had seen him blending before to mix into the sauce. Your gaze drops to an opened packet on the counter.

“Dark chocolate?”

“A tip I got from some of the housewives in the complex,” Suguru replies, satisfied with your response. “They said that it’d add an additional note of flavor. I’m guessing it worked…?”

You nod vigorously. “It’s delicious!”

Of course Suguru’s made good with the housewives in the fancy apartment complex the two of them live in with the kids. Suguru wanted a big kitchen. Satoru wanted a view. The penthouse seemed to both their tastes.

It’s a lovely apartment, with a large sprawling living room that includes ceiling high bookshelves, an open kitchen with a long island, and stairs that spiral to a second floor. Accommodating two adults, four kids and more, easily. It brings a smile to your face to see traces of Satoru and Suguru, and all the kids all over the apartment. You’re sure the confetti and colored paper scraps on top of the kotatsu are from Mimiko and Nanako and Tsumiki. Some school project that involved copious amounts of glue and glitter. There’s a book you bought for Megumi on the couch. Just as the bookshelves are full of Suguru’s own books. The big jar of sugar in one of the upper cabinets of the kitchen (far away from the kids’ reach) is Satoru’s. To add into his cereal, tea and anything else accommodating his usual sugary diet. There’s an identical jar back at your apartment. Satoru’s sugar jar.

To Satoru and Suguru and the girls, Megumi, and Tsumiki, it’s home.

Suguru’s eyes crease with the curve of his lips, pleased. “I’m glad you like it.” 

“Everyone’s going to love it.” Especially the twins, you think. Chocolate in their curry seemed to be exactly the kind of thing they’d delight at, in the small bursts of childlike wonder they rediscovered after Suguru rescued them. They followed after Satoru with their sweet tooths. However, after Nanako had been found with a cavity, Suguru had been forced to put a hard limit on their sugar intake, much to their disappointment.

Suguru gives the curry a stir, almost absentmindedly, as if he’s pondering something.

“I think about it,” he says, after a small silence. “Getting married.”

Oh.

Of course Suguru has thought about marriage. What, with all the marriage talks and matchmaking ceremonies and lovely elegant women in their pretty kimonos, who probably knew all the perfect ways to serve tea and facilitate conversation in all matters of talk. Suguru would make a perfect husband. Anybody would be lucky to marry Suguru. Charming and kind and handsome. 

You’ve begun to formulate a question about whether or not anyone’s caught his or Satoru’s eye, when you hear a thundering of footsteps. 

“We’re backkkkkkk!” Nanako hollers, rushing into the open living space, pulling Mimiko along with her. “Papa, are you making curry? It smells good!”

Mimiko nods her agreement, tugging on Suguru’s apron. Suguru greets them with a smile, untying his apron and pulling her up into his arms, just Satoru strolls into the room, Tsumiki at his side, Megumi trailing a few steps behind them.

“I’m starved!” Satoru announces, peering over the stovetop at the boiling curry. When a hand sneaks for a piece of chocolate, Suguru slaps his hand away. 

Suguru takes the chocolate away and puts it into a drawer as Satoru gawks. “It’s not the kind you’d like anyway.”

“Tsumiki, Megumi,” you start. “How’s school?”

You have regrettably not been able to visit as much as you wish you could. Your studies kept you busy. Your missions kept you out of Tokyo. You hope your absence isn’t missed too much. You read that children should grow up in stable environments. Your schedule was the last thing from stable.

Tsumiki beams. “I’ve got a part in the school play. We’re putting on Hachikazuki-hime!”

You make a mental note to grab the date from Satoru so you can clear your schedule. Tsumiki would be graduating elementary school soon. Already onto middle school. Children grow up so quickly. You’d have to take as many pictures as you could to compile an elementary school picture book for all the kids.

“Is that why you guys were all at the school so late?”

She nods. “Ah, and Megumi hasn’t gotten into a fight in a month,” she says excitedly. “It’s a record!”

The aforementioned boy makes a face. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

You grin, ruffling the boy’s hair. “That is a record!” Satoru had taken care of an incident a month ago in which you had been called to the school over an altercation between Megumi and another male student. You hadn’t been able to make it. You didn’t ask what Satoru had done, but you have a suspicious inkling that it had been waved away with a twirl of Satoru’s trusty black card.

You catch a glimpse of the clock above the refrigerator and balk. You snatch up your bag from the floor and wrap Tsumiki and Megumi in your arms and squeeze.

“I have to go now! I’ll see you guys later.”

“You’re not staying for dinner?” Mimiko asks quietly, peering up at you through her black bangs.

A sheepish breath escapes you. “I have a lot of homework, unfortunately.” You’d get takeout from that new tempura restaurant that opened up a couple of blocks away from your apartment. Then it was back to the books for you.

Satoru frowns. “You can’t stay an hour?”

Nanako and Mimiko and even Tsumiki voice their agreement.

Even Suguru looks displeased. Though you suppose it’s your fault. It had been your intention to stay until…

Suguru wanted to get married. He was thinking of marriage. With Satoru, with some other faceless bride to be. All three of them. You had said it yourself, hadn’t you? You’d have to learn to live without them. 

All of this is just temporary. 

You turn to the kids. “Why don’t you guys wash up for dinner?”

One by one, they shuffle off to their rooms. Megumi gives you an inquiring stare, but you wave him off.

“I’ve got a lot more work than I thought…” you trail off underneath their twin scrutiny. “I think it’d be best for me to go home for today.”

“Home,” Satoru repeats. His lips twist, effectively staunching all the words that would undoubtedly tell you exactly what he thinks about your decaying one bedroom apartment that had become your home after you graduated. You were untethered after graduation. While it was an occasion, jujutsu tech had been your home for better or worse for four years. It was the first place you had truly thought of as a home. And to leave it…

Yaga had offered you your room on campus, if you wanted to stay. But it didn’t seem right. Not without Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko. You found your apartment off a flyer attached to a pinboard while at a public library. Shoko had visited the apartment with you, negotiated rent down with the landlord, and the lease had been signed with little fanfare. It was small enough that you wouldn’t feel too lonely. Big windows overlooking a courtyard in the back. She hadn’t been thrilled about it (Satoru and Suguru even less so), but it was clean with a well worn floor and chips in the wall adjacent to the kitchen from what you presumed was to measure a child’s height. It endeared you to the apartment immediately.

Your landlord had informed you that a single mother had lived in your apartment before vacating it. You thought that there must have been love in your apartment once. So much love that a child could grow up happily scribbling away on the same walls you woke up to everyday. Maybe, somehow, this love would make you feel less lonely.

Your apartment was home. 

“Then let me pack you—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” You say hurriedly, backing towards the foyer. “I’d hate to trouble you. I have food at home.”

“I’ll walk you.” Satoru says, grabbing his jacket off the counter.

“I’ll take a taxi from the lobby.” You refuse. You can’t hide your smile, touched by their concern. “You should all eat. As a family.”

Suguru stares at you, the weight of his dark gaze making your skin prickle. It makes you feel as if you’ve said something wrong.

“At least make Ijichi drive you home,” Satoru says, exasperated, gesturing to the ceiling length windows that detail the darkness that has set over Tokyo. “It’s dark out.”

You blink in disbelief. “Satoru…” He cocks his head to the side. “Are you still using Ijichi as your personal chauffeur…?”

“...”

You turn to Suguru who seems to suddenly find the potted flowers resting by the window interesting.

Your mouth drops. “Not you too, Suguru! For the last time, you two can’t make Ijichi drop everything he’s doing to drive you through Tokyo!”

You sigh, shaking your head. These two. You feel sympathy towards Ijichi’s plight. Maybe that was why he had looked so withered the other day while you had visited Shoko in the morgue at Jujustu tech. Shoko had made a joke about watering him like you’d water a plant. You, however, could not find the humor in the situation when your kouhai had truly looked to be in need of water. And sleep. And food.

Maybe you could treat him for a meal one of these days…

“Does Ijichi like yakitori…?” You wonder out loud.

“I wouldn’t know.” Suguru says lightly, despite the peeved expression on his face. You can tell that Suguru, really, could not care less about Ijichi’s tastes.

“I don’t care about that man,” Satoru deadpans. “Why are you talking about Ijichi right now?”

You are unimpressed by their responses. “Anyway,” you sigh out. “I’ll be going now.”

“I’m coming—”

“No you aren’t,” you’re already halfway out the door. “Eat Suguru’s delicious curry,” you tell them both. “Tell the kids I love them. Goodnight.”

You don’t take a taxi. You walk fifty minutes to your apartment in the brisk winter in an effort to clear your mind. It doesn’t work. Suguru wants to get married. Satoru too, maybe, despite his efforts to avoid all the matchmaking ceremonies and invitations to go back to the Gojo estate for more lectures on the importance of continuing the Gojo line with an heir. In the end if Suguru wanted it, Satoru would end up wanting it too, as that was the nature of things. The two of them reconfiguring themselves around the other, always in tandem. A girl would catch Satoru’s eye, or Suguru’s, or maybe both of their attentions. And if she made them happy, you would be happy.

It wasn’t as if Suguru and Satoru didn’t have prospects. There was no shortage of girls who would gladly offer themselves. They didn’t need any help in that aspect. Besides, you are sure you’d be of absolutely no help in matchmaking. You always found it difficult to talk to pretty women. Your mouth never quite worked right. They always smelled nice too…

What you can do…

You can keep your distance. Slowly disengage yourself from the tangle of their lives. You’d be relegated to watching from the sidelines. You’d be content. Maybe you could keep Shoko to yourself for a little bit longer. To your knowledge, she had no intention of getting married. You hoped. Yet anyway. 

You jam your keys into the door of your apartment, slightly lifting the weight of the door up and jiggling the keys to the right. When you walk into your apartment, you set down your bag. You had forgotten about the takeout. There’s no food in your apartment except for a rotting carrot in the fridge that you throw out, and Satoru’s big jar of sugar on the island. 

Oh well, you didn’t have to eat. There's old tea in your cabinet. You ready the kettle. As you wait for the water to heat, you look out the window and think the apartment feels especially big tonight.

[tin-wufborf]

Tin's Favorite Sterek Fics (Part 11)

Hello again, and welcome to part 11! I cannot believe I'm up to 11 parts on this thing with more to come (though not too many more, I think). That means I've recommended 200 fics/series so far as I've been doing 20 recs per post. Tbh I'm actually pretty proud of myself over this because it means I've been showing incredible restraint throughout this process in only recommending my favoritiest-favorites as opposed to every single fic I can remember liking even a little bit (don't worry, that will be the next series lol). For reference, I currently have 2,610 Sterek bookmarks in total on AO3 and have so far reviewed 1,749 of them to get to those select 200. That is wild to me lol.

BUT ANYHOOZLE.

As always, thank you all again for the support you've shown this series. I hope you're all having as good a day as you can, if not a great day. Smoochies and squeezies from me to you!

List and links to previous/next part(s) below the cut.

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DISCLAIMER: This is me warning you all that some of the fics I've included in this list may cover explicit, dark, and/or "taboo" subject matters. I cannot express enough how little I care what anyone thinks about any of that; all I want is for you to use caution when reading anything I've listed here and to please review and heed whatever tags the authors have provided in order to keep yourselves safe. Your experience from this point on is your own responsibility, not mine and not the authors'.

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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17

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not enough by Jana_C (G | 1/1 | 1,569)

Sometimes love is just not enough.

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A Quiet Night (Not in the Cards) by Delightful_I_Am (T | 1/1 | 4,369)

"Derek fucking Hale!"

The shout rang through the bar and for a long moment nobody moved. It was like something out of a movie. Everything just stopped; the music cut off; one of the servers had frozen mid-pour. Grady would have laughed if he weren't holding his breath. The kid straightened his shirt, a glimpse of stomach showing the curling edges of a tattoo on his hip, and strode toward where Hale was sitting in the dark corner. As one, every supe in the place turned to see Hale's reaction; the last person to try to confront Hale in here had left with a broken hand and a whispered threat that the next time Hale would rip their throat out. With his teeth. Unsurprisingly, Hale's face was set in its usual glower, although it seemed a bit softer around the eyes. It took Grady a second to realise Hale knew the kid.

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Painted Wooden Letters by DiscontentedWinter (T | 5/5 | 10,013)

All he ever wanted to be was Stiles Stilinski.

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Babcia Knows Best by thepsychicclam (T | 1/1 | 11,887)

Stiles takes his grandmother to bingo every Thursday. Now there's a new guy calling out the numbers, and his grandmother has decided to set them up.

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god knows I am dissonance by scepticallyopenminded (E | 1/1 | 24,239)

Stiles has zero regrets – zero, absolutely none – about leaving Beacon Hills after he graduates from Stanford. He knows his dad is good, has friends, has the force, has Melissa, and knows that even if he and Mel weren’t dating, that Scott has the sheriff’s back, will take care of him, keep him safe.

He knows Lydia has no regrets, either, and the two of them hop a plane less than a week after the graduation ceremony, two full weeks before their lease in Menlo Park is even up. They pack up a U-Haul, go back to Beacon Hills for two nights, and then they’re off to LAX, three suitcases and two carry-ons between the both of them.

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There's joy not far from here by Talis89 (M | 9/9 | 28,354)

“I’m coming,” Derek calls, shrugging on a sweater. The first few days of March had been warm, but the weather has turned in the last week - winter's last ‘fuck you’ - and Derek is expecting the icy blast as the warm air rushes out the front door. “What—” His breath freezes in his throat.

“Hey there, Sourwolf.”

Stiles is standing on the front porch— Derek’s front porch— his right hand waved in a half wave.

“Stiles?” Derek almost takes a step back. “What are you— how?”

~

Two years after Derek runs from Beacon Hills, Stiles turns up at his front door looking for his own escape. What follows is a story of adventure, healing and finding a place to call home.

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The Heart Remains The Same by heartsdesire459 (T | 1/1 | 28,797)

When Stiles left for college, he already knew the truth... Stiles wasn't a 'he' at all. Dropped into a new, exciting, liberating level of freedom that came with going to college somewhere without anyone who knew her, Stiles began to explore her true self and began her quest to become the girl she knew she had always been. Her fears of everyone's reactions back home led to skipping the first holiday... and then a second. And then the next.

Two and a half years after leaving Beacon Hills - two and a half years spent living an entire new life as a trans!woman - a call in the night forces Stiles to go back to Beacon Hills to face the people she had left and the friends she had abandoned.

“Stiles… it’s your dad.”

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The Second Coming (of Werewolf Jesus) by lupinus, uraneia (E | 3/3 | 40,104)

Stiles was enjoying his senior year until his crazy English teacher decided he made the best candidate to gestate Derek's kid. Now Stiles is a seventeen-year-old pregnant dude and he and Derek have to figure their shit out, because in nine months they are going to be tied together for the rest of their lives.

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Burning House by 1jet2unknown, nottoolateforthegame (E | 15/15 | 41,007)

“Why am I here? What was the point of showing me all that? It’s not like it’s going to change anything!”

You can change it.

 “How?!”

 You can change it if you go back.

“Then take me back!”

Stiles’s stomach lurched as the world tilted and stretched sideways.

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Now as Ever (All That Is and Has Been) by venis_envy (E | 16/16 | 52,270)

Stiles can't remember what happened to rearrange the time-space continuum, or how he ended up being pulled into the past. All he knows is that he's there now, in 2003 Beacon Hills, with a teenage werewolf and a possibly-crazy veterinarian as his only allies.

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Words Cannot Espresso How Much You Bean to Me by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) (T | 1/1 | 68,368)

“You’re late,” Derek informed him coldly, jaw clenched. He barely even moved his mouth to speak. This guy was seriously scary.

And because Stiles was suicidal, he said, “No, I’m Stiles.”

The look he got could’ve curdled milk. Stiles even noticed that Derek’s muscles were tensing, arms bulging even more and wow this guy was scary and hot but mostly scary holy shit.

“You’re not funny,” Derek informed him coldly.

Stiles shrugged. “I think that’s a matter of opinion.”

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Daybreak by TheObsidianQuill (M | 10/10 | 70,382)

"There . . ." Stiles swallowed and looked down at the bottle in his grasp as he slowly swirled the amber liquid inside. "There's really nothing left. For me. Everyone is . . . gone, and it feels like I haven't thought of tomorrow in years." His words rang in the air like a gunshot, he took another heavy drink. "I would trade every last breath I take to just have another shot—not even a guarantee, just a chance to make things right and bring back even one of them." -----

The pack was gone. He had nothing left. He had no one. With nothing to lose, Stiles puts everything on the line to go back in time to try to prevent the future from becoming his past. Broken, guarded, and haunted by his past, only one overgrown-pup of a wolf seems able to get past his defenses. Changing the future? Easy. Finding a place for himself in the Hale Pack? Impossible.

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What Goes Around by KouriArashi (M | 16/16 | 71,451)

“Well,” Stiles says, “if they’re going to hunt werewolves, I’m going to hunt them.”

It’s a ridiculous statement from a ten-year-old, but he’s obviously one hundred percent sincere. For the first time since the fire, Peter feels life stir inside him, feels purpose. It’s kismet, clearly. He’ll never meet the child he would have had with Olivia. Instead he’s met this boy, this brilliant, determined, cynical child with a world of potential.

Peter kneels down in front of him so they’re at eye level. “How do you feel about doing that together?”

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The Law of the Jungle by Nutellargh (E | 1/1 | 75,854)

After the Kanima fiasco is over, Derek takes his three betas and leaves Beacon Hills. Stiles knows he could contact him if needed, but they barely keep in touch, and only about mundane things. 4 years later, after a steady stream of supernatural issues they somehow manage to deal with, Lydia is the one to contact Derek when Stiles starts looking worse and worse everyday, with no idea as to how or why. The Slavic monster draining Stiles' energy points them to a much bigger issue Beacon Hills has been troubled with for years.

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Windows by dr_girlfriend (E | 28/28 | 83,266)

Derek has a new neighbor who won't stop looking.

Excerpt:

“You’re blind,” Derek said flatly, the anger draining from him so suddenly he felt almost woozy. His vision cleared, his claws sliding back into blunt fingernails.

“Thanks for the memo, genius,” the kid said acidly. “I can still fucking defend myself, so don’t take another damn step.”

“Fuck, I...I’m sorry,” Derek stuttered.

“What?!” The kid’s brow crinkled. “I mean — what?! You’re fucking sorry!?” His lips thinned into a harsh line. “What, is this some kinda Hallmark movie where you’re discovering the error of your ways because you don’t want to rob a blind person?! That’s fucking condescending, man. I’ll have you know that —”

“Just, wait.” Derek interrupted what was apparently the start of a convincing argument as to why he should rob the kid after all, feeling his head start to spin. “This is — it’s a misunderstanding. I’m — I’m not robbing you. You’re — you’re safe, okay? I’m taking three steps back. Just — just let me explain.”

“Explain why you came busting into my apartment? Yeah, go right ahead, man, I can’t wait to hear this epic tale.”

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where thou art, that is home series by ShanaStoryteller (8 works | NR-E | 94,108)

Hi, Tin here. Once again, Tumblr is deciding not to allow me to post any of the individual stories and summaries here, so here's a very brief summary without me waxing poetic about the series:

This is a canon-divergent AU series that acts as a sort of "fix it" for the universe without sacrificing the things we know and love from canon (imo). It begins with Stiles (and Scott as his co-pilot) managing to prevent the Hale fire from taking out the whole of the Hale pack and then moves forward from there. Lots of BAMF!Everyone abound and interesting takes on existing tropes and canon elements. I urge you all to check it out.

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The Taming of the Wolf by Amethystina (T | 15/15 | 105,352)

When Stiles seeks shelter from the rain in a rundown house in the middle of the woods, the last thing he expects is to find that someone is actually living there. Even less that the person in question isn't quite human. Derek is something else entirely.

Before he knows it, Stiles is thrown into a world he knows very little about and while he enjoys the unlikely and complex relationship that sparks between them, it's obvious that something darker is lurking in the shadows. Something from Derek's past that is just waiting to tear them apart.

Chapters 13, 14 and 15 are bonus chapters, featuring the same story but from Derek's POV (a total of 40 700 words). This is basically two fics in one.

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Anthracite by LupusScintilla (inkandblade) (E | 16/16 | 106,673)

It's been a quiet few years, and the McCall Pack has grown and settled. But, when the Hale Pack return to Beacon Hills they find Scott isn't as welcoming as they had hoped.

Soon they, Stiles, and Lydia, find out that not everything about the McCall Pack is as it has always seemed.

♠

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All Bark and No Bite series by MoonlitMemories (3 works | NR-M | 157,246)

1. Protect and Serve (M | 17/17 | 150,789) Stiles discovers the Nemeton starting to grow again in the preserve on Hale land. What does that mean for the pack? More importantly: why does the Nemeton seem so attached to Stiles? 2. Baby makes Three (G | 1/1 | 3,202) Erica finds out she's pregnant. 3. One of Us (NR | 1/1 | 3,255) Malia doesn't know what to do with the Hale pack.

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Get You The Moon by A ClosedFicIsNeverRead (E | 30/30 | 180,785)

Derek looked up in surprise to note that they were taking a private jet. Dread settled into his gut like a stone. “It has a cage, doesn’t it?” he asked quietly, and noted the subtle changes in his family members’ posture. “Is it for me?” Cora gave him a pleading look and nodded. “Is it because of what you’re going to tell me?” he asked, voice like gravel. Another nod confirmed it. Stiles. Oh, GOD. It had to be Stiles. Derek would not lose control over anyone else in Beacon Hills and they damned well knew it.

- OR -

The one where Derek has been gone for 6 months building a new life, finds out that Stiles is being assaulted by Theo, so he comes back to Beacon Hills to kick some serious ass and rescue the loudmouthed human who stole his heart.

(You will need ALL the tissues, but it will have a happy ending by the time all is said and done!)

Title inspired by song: ‘Get You The Moon’ by Kina ft. Snow

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[dragonnan]

Gift art for @wolf-and-raven-dreaming

Mature

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: M/M

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Original Male Character(s)

Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Fanart, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Heavy Angst, Protective Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling Loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Loves Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless│Morpheus Needs a Hug, Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by the Wolf&Raven Fan Comic, Depression, Blood and Violence

Full image can be viewed at AO3. Please heed warnings (though nothing is graphic)

[take-it-on-the-run]

Bridge Over Troubled Water

Dean Winchester, Reaper!Reader

Dean Winchester didn't want to know what life was going to be like without his brother, and he didn't intend to learn

Word Count: 2.5k

Tags: Suicide attempt, angst, major character death, minor injury, typical cannon violence, angst with a happy ending

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reaper!Reader

Read it on AO3!

A/N: Simon & Garfunkel title. This has been stewing in my drafts since August, so I'm very happy I was able to finally finish it! This is set around season 5 (Dean is 30 and Sam is 26). PLEASE heed the warnings, and please don't read further if this story will make you uncomfortable. Unbeta'd and every single mistake is mine :)

Dean Winchester Masterlist | Supernatural Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Rain clung to a man as he peered over the rails of a bridge he couldn’t name. It was big enough to have a name, he was sure of that, but not big enough for people to be driving by at three in the morning.

His hands wrapped around the steel beams meant to keep cars from tipping over into the rushing waters below. They were cold to the touch, but he didn’t feel that. He could barely place one foot in front of the other, let alone feel anything besides the hollowed-out hole in his chest.

His car was parked just off the side of the road less than half a mile away, keys still in the ignition, lights blaring onto the tree trunks that ran on for as far as the eye could see. There was no one for miles, the only souls accompanying him in those moments being those of the rodents scattering into crooks and crannies to hide from the rain.

A heavy weight shifted in his pocket, nudging against his thigh, reminding him why he was standing alone in the rain. He couldn’t comprehend that in the morning, people would come looking for him, that he would be missed; that he would be mourned. He only knew the pain that was engulfing his very being, pushing him closer and closer to life’s edge.

He wanted to compare it to Hell, but he knew that in Hell he’d at least pay for what he’d done in the form of flames and pure, unimaginable agony, like he’d experienced all those years ago. Here, he could only wallow in the fact that he was alive, and the only person he’d give his life for wasn’t.

The first time he tried to pitch himself over the rails, his foot slipped and his head collided with the metal. Blood trickled down his forehead as he remained on the ground. Any other time, he’d be able to climb anything, anywhere; but now all he could hear was the sound of the river below calling for him.

Join me. It said, beckoning him to his feet once again.

Though he couldn’t see me, I was there watching him as he tried to will himself to take his own life. Standing a mere ten feet from him, leaning on the opposing set of rails, I watched as he clambered upright. In complete honesty, I didn’t know if he’d do it or not. I did, however, know that he wasn’t meant to be there. He was meant to pass in a horrible accident three weeks before at his own hands, leaving his brother the only survivor. His name was in my book, and I was meant to take him to the great hereafter, only to find him standing over his brother’s body.

The man didn’t know it, but his brother was there too, watching him on that bridge. He tried to get his brother to hear his pleas, but he couldn’t, so he turned to me.

He begged me and begged me to not let his brother take his life. This had happened many times since I started my life’s work, people trying to offer me their souls in place of a loved one’s, but my duties remained as they were. I’m a pathway to the afterlife. No more, no less. Never once had I prevented someone from dying, never once had someone slipped between my fingers, and never once had I stuck myself in Earthly affairs.

I leaned into the rails silently, letting the rain fall onto my bare skin. I could imagine how cold it was for him, shivering and bleeding as his world seemed to crumble.

His brother clung to my side, clawing and tearing at my skin as he wailed for me to let his brother live, that his soul should be enough for me to have.

I turned to him and looked into his widened eyes, and all I could do was wonder. Wonder why such a young man was content in his own death, and why he didn’t want his brother to die as he did.

“You Winchesters and your family bond. You know Samuel, there aren’t many people out there who aren’t pissed at the person who killed them.” I said as I acknowledged the youngest Winchester for the first time since he started our conversation.

“He didn’t-” Sam looked to his older brother, still oblivious to my presence, “-my death wasn’t his fault. You got your soul, now you can report back to your big boss and just leave Dean alone, please.”

I turned to him, ready to tell him that my kind didn’t deal in souls, but was interrupted when the click of a handgun made Sam and I turn our heads.

“Are you my reaper?” He asked, matter-of-factually, poorly aiming his pistol in my general direction. I took a step toward him, the rain beginning to fall more violently.

“We both know you’re smart enough than to try and use that on me, Dean,” I said, ignoring his question as I took more steps toward him.

“Answer-” Dean readjusted his slipping grip on the gun, eyes wearily trained at me. “-answer me.”

“I was your reaper, yes,” I answered, closing the distance between us, cool metal pressed against my chest.

His eyes were green and sunken; packed with tears, veins, and blood. His pupils darted around my face expectantly, begging me to do something, make his pain simply go away.

I felt a heavy pang in my chest, that hooked onto my heart and sunk to my feet.

I reached up to his face, gently cupping as I skimmed my fingers over untrimmed facial hair. He flinched as my hand made contact, probably expecting to get ripped from his body.

“Don’t be afraid, Dean. He’s safe.” I said gently. His eyes closed, and he leaned into my palm as he let out a heavy breath.

“He isn’t angry at you. You know, he practically begged me to come stop you.” I smiled, smoothing over the gash on his forehead. The deep cut disappeared as my fingers skimmed over it, offering him some relief.

“It’s not fair-” Dean choked out, coughing as the weather around us began to take its toll on his body. “-Sammy, he’s got a whole life ahead of him. College, a big lawyer job, a normal life. All I’ve got is hunting, and waiting to run into someone sharp enough to finally get me.”

His teeth chattered in his mouth, and the metal against my chest disappeared as he let his arms drop to his sides.

“Big talk coming from someone who’s barely thirty,” I said, watching as Dean pulled away from my hands, and returned to leaning on the rails.

“It’s the-” Dean starts.

“-the life, yes. So I’ve heard from a great number of hunters.” I finished his thought as I joined him on the rails. “Why is it that all of you think your lifespans are so short? Hunters back in, I don’t know,” I wave my hand as I’m trying to come up with the words, “the seventeen hundreds still lived longer than a lot your folk do nowadays.”

He creased his eyebrows, his eyes flickering over my face.

“All I’m saying,” I take a long look at the sun starting to crawl its way over the horizon, “is that ‘the life’ doesn’t have to be your life, Dean. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but you don’t have to die in some horrific fight that finally puts you down. Hunters have died of old age, you know.”

He looked at me, the freckles on his face more visible now that the rain was calming down, “but Sammy… he deserved his happy ending more than I ever will. He got out. Got a full-ride scholarship to freakin’ Stanford. Had a girl. I didn’t even have the guts to tell him how proud I was. I’d stand outside his dorm room for hours, trying to figure out a way to come see him without Dad, or without him hating me. I shouldn’t have dragged him back into this, and now he’s dead. In my place.”

“It’s the natural order of things, Dean. If not him, then you, and if not you, then some other person had to die that day.”

“But it didn’t have to be Sam. I would’ve gone just the same way as he did, but at least he’d have something dragging him forward, to move on.” He looked at me again with those tired eyes, letting out a sharp breath as his hands clung to the railing again, leaning his torso off halfway.

“Dean,” I said cautiously, watching his knuckles turn white as his heart quickened and eyes shut, “Dean.”

His feet were moving fast, and in one swift moment, he was off the bridge. His body flung over almost effortlessly and catapulted him down to the rocky waters below.

I turned away, expecting him to appear next to me in a moment, but his voice rose through the air instead.

“What…?”

I looked over the railing, only to see Sam was holding his forearms, holding him from his forearms before he could drop.

I turned to the younger Winchester brother, who was solely focused on trying to save his brother’s life, his spectral hands losing their grip the longer he held on.

“Dean, hold on, please. Please, man, just hold on. Don’t give up on me.”

Dean’s head snapped up, looking straight at his brother.

“Sammy?” Dean choked out, his legs starting to kick frantically as if he were trying to walk on air.

“Help me, help me get him up. Please.” Sam turned to me, struggling to hold onto his brother.

I blinked and I was beside him, yanking up on an almost-limp Dean, and throwing him onto the road of the bridge.

Dean lay on the ground, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Sam knelt beside him, his eyes filled with remorse.

“I didn’t want to give up on you, Sammy,” Dean whispered, his voice barely audible over the gentle rustle of the damp morning breeze.

Sam’s heart clenched at the sound of his brother’s voice, filled with a mixture of pain and regret. “I know, Dean,” he replied, his voice choked with emotion. “It’s not your fault. You never gave up on me. You took all of dad’s crap, and I mean all of it. The yelling. The hunting. The abuse.”

Dean looked at his brother before he went still, not saying a word as he clutched his chest with pale blue hands. His breaths grew shallower, his body beginning to tremble from the exertion and the cold rain that drenched him throughout the night. Sam glanced around frantically, feeling helpless in the face of his brother’s suffering.

“He needs help. Help him,” Sam said, his voice urgent as he looked up at me, desperation clear in his eyes.

I nodded, my heart heavy with the weight of the situation. “I’ll do what I can,” I replied, my voice solemn. “But I can’t interfere with the natural order of things.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged in defeat, but he refused to give up. “There has to be something you can do,” he pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion. “Please, just help him.”

I hesitated, the pull that the Winchester seemed to have with the universe was something even Death couldn’t withstand; but who was I to interfere? As I looked down at Dean, lying battered and broken on the ground, I could hear the cracking of his ribs drowning out my thoughts.

With a heavy sigh, I knelt beside Sam and Dean, moving Dean’s hands away from his chest with little force. “I’ll do what I can,” I said, my voice softer.

I laid my hands on Dean’s chest, warmth spread through his body, chasing away the chill of the rain and easing his pain. His breaths grew steadier, his trembling subsiding as color started returning to his hands.

Sam looked on in awe, tears welling in his eyes as he watched his brother’s condition improve before his very eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice filled with gratitude.

I nodded, a small smile touching my lips. “Take care of him,” Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper, and I nodded. “He’s gotta lot of fight left in him, and someone has to keep him up and running.”

I chuckled, moving to the side of Sam as I waited for him to pull away from Dean. The two of them sat there in perfect silence, staring into the blankness in front of them. I could barely hear Dean’s breath through the wind that curved between the air around us.

“I have to go, Dean,” Sam said, turning to face them as they both sat on the edge of the empty road.

“I can’t do this without you Sammy, I don’t want to,” Dean said, catching stray tears with the back of his hand. He took his brother into a firm hug; it was as if he was holding him to Earth, and to life itself.

“I love you so much,” Sam said as he rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, Dean taking in a shuddered breath. Sam slowly pulled away from him, and stood beside me, trying his best to smile, “bye, Dean.”

Dean looked up at his brother, nose red and raw from the tears that coated his face, hiccuping as he failed to drown his emotions with a weak smile, not saying a word. He scooted away from the road, sitting himself up against the rails as he watched me and Sam walk down the bridge, and out of view.

I can’t say that I forgot that day, especially when I was called again for Dean. He lay on a hospital bed, his once dirty blonde hair replaced with silver tufts, complemented by wrinkles brought on from years of stories to tell, and different kinds of scars in new places.

He looked just as he did that day on the bridge when he came to stand by me, watching the woman beside him, hair just as gray as his, holding onto his hand. An anti-possession tattoo peaked out from under her long sleeve as she reached over to plant a kiss on his forehead, watching as his heart monitor ran flat. After a few moments of silence, nurses came into the room, looking over Dean’s body as the woman shuffled out of the room and walked through Dean and me with a shudder.

“Hello, Dean,” I said, smiling gently, preparing to lead him out of the room when there was a laugh from behind us. Two hands were placed firmly around Dean before I could realize who it was.

“You ready? We’ve got a lot to catch up on, you know.” Sam said as he pulled away from his brother, the both of them smiling like I’d never seen before.

[miller-lookforthe-lite]

steps: part two

joel miller x f!reader

rating: M

words: 7k

tags/warnings: unplanned/(unwanted?) pregnancy, thoughts and discussion of abortion, UNSOUND MEDICAL PRACTICE/ADVICE, description of injury, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, not proofread i'm literally so sorry - please heed the warnings, as these may be triggering to some! MDNI

part one | read on ao3

There are no doctors in Kansas City. There’s nothing left of the QZ, in fact, besides a group of raging militants who have taken over and are hunting for the very two boys you happen upon. Henry and Sam don’t have much, but they have a relentless ambition, and Joel must see that as reason enough to go with them.

As you journey through the tunnels underneath the city, you get sicker. It’s clear to you now that this is not some nightmare you can wish away, not like one of your silent demons. This is real, and here, and now, and if you’re not pregnant, you’re dying. You’re not sure which would be worse.

Ellie finds out while she’s kicking a soccer ball with Sam, because Joel lowers his head to inquire to Henry about a pregnancy test and is a lot less fucking quiet than he ought to be.

Her head snaps towards them and you scowl at Joel, burning his entrails with your eyes, picturing his slow demise, then feeling even more sick at the prospect, taking it back, praying the Deity didn’t hear you think it so it won’t come true.

“What the fuck?” Ellie exclaims, her head whipping to you. “You —” Her head swings back to Joel almost cartoonishly. “And you? I thought — ew, gross, but holy shit — I thought Tess —”

“Ellie,” you warn quickly, trying to jump ahead of Joel’s ire, because that definitely also happened and you know he’ll never tell you why or why you happened after.

“Enough,” Joel snaps, and the room hangs still. Even Sam, though no one has bothered to bring him up to speed, can tell that the tension simmers low, and he abandons the soccer ball in favor of curling up by the far wall.

Joel turns back to Henry. “You know where I could find one or not?”

Henry shrugs. “All kinds of shit stashed in here, man. Take a look.”

Ellie’s gaze is burning into your skin, but when you turn to look at her, you only see a quiet understanding in her eyes, a Knowing too old to live in a body so young. She plops down in the seat next to you while Joel and Henry are off rummaging through the bins on the far side of the bunker, and her huff troubles a strand of her hair. You reach forward to tuck it out of her face. Her mouth is set into a grim line.

“Is that why you’ve been sick?” She murmurs, her voice betraying her fear.

Your heart clenches. You didn’t want her to have to feel the way that you were feeling. She shouldn’t have to shoulder it, shoulder you, but you don’t know how else to be with her but truthful. Her face so open, so honest, begs nothing less in return.

“Yeah,” you say, and she reaches out to grab your hand. You blink back sudden tears that choke your throat and crowd your lashes.

“It’ll get better then,” Ellie says, knee bouncing. “The sickness. I heard that it gets better after a while. And you won’t have to yack every time we think about cooking beans. So that’s a plus.”

You can’t help but smile, still feeling hot and slippery with shame, but hope shines through, minuscule and persistent. “I hope so,” you whisper.

—

When you leave the motel, Ellie’s the one to lead the charge. You follow her, leaving Joel gazing down at the graves he just dug. Henry and Sam are under those piles of dirt, and you can’t help but think that it’s some kind of curse that surrounds you, the same deadly spirit that befell Tess.

Ellie thinks it’s her fault, a strangled confession pulled out of her that she knew Sam had been bitten but tried to save him. You know that feeling, know the despair it leaves behind, but you’re not quite sure how to reach the place she’s gone to.

A plastic-wrapped stick sits in your pocket, has for days, but you’re too scared to do more than make sure it’s there, palming reassurance. Henry had slipped it to you before he died, not saying a word, but there was kindness in his gaze. There was a care you didn’t know people still had for other strangers. Your heart aches.

Along the road, it’s been hard to find food. Joel had shoved what he could from the bunker into his bag, but there wasn’t much in the way of nonperishables - the Kansas City militants had already taken care of that. He let you have the last of the crackers, but you can’t help the pangs of hunger that wrack through you late at night, curled up in a ball on the ground, your back to some tree or to him or to Ellie, one of them always wrapped around you, always watching. You can’t help the dread that follows either, that you swallow like the air that feeds you these days.

Joel feels it too. You know he does, but he’s better at hiding it. He’s acting strange lately — delicate — not something you’ve ever known him to be. He guards you when you’re sleeping, but can hardly look at you in the daylight. Where he’s started to let his eyes wrinkle at Ellie’s teasing jibes or stupid puns, he slams his lid shut when you deign to speak your piece. He offers you a hand to help you over a ridge, and always, always throws an arm in front of you when he thinks something sinister lies ahead, but then swiftly pulls away like the boil of your blood burns him too.

After six days have passed, you go behind a tree and pee on the stick. It’s not hard. All you fucking do is piss these days. What is hard is remembering the hands that touched the test before you - a dead man’s fingers before they pulled a trigger twice, him and another child. Is that the price you pay? One child’s life for another? What kind of sign is that — what kind of life is this? What kind of world to bring a baby into?

Two lines glare back at you. You muffle your sob into the heel of your hand.

—

Your teeth are clattering against each other, your violent shivering overtaking any autonomy you once had over your limbs.

You’ve set up camp underneath a rock overhang, and your breath comes out in puffs. Ellie’s pressed as close to you as she can get between the layers of your coats, the extra flannel that Joel had wrapped around her hanging loosely off her puffy-coated shoulders.

You’re in Nebraska, as far as you can tell, wide open plains stretching as far as you can see, the foothills offering little respite from the biting prairie wind, but you take what you can get under the boulder’s meager shelter.

Joel hasn’t stopped moving since you decided to set up here; he’s tearing up jerky pieces, distributing them to you and Ellie and only pushing one between his lips when you glare, he’s coiling some rope, he’s pushing a tarp under some stones to provide some cover from the ceaseless wind. You wish you could bring yourself to get up and help, but you don’t know how much help you’d be, not with the illness still permeating your veins, your trembling uncontrollable.

When Ellie figures out that she can’t fix it no matter how she lends her heat to you, she speaks up where you couldn’t.

“We need a fire,” she wheezes to Joel, eyes flicking to you even though she tries to hide it.

He sniffs, doesn’t look up from his tarp-maneuvering. “It’d blow out,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

Your desperation pushes you to chime in. “We could at least try. Under the tarp, or maybe the rock would shield it enough —”

“It won’t,” Joel snaps, and he still won’t look at you. He clearly intended to stymie your words, but now that you’ve started, you can’t stop.

You get up from your spot next to Ellie and wrap her firmly in the blanket from your pack. You stumble on shaky legs over to where Joel continues to fiddle, continues to fuss. “Let me just fucking try, Joel, we’re freezing, we can’t—”

You reach for the flint that you know is in the bag he holds. Your gloved hand brushes his, layers of cloth and unspoken and Too Spoken between you, and still he pulls away like he’s been burned. You freeze, watching him quickly shift to a different task, turning his collar further up against the wind.

“Fine,” he mutters.

You don’t know why it hurts so much to curl up next to the fire that night.

—

When you stop to make camp a few nights later, you decide you’ve had enough of this, this awkwardness and separation that your revelation had caused you. After Ellie’s been asleep for an hour, her soft breaths quiet in the dark, you push Joel behind a tree before he can protest, grab his face with your hands and pull his mouth to yours before he can remember that you haven’t spoken, haven’t talked about it, have only worried in silence. He grunts, the sound vibrating pleasantly against you, before pulling back, only a little, the slightest breath of distance. His eyes are locked on yours, so close that you can’t see straight, can only see brown brown brown, can only drown in it.

“I don’t…” he says softly, one hand on your wrist and the grabbing for your waist, turning you, pushing your back into the rough bark, but so gently, so gently it prickles and scrapes and wounds.

“Why not?” You say like you haven’t noticed how he’s been treating you differently, like he doesn’t know what to say to you, like you aren’t the same person you’ve always been before all of this. Like you aren’t praying praying praying that he won’t make you beg.

(He doesn’t.)

—

It’s dusk when you stumble upon a still-smoking pile of ash, the crisp wind spiraling it up to the conifer fronds above, dancing its warning like a specter. It makes Joel stop in his tracks. His shoulders, ever broad and imposing, are tense.

He spins on his heel and almost knocks right into Ellie, who trails mindlessly behind him.

“Dude!” She protests.

“We’re goin’,” he hisses under his breath, grabbing onto the handle of her backpack to drag her along with him.

You have to pick up your pace to keep stride with him, bounding through the trees. “Joel—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, releasing Ellie’s bag. She remains next to him without issue or question. “We gotta circle back to the road. Ain’t safe if there’s more people out here.”

“The road?” Your skin is warm, your breath coming short, but you keep your voice quiet as his, startled to stir the crunching leaves beneath your tired boots. “Joel, we got off the road ‘cause there were people —”

“I know why we got off the road.” His countenance is fierce, his resolve steely, but he still won’t look at you.

“It’s safer with the cover,” you insist behind him, a furious ire bubbling in the back of your throat. “Here we can — we can —” You’re gasping for air now, and Ellie notices, her steps faltering. She tugs on Joel’s jacket, wordlessly. You have to stop and brace your palm on the rough bark of the oak that shelters you, your vision narrowing to a tunnel of blurred, black edges and brown sodden ground.

You don’t know how he got there, but he appears in front of you, one hand gripping your bicep and the other pulling your own hand to his heart.

“Breathe,” he commands softly, and you try, you really do, but you know he sees the truth of it.

You’re fading, ability dulling quicker than an overused knife, and you can feel the panic crest in your mind, the sting of liability pricking at your consciousness.

“Sorry,” you struggle to say. He just takes an enormous breath, the cavern of his lungs expanding and exhaling underneath your hand. You follow the mountain of it, the in and the out and up and down, and it makes it a little easier to see again.

You drag your eyes up to meet his, shame and exhaustion omnipresent parents in your expression. He looks blown wide open, sad, maybe worried, but mostly so, so certain.

His grip on you tightens. “Let’s stay in the woods,” he whispers his acquiescence. You feel no kind of victory. You want him to argue with you, not the dark circles printed onto the skin under your eyes. That can’t be all you are now.

Joel tenses suddenly, eyes flicking from you up to the edge of the tree line. You think he’s about to grab you and Ellie and run when you hear a muffled shriek from behind him, his broad form blocking your sight. He whips around to reveal two women, one with golden-red hair and one with a knife to Ellie’s throat. Ellie struggles and swears and writhes. You freeze.

The golden-red-haired woman has a revolver pointed at the two of you. You can’t see Joel’s face, but you know that he’s furious. You almost hope it’s with you, hope it’s because you caused him to turn his back, to lose his focus. You want him to feel the way you feel.

“Quit it,” hisses the taller woman that has a hold on Ellie, like she’s speaking to an incessant fly rather than a young girl at her mercy.

“Let her go,” Joel says lowly, calmly. There’s no questioning a tone like that. “Then you and I can talk like adults.”

“We don’t want trouble,” the golden-red-haired woman responds smoothly, her fist around the revolver begging argument. “Just hungry. Just lookin’ for food.”

You don’t even think about whether you should, whether Joel has a plan. You keep your eyes on Ellie as she continues to squirm. She’s afraid, but maybe not as much as she should be. Her confidence in you crushes you. You dart forward to Joel’s bag, unzip it from where it rests on his back. You pull out the measly offerings - two more pieces of jerky wrapped in flaking paper. An old health bar. Some roasted acorns you had made that taste like bitter ash. You throw the food at their feet. Joel doesn’t stop you.

The woman holding Ellie narrows her eyes. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you plead. “You can check.”

You shoulder off your own, lighter pack and toss it to them. Joel glares at you, his fingers clearly itching towards his own gun tucked in the back of his pants, but you glare right back. Not with Ellie’s throat under a blade, you try to tell him with your fear.

The golden-red-haired woman bends down slowly to rummage through your bag, revolver still pointed your way. Joel shifts his weight while the woman looks down and she cocks the gun without even looking up, clicking her tongue in admonishment. Once she deems your supplies as paltry as you had claimed, she stands up, kicking the bag over, and slipping your meager offerings into her pockets. “Fine. Elaine, let her go.”

Elaine’s eyes flash like she’s considering an argument, and you try to calculate the distance from your hand to Joel’s gun, from the bullet to the spot between Elaine’s eyes, and the speed her lithe wrist would need to flick the knife across Ellie’s life.

Your action is decided for you when Elaine relents, shoving Ellie out of her grasp and forward to the forest floor. You’re there to catch her in your arms, her gangly limbs knocking painfully against yours, her furious demeanor tempered by your trembling.

You pull her back with you towards Joel, scrambling on the ground, and look up to see he’s drawn his gun. “Get movin’, then.” He bares his teeth at them.

Elaine moves to back away, but the other woman hesitates. Elaine nudges her shoulder with her own and hisses. “Madison.”

Madison looks between you and Joel as he helps you and Ellie up like she’s trying to decide something. Ellie seethes with derision and you have to clutch her to keep her from springing back towards her captors, this time on the attack. She only settles when she realizes she can’t lash out without hurting you, her fury still spitting but her face turning into your collarbone, probably more for your sake than her own. You rest your palm on her head. Joel’s got his free arm wrapped around you, too, sandwiching you and Ellie tight to his side.

Madison seems to decide and opens her mouth. “You know the way to Jackson?”

Elaine halts her retreat, brows furrowed and eyes clenched.

Joel holds his gun steady. “Get out of here.”

Madison continues to speak like she didn’t hear him. “Settlement out in Wyoming. My brother was headed there with an old army buddy. Heard they take people —”

She cuts off at the click of Joel’s safety. His finger rests on the trigger. He doesn’t say another word, just bores into her with eyes of molten lead.

Madison nods, and before you can blink, she and Elaine are gone. You’d almost believed you’d dreamed them up if your stomach didn’t turn at the thought of your reserves, now depleted.

Joel doesn’t let either of you move for a good ten minutes, his gun still raised and his arm still around you both. Ellie’s breathing has evened out and she turns her head up to look at you. You run a hand through her ponytail. “Okay?” You whisper. She nods, lips in a hard line.

You let her burrow herself back into you and look up at Joel. His thoughts race too fast to hide from his expression, and when he finally lowers the gun, he steps forward to grab your pack and swing it over his own shoulder.

His jaw grinds itself to dust as he stares at the ground, and it occurs to you what he might be agonizing over.

“Army buddy in Wyoming? Joel—” Your breath catches before you can really ask him. He looks up at you with hardened eyes and nods.

You let out a shuddering exhale, still rocking, rocking Ellie in your hold. The word rolls acidic off your tongue. “Jackson.”

—

It’s Jackson you’re headed for when the first shots ring out. You’re following the faded lines of a dusty map, hoping for the best. It’s brought you to a small town, several wooden buildings lining what must have once been a comfortable main road.

It’s not even that your guard is down, either — Joel had been antsier than ever after the run in with the women, especially since Ellie’s life had been on the line. She grumbles against his insistence, but you think she’s secretly appreciative of this mangled care, this devotion that no one before has extended to her.

They still get the jump on you, though, because they’re trying to get the jump on someone else. You glean somewhere during the shootout that it’s two opposing groups, both vying for the others’ resources. One had been holed up in the last building in town, the last one Joel had to clear before giving the signal. The other had been over the hill, peering down, waiting for their moment to ambush. They had thought Joel, ransacking and searching, was their target. It probably hadn’t mattered that he wasn’t.

You hear the shots before you know any of this, before you see anything that happens, so you follow protocol and grab Ellie and duck down behind a crumbling outpost, pushing her head under your cover. You peek over to see a torrent of people flooding out of that last building, the one Joel had been headed towards. Their guns are pointed away from you, up towards the peek where the last shot echoed from. Their shouts are incoherent, and your eyes search frantically for Joel. There’s no sign of him by the building, but there is a blooming red scar on the ground where he had been standing.

You feel a hand on your shoulder and spin around, knife raised high. It’s Ellie who stops you, grabbing around your middle, and swearing under her breath when she sees who’s startled you.

Joel’s managed to sneak around the back of the houses towards you, clutching his arm to his chest. Blood pours from between his fingers. His jaw is set as solidly as stone, and he jerks his head back towards the foothill you came from. He wants you to sneak back unseen, you’re sure, but you can’t focus on anything but the red viscous that flows from him, the life force, the cellular beat, and you feel it in you, too, you have that same blood growing in you, in your body, in your stomach, eating you alive to keep itself growing —

You reach your hand towards him, and he jerks back. All you can see is your hand, frozen in the air. He and Ellie must exchange words, something, but you don’t hear, the pounding of your eardrums too raucous, the rushing of your own tremulous blood overwhelming. He turns and crouches in on himself, hunched in pain or stealth, you don’t know. He runs on sure and quiet feet back towards the trees. Ellie only goes when you start behind him, like she’s not sure you can be trusted to follow.

—

You make it about half a mile up the side of the mountain before Joel’s using the trees to keep himself upright, the heft of him only supported by the roots at your feet. It’s Ellie who ends up stopping him and sitting him down, back against a bristled trunk. You waste no time falling to your knees beside him, whipping off your pack. Your hands shake as you riffle through it for the tweezers, for bandages, for anything that might help him. If only he still carried around oxy.

You pull out a small glass bottle of amber, stomach-churning liquid. Joel finds it in himself to shoot a judgmental glance your way, before his eyes are rolling back in pain. He keeps his arm clutched to his side.

“What?” You hiss. “It’s not like I can drink it anymore, of course I still have some.”

You flip the cap off as quickly as you can and pry his good arm away from the wound. It’s still bleeding profusely, an ugly, obscured fissure in the perfect planet of his skin. He makes a high sound in the back of his throat when you pour the moonshine over the wound, but his lips stay pressed tight together. When you’ve got it as clean as you can manage, you grab the tweezers. You can see the metal still buried in his flesh plain as day. You’ll have to get it out.

“Can I help?” Ellie flutters anxiously at your side, her hands lifting and retracting with directionless adrenaline.

You nod towards your bag. “Grab the bandages, then cut them into three strips for me.”

She doesn’t waste any time, and you turn back to Joel.

His skin is sallow, and sweat crusts his brow. You reach up to wipe some away with your thumb and his eyes flutter. “I’m gonna take it out.”

He nods, breathing heavily, expression unreadable. “I know.”

You search his eyes for any kind of direction, anything that would help him that he’s too reticent to admit. When you find nothing but grim determination, you grab the strap of your pack and offer it up to his mouth. He understands, and takes it gingerly between his teeth.

Your hands won’t stop shaking as you level the tweezers with the hole in his arm, so you balance your forearm across his chest. His great, heaving breaths push you up and down. You place the two tapered points of the tweezers as best you can on either side of the bullet, having to dig through some flesh. Joel keens under you. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, over and over, a mantra that pulls you forward into the next several minutes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

It takes several attempts, and probably a whole lot more damaged surface area than appropriate knowledge would have allowed, but you’re able to finally wiggle the bullet out of its warm home. The silver pelts to the ground and bits of Joel’s muscle, along with a whole torrent of blood, flow from the pulsing circle. Ellie’s there with the bandages and you throw your whole body weight into pressing them against his arm. His eyes roll into the back of his head, you think he might be shrieking through the fabric at his teeth. “Just have to stop the bleeding,” you tell Ellie, or Joel, or maybe the wind. “It’s okay. It’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

Eventually, it does, or at least it slows. You remove the soiled, rust-colored fabric from Joel’s arm and wrap it up with the remaining bandages, but not before pouring more of the alcohol on it. He sobs, eyes squeezed shut, and Ellie clutches on to his uninjured shoulder, her eyes wild with fear.

“No sepsis, Ellie, that’s why,” you pant, breaking off another portion of the bandages with your teeth to secure it. His breathing calms when he seems to notice Ellie pressed up against him, her trembling fingers pulling the fabric from his mouth and pressing her face to his chest. His good hand holds her to him, clinging with a strength you’re relieved to see remains.

You go to wipe your filthy hands on the grass when you notice a spare bit of Joel’s gore on your thumb. You crawl as far away from Joel and Ellie as you can manage before spilling everything in you onto the bushes. You dry heave long after your stomach is empty.

—

You lie awake several nights later. Your back throbs against the unforgiving forest floor, your blanket wrapped around the top of you instead of padding the ground. Ellie snores softly on your right side, the tender puff of her breath singing through the frosty air. You wish you didn’t begrudge her the rest, a better person wouldn’t, but no matter how tired you get you can never seem to quiet the racing of your mind when the sun goes down.

You turn onto your side to see Joel lying next to you, flat on his back, eyes wide open towards the night sky above. He looks almost comical, bundled up to his throat and arm crossed across himself in an awkward approximation of healing. He spares you a brief glance, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing before he turns his gaze back to the branches that bow above you. He’s keeping watch best he can, but his injured arm is still in a sling, which means he can’t wield the rifle properly. He’s to wake you or Ellie if anything happens. You all know you’ll probably wake in the morning curled together like a three-pod cocoon, the greater threat to your person the chill of the wilderness.

You see your breath crystalize in front of you, even in the dull silver light of the moon, but you can’t see most of his face. He turns it from you, shrouded in shadow, like he does the rest of himself. You never know what he feels, never know where you stand. He had said he didn’t blame you, but it’s hard to believe him when he clearly harbors some kind of sorrow.

You don’t know if its the faux anonymity of the dark that gives you the courage or the delirium that your baby secretes into your bloodstream, but you almost feel inspired to ask him. Instead, you open your mouth and stick your whole entire foot into its waiting orifice.

“What did you think about abortions? Before the outbreak?”

The harsh of your whispering disturbs the tranquil blanket of night. He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. His eyes don’t even shift to indicate he’s thinking about it.

“Because,” you rush to cover your clumsy footsteps, “you were from Texas. Everyone always said — I mean, I’m sure there were people everywhere that—”

“I don’t know.” He saves you from yourself, his cool, clean baritone soothing your spiked and frayed nerves. The baby pounds its fists against your insides braying like it had heard the word you uttered. You feel sick.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No,” Joel continues, turning his head to look at you. “I mean, I don’t know because I don’t think I paid enough attention to that kind of thing. Sarah’s mom never even — considered — so I didn’t — ” His voice catches in his throat and he looks away.

You knew about Sarah, but not from him. Tess had whispered to you one putrid Boston night about his past, about Texas, about a daughter that hadn’t made it, which she only knew about from Tommy, but you’d never heard him say her name. You feel the scorching lick of shame about your heart, not having even considered what your current state would mean to him. One child, stripped away so cruelly from him, and here you were implying you’d thought about doing the same to another, but then again — maybe that’s what he’d want. To nip it in the bud, to end the pain before it could start.

You take a shuddering, bracing breath, but your voice still comes out meeker than you wish it would. “My sister told me about it. She said there was a place you could go in the QZ, some woman in the Fireflies. I don’t know how,” you admit, “but I kind of wish I did.”

“No,” he snaps, and you shrivel. “It never works out, especially not now. It would just kill you.”

You acquiesce. It makes sense. It seems too good to be true, a relic of medicinally sound days-gone-by.

“Sorry,” you say again, at a loss for anything more.

“Will you quit?” He huffs, and he surprises you, reaching out his good hand to latch onto yours. “Enough apologizin’.”

You can’t stop yourself from pulling his gloved palm even closer to you, into your chest, curling around it like you’re supposed to want to curl around this thing inside you, this parasite that eats away at you, this child you’ll evict from its warm, safe home, whether you want to or not.

He notices your reticence, turns on his side to face you, to coax your bile out of you.

“I feel sorry, though,” you whisper, blinking furiously, finding it hard to look right at him. “I don’t want it. I think I hate it, and I ought to feel sorry for that, right? That’s so awful, Joel. I’m so awful. But I’m so — I can’t —”

You shudder, and it’s like turning off. The tears you felt like crying halt their rise to the surface, and your breath slows. The blade of the hurt dulls, pricking instead of slicing, fading. It’s hard to hear him when he responds, hard to feel the gruff hand he lifts to cradle the back of your head. It only comes back into focus when he insists.

“Hey, listen to me.” He shakes you a bit, and with Herculean effort, you lift your heavy eyes to meet his. His expression is intense, pinched, and so, so beautiful.

“You’re not wrong, you’re not bad. I know this is hard. I know,” he shakes you again when your eyes start to glaze.

“Joel,” you breathe.

“Listen,” he says, fingertips pushing into the firm of your scalp, and you notice faintly that he’s abandoned his sling, that he’s pushed his pain aside to reach for you. “You’re doing better than you think you are. I see it, I see you fightin’. You’re not failing, darlin’. Not on my watch.”

You feel yourself nodding, not knowing where the internal command came from. “I know, Joel.” How do you tell him? How can he not understand that you trust him, just not yourself and your rotten, black heart?

He exhales harshly, searching your eyes for doubt, for something other than this flatness you feel settling over you. He gives in when he can’t find it, but his hand keeps rubbing your head, and you lean into it, relishing in the prick of his calluses. “Okay,” he says, then closes his mouth, opens it, shuts it again. His indecision pulls you back to the forest, back into the body you now share with another.

“What?” You venture, and his eyes alight, enthused to have found you in there.

“You ever been to Texas?” He says quickly, and he doesn’t blurt things, but maybe he did just then.

A startled laugh escapes your lips. The world shifts into focus, and the world is just his eyes, boring into yours. “Probably not. I don’t think we travelled much before the outbreak. Boston’s all I remember, besides a few summers in Maine.”

He lets out a low whistle, eyes flicking over to Ellie to make sure his sound hasn’t bothered her. She remains still, burrowed in the confines of her dreams. “Pretty different from Texas, then,” he says, and you laugh again, realer this time, easier.

“Colder,” you agree, “Even in the summer. We always had to bundle up next to the coast, even in July.”

“Nice though?” He prods into your memory with an iron poke, trying to keep you awake, keep you alive. Guide you ashore. The granite slopes wade into your mind, crashing waves and evergreen needles, a creaking Cape and damp, mossy mornings.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Really nice. Pretty quiet. Not many people, mostly just the deer and the gulls.”

His eyes flash, some emotion you can’t name, but it feels like it fits in the still blanket of space between you. “Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad place for a baby.”

You think of a child, toddling through the sand, tossing rocks into the water at your ankles. You think of a quiet life in a cove town, small but big enough for the three of you. You think of scribbled drawings on an antique fridge, of fatherly pride and big hands sweeping up a little girl, throwing her over his shoulder. Her lovely laugh peeling through the dunes.

You can’t help but smile. “Maybe you could have built us a cabin or something.”

He grins then, a real, full smile lighting up the planes of his face. You want to reach out and stamp it into your skin, hold this moment, suspend it in simplicity. “Big order for that. Think the invoice would be pretty intense. You plannin’ on compensating the vendors properly?”

You snort, curling his still-captured hand under your chin. “What, the baby’s not enough? Plus, your memory’s shot. Rural real estate isn’t anywhere near expensive as those city slickers liked to run you for.”

“I guess a nine month gestation is payment enough,” he says, and you feign to smack him, beaming.

“Three beds, three baths,” you continue. “One for us, one for the baby, one for visitors.”

He sucks in through his teeth. “Steeper and steeper, these costs. And it’s oceanfront, too?”

“Balsam fir,” you babble, the picture forming so seamlessly in your mind. “So it always smells clean. High ceilings — and a skylight! So we can still see the stars.”

Joel’s nodding, eyes shining. “Okay, okay, you’re right. Whatever you want. I owe ‘ya that much.”

Your heart skips a beat. You feel a giant spark smolder in your chest, so you tuck yourself into Joel’s side to share it with him. He carefully folds you into himself, stretching around the subtle curve of your abdomen that’s recently manifested.

Something unnamable pulses through you, through the bump, over to him. Before you drift off, you convince yourself you might have seen it in his eyes, too.

—

One stormy night in Boston, you’re helping Tess pack a couple of bags. The thunder cracks and you shiver, mind wandering to Katie, to where she might be sleeping that night, if she’s wet, if she’s cold. Tess hasn’t said much to you, her mind on her next move, her next haul; she’s particularly preoccupied with Joel’s absence, you think, but you don’t say anything. When her grim determination sets the precedent, there’s no getting around it. You wouldn’t want to pry, anyways.

She’s the one to finally break the silence. “He say anything to you before he left?”

You had been here at their place earlier in the day, while Joel was packing up to leave. He hadn’t said a word, had just brushed by you on his way out, your shoulder buzzing from the brief contact.

You shake your head. “No, I don’t even know where he was going.”

Tess hums, eyes flitting from the door to the radio against the wall. “Well, whatever. We can’t wait around all night. You hungry?”

Your stomach gurgles in response, carving deeper into the hollow pit of your abdomen. “Yeah,” you say, like there was ever any other answer.

Tess heats up the green beans with ham you had brought that day from your shift at the pantry. The corner of the can is dented, which is why no one cared that it had gone missing, but Katie had started rejecting the dented ones recently, saying botulism was a silent killer the Fireflies couldn’t afford to barter with. Your palms sweat. You’ve eaten so many like that, it’s probably fine. But what if this was the time it wasn’t? What if Tess ingests your poison and you’re the thing that kills her, after all she’s been through?

She doesn’t seem to care, dumping portions into two bowls and leaving the rest in the beat up tin pot on the stove. You both slurp in silence, letting the wash of sodium rush over your gums. You should have thought to add pepper, but getting up again feels too much like an inconvenience, and maybe a slight on Tess’s preparation.

You’re both jolted from complacency when Joel bangs through the front door, throwing it shut behind him and shouldering into the nearby bathroom before either of you can stand up.

“Joel?” Tess calls warily.

A moment of silence, then he responds. “Just a minute.” His voice is strained, slightly raspier than usual.

Tess immediately knows something is wrong, and you know because of the look on her face. “Fuck,” she mutters, and pitches towards the cabinets underneath the sink. She tosses you a couple of rags. “Will you go hand these to him, or get him to sit the fuck down? Where’s the disinfectant?” She starts muttering under her breath while she rummages around and you stand there uselessly, rags flowing limp between your fingers.

“Will you relax?” huffs Joel, emerging from the bathroom and moving stiffly to the kitchen table. You can’t help but gape at his complexion marred with bruising, the ugly discoloration above his eyebrow and around his jaw swelling to a reddened burst. Blood drips down his nose, around the contour of his rugged angel lips, then down onto the rotten floorboards underfoot. He sits, unable to hide a wince and a grunt, or maybe not trying. You’re still frozen.

Tess whirls by you, slipping the rags from your hands and settling next to Joel with a bottle in her hand. She wets one of the rags, then starts to dab at his face. He halfheartedly bats her hand away for a second, until she glares, then relents and lets her clean his face.

“You wanna explain yourself?” She murmurs lowly after a minute. Her voice spurs you into action. You want to help, want to stitch him together with your own sinew, dull his pain with a drug from your veins, but you don’t think he’ll take kindly to it. Tess has clearly done this before; even if she hadn’t, she’s comfortable, certain of where she stands with him. You can’t step into the space she takes up.

“Not really,” he mutters, a childish impatience squirming through him. You feel his own restlessness in your own feet; useless, you can’t just stand here. You turn to the stove, grabbing another bowl from the cabinet and doling him a portion of the sad green beans and ham. You grab the pepper, flaking a kick into his food that you’re sure he’s said he prefers, and turn to quickly set it down in front of him. Tess is done, grabs the rags to toss in the sink.

Joel seems confused. “We’re outta green beans.”

You grin at him, the flesh on your face feeling tight and out of place. “Good thing you’ve got a supplier.” You don’t say that you had stashed him a can extra even above your smuggling quota. You don’t mention it because you know he likes them better than any of the other shitty cans because they remind him of home, because they’re made down south, somewhere, because he can’t know that you know that about him, that you study him like he’s something worth knowing about. You can’t wear your love so openly like that, but you think he might see it leaking out of your porous heart anyways, because there’s a stern gratitude in his nod, in the bite he lifts to his mouth. Tess knows too, and squeezes your shoulder as she walks you out later.

“Thank you,” she says, “for doing that for him. He’ll never say it, but he’s grateful. I’m grateful. You’re a good kid.” Your heart beats faster. You can’t remember the last time someone said something like this, told you you were good, saw the care you hemorrhaged, and gave it back to you. You nod and head back to your own empty place, counting down the hours until you can see him again, until you feel like there might be a reason you’re here.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 83

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 83: The Death of a Son

AO3 - Masterlist

The halls of Dragonstone lay shrouded in silence, the stillness seeping into every crevice, deepening the shadows that clung to the ancient stone walls. Daemon moved through these dim corridors, his footsteps reverberating softly in the quiet. The weariness of a long day of training weighed heavily on him, each muscle straining under the fatigue, particularly along the curve of his spine and his right shoulder. Though aged had tempered his body, he remained strong and resilient, familiar with the depths of his endurance and how to push beyond his limits. 

He had hoped the rigorous training would quell the restlessness that churned within him—a simmering irritation and agitation that coiled like a serpent beneath his skin, driving his need for action. The physical exertion, however, had done little to alleviate the restlessness prickling at his fingertips, refusing to dissipate. 

“My prince!” A voice called out, halting Daemon in his march towards the Chamber of the Painted Table—where he’d lend his voice to the efforts of war. 

Daemon turned to see Maester Gerardys approaching, his face carved with shadows that accentuated a deep, solemn sadness. The maester’s chains clinked softly with each step, swaying from his neck to below his belly, draped over the plain gray robes characteristic of his order. 

Gerardys moved with a noticeable heaviness, his brows lifted in an expression that blended sympathy with a touch of fear. Daemon’s gaze sharpened, his spine straightening in anticipation of the news the Maester bore. 

“A raven has flown in from Storm’s End…” Maester Gerardys began, his voice trailing off as Daemon turned fully towards him, a steely resolve hardening his features. 

Daemon’s immediate thought was that Storm’s End had refused to heed Rhaenyra’s call—cowards and lickspittles, every one of them. If House Baratheon had declared to the usurpers, they had chosen the losing side, and he would ensure they faced the consequences, as would all who stood against them.

 “It is the prince…” Maester Gerardys continued, hesitating and looking down at the small note in his hand. “He’s… he’s been slain—”

Daemon snatched the note from Maester Gerardys, unfurling it with a swift motion. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, dread and rage spilling into his stomach. As his eyes scanned the scribbled words of the parchment, the weight of the news settled heavily upon him, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach.

It grieves me to inform you that Prince Lucerys Velaryon is dead. House Baratheon welcomed the prince, and he delivered his missive. Discussions arose, and Prince Lucerys made to leave when Prince Aemond demanded that a debt be paid, insisting that Prince Lucerys put out his eye as payment for his own. Prince Lucerys refused and left. No blood was spilled beneath my roof, I assure you. What transpired occurred in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay.

I have sent my men to scour the coast of the Bay for the remains of the boy, if there is anything left for them to find. House Baratheon condemns Prince Aemond’s actions against the Princess’s son. No blood was spilled within our halls, and guest rights were upheld. I offer my condolences, and those of my house, for what happened to the young prince.

Borros Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End 

The words confirmed his worst fears, each sentence like a blow, draining the color from his face. The scribbled note detailed the death of Lucerys, and the grim truth of what had happened once he arrived at Storm’s End. 

An ache formed at the back of Daemon’s throat, his chest tightening as he read over the words again, as though needing to reaffirm them. He gritted his teeth, swallowing his emotions, allowing them to cut down his throat and fester in his stomach, steeling himself against the tide of grief and rage threatening to consume him. 

Daemon rolled the parchment tightly in his hand, his grip like a vice. He blinked against the prickle of tears that burned at the back of his eyes and turned on his heels, forcing himself to move forward, leaving Maester Gerardys behind. A dismissal wasn’t necessary; Daemon knew it was his responsibility to deliver his news to his wife personally. It should come from him. 

As Daemon strode through the dimly lit halls, his footsteps echoed with a somber resonance, each step heavy with the weight of the news he carried. The burden felt like a tangible cloak upon his shoulders, pressing down relentlessly. Dread coiled and writhed in his stomach, a restless serpent, as he anticipated the impact his news would have on his wife. A twist of fear slipped between his ribs and lodged itself in his heart at the thought that this news might break her, might shatter her so completely that she could not put herself back together again—loss compounded, wave after wave of it; Viserys, her throne, Daenera, Visenya, and now, Lucerys. It was a fresh wound cutting through her already bleeding heart. His fist curled tighter around the letter, the parchment bruning against his palm as his skin tightened over his knuckles. 

No, it would not break her completely—it could not. Rhaenyra was strong, she was fierce, she was a dragon. 

The weight of his grief and anger settled deep within his bones, a cold heaviness that seemed to anchor him, slowing his movements as he advanced through the castle. He pushed his own grief down, forcing his emotions into the back of his mind, letting it linger like a shadow trailing after him. 

Reaching the Chamber of the Painted Table, Daemon halted just outside, poised at the threshold, hidden from view. The archway loomed before him, a daunting barrier between him and the devastation he was about to impart. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, the tightness in his chest persisting, the cold weight settling more firmly upon him. He steeled his expression, and then, pushed forth. 

Daemon entered the room, shoulders taut and head low. A low murmur of conversation hung in the air as strategies and plans were deliberated, though to him it was nothing more than a distant buzz. His wife stood at the head of it all, framed by the crackling hearth behind her and the long, intricately carved table before her, candles burning and sputtering among the markers for allies and foes. 

He moved through the bustling scene like a blade cleaving through flesh, his presence commanding. He felt her eyes on him, could almost sense the erratic beat of her heart as she watched him approach, a silent understanding–and anticipation of—the ill tidings he brought. 

Their eyes met, hers searching and inquisitive, a light furrow on her brow as she seemed to note the solemnity in his expression. Daemon reached for her, gesturing for them to step away from the Painted Table, seeking a moment of privacy to deliver the news of her son’s passing. The room, filled with advisors and lords, seemed to blur into the background as they moved towards the hearth.

His hand found hers, her skin warm and soft against his own calloused and weary fingers. There was a heartbeat of hesitation, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon them. The low murmur of discussions had faded into a tense silence only filled by the knitting fire and the wind howling outside. 

Finally, the words managed to find his lips, laden with sorrow, “Your son, Lucerys… He and his dragon have been slain by Aemond Targaryen.”

The revelation seemed to strike her like a blade, twisting cruelly into her stomach and arching upwards towards her heart. She drew in a sharp breath, swallowing whatever cry that might have emerged. Her brows furrowed together, and her eyes searched his desperately for any sign that it wasn’t true. Daemon could offer nothing but the cold bite of reality—her son was gone. 

Daemon watched as the impact of his words washed over her, her face a canvas of raw, unfiltered pain. He wished he could shield her from this agony, but the truth was an unyielding force. “I’m so sorry, Rhaenyra…”

He squeezed her hand, a steely resolve hardening his voice. “I swear to you, my love, we shall avenge your son.”

Rhaenyra’s hand slipped from his grasp, the warmth of her touch leaving a burning ache on his skin. He longed to reach out to her again, to hold her close, but he stepped back, offering her the space she needed. He watched as she struggled to reconcile with the devastating news, her breath hitching and her eyes brimming with unshed tears. 

Daemon stood silently, his heart aching, but his face set in a mask of determination. He understood that she needed this moment to herself, to process the loss and grief that threatened to overwhelm her. 

“Rhaenyra…�� Daemon’s voice was barely a whisper as he watched the devastation rip through her. A broken inhale shuddered through her body, her hands clawing at her stomach, grasping at anything as though she could claw out the pain. Her body folded in on itself, her face contorted with raw grief and agony. A strangled cry tore from her throat, a sound broken and harrowing, cut short as she swallowed the sob—the sound more horrifying than the ones she had released during the agonizing labor of their child just days ago. 

The cry seemed to claw its way into existence, echoing off the stone walls and reverberating through Daemon’s body. He felt it as though it broke his chest apart, the force of her anguish snapping his bones and rendering his heart to nothing but torn flesh.

In the midst of that terrible, awful tearing, an ember of rage ignited within him. It smoldered, feeding off the pain and growing into a fierce, burning resolve. Daemon clenched his fists, the fire in his chest growing stronger, fueled by the sight of his wife’s suffering. 

As she teetered on the brink of collapse, Daemon moved towards her. Her knees wobbled, but she steadied herself before he could reach her, inhaling sharply and muffling her sob as she regained some composure. A palpable change enveloped her—a chilling, ghastly transformation—as if the air itself ignited in flames around her. With a vengeful expression, she spun to face the map of Westeros, her skin illuminated by the orange glow that seemed to consume her. Her eyes blazed with a fierce intensity.

Her gaze swept across the room, locking briefly with each set of eyes that dared meet hers. Her brows furrowed, deeping with each pass, as another surge of sorrow seemed to wash over her. The fire in her eyes flickered and waned, doused by the waves of grief, stealing her away from the flames of rage and dragging her out into the sea of sorrow.

It was an awful thing to watch her choke on it. 

Her desperate eyes seemed to search each face surrounding her, seeking a glimpse of the son she lost, before her gaze finally settled on Daemon.

Daemon shared a silent exchange with her–a moment of a silent question and quiet answer. He reached for her, but she held up her hand, the moment stretching as a visible shudder passed through her, and she inhaled deeply, seemingly knitting herself together to maintain some semblance of composure. Her gaze then shifted towards Lord Bartimos Celtigar and her councilors. 

“I must recuse myself, my lords,” she managed to say, her voice thick with sorrow and trembling with barely contained emotion. Without waiting for their response or even a nod of acknowledgement, she turned away. 

Rhaenyra moved through the hushed room, each step measured and fraught with visible effort. The tension in her movements suggested that simply walking took great strength, each step laborious and pained.

The only sound that filled the heavy air was the mournful howl of the wind outside. Daemon’s gaze followed her as she walked away, tracing her descent down the few steps to the archway where she vanished from sight. He could feel the collective eyes of the room on him, sensing a growing restlessness as his fingers twitched at his sides. Then, a heart-wrenching cry echoed through the hall–a sound raw and primal, like that of a wounded animal, embodying the despair of a mother bereft of her child.  

A stunned silence thrummed throughout the room, with everyone seemingly holding their breath in shock and confusion–and a palpable dread that seemed to ring out in the space between her sobs. As Daemon made his way towards the archway, he felt the intensity of their stares prickling against his skin like needles. Their unspoken questions and the weight of their scrutiny felt almost tangible in the air, though none dared to give voice to their questions. 

“Father,” Baela’s voice pierced the heavy silence, halting Daemon as she stepped down the stairs. He paused, turning to finally face the gathered lords and ladies who had answered their summons and bent the knee to their queen. His gaze shifted to his daughters–one whose face was wrought with worry, brow in a flat line and the corner’s of her lips downturned, and the other with tears pooling in her eyes. 

“Stay,” Daemon instructed firmly, then swept his eyes over the assembly, silently commanding them to remain while he saw to his wife. He pivoted sharply, descending the last steps before passing into the hallway, following her haunting cries.

Daemon didn’t hesitate as he found her collapsed on the cold stone floor, her nails clawing desperately as her body was wracked by sobs, quickly kneeling by her side. When she turned to him, tears streamed down her face, eyes burning with grief. Each tearful gasp echoed off the stone walls, amplifying the agony of her grief as her fingers clenched his doublet, pulling herself into his chest as she sobbed uncontrollably. His arms encircled her, holding her close with a firm yet gentle embrace. Leaning close, he whispered into the top of her head, “We need to get you out the hall.”

Rhaenyra nodded. 

Daemon carefully positioned her arms around his neck, her fingers gripping him tightly. With a firm arm scooped beneath her knees and the one securing her against his chest, he lifted her from the cold stone floor. Despite the strain it put on his body, and the protesting ache in his muscles, he managed to lift her, drawing in a deep breath as he did so. 

He carried her through the hall, each step deliberate as he ascended the stairs to their bedchamber. As they passed, he issued a gruff command to Lady Elinda Massey without breaking his stride.

“Fetch the Maester,” he ordered, his voice a low rumble filled with urgency. His focus remained steadfast on Rhaenyra, ensuring her comfort despite the physical demands of carrying her had on his body. 

As the lady-in-waiting hurried out the room, her footsteps fading down the corridor, Daemon gently lowered Rhaenyra on their bed and settled himself on the edge. His hand moved soothingly across her back, murmuring soft, comforting words against her temple as her body trembled under his touch, her cries of sorrow enveloping him like a cold tide. 

He whispered a solemn vow in her ear, his voice a steady, quiet force amid her storm of grief. “Tolvie qūvy bona ropagon hen aōha laesi, kesi addemmagon zirȳ arlī ampa jēdi toliot.”

For every tear that falls from your eyes, we will pay them back tenfold. 

He would deliver each of their treacherous heads on a silver platter for Syrax to devour if she so desired–all she needed to do was command it, and he would obey. And he would start with taking that one-eyed cunt’s head. 

Daemon tenderly stroked her back, his touch meant as a quiet solace amidst the storm of her grief. Rhaenyra clung to him, her grip on his doublet desperate and unyielding, as if he were the sole tether keeping her afloat in a tumultuous sea of despair. Her fingers pressed into his flesh, her fear palpable–that he might slip away and leave her adrift. 

“It can’t be,” Rhaenyra sobbed, her voice hearse and laden with fatigue, her words nearly lost in her tears. She leaned back to look into his eyes, her own red and swollen, eyelashes matted together with tears. The rails glistening on her cheeks reflected in the dim candlelight, her head slightly as if to deny the truth before her. Her brows arched in a plea for reassurance. “It can’t be–tell me it isn’t true, Daemon. He–he can’t–” She struggled for breath, her voice breaking, “he can’t be dead. He was just an envoy, not a warrior… I–I assured him it was safe, that he would be welcomed!”

Daemon attempted to offer comfort, reaching up to gently brush back her hair, his hand cradling the side of her face to anchor her as she spiraled deeper into despair. “Rhaenrya…”

“He can’t be dead,” Rhaenyra interrupted abruptly, her grip tightening on his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin–a sting that was almost comforting in its realness–as he choked down his own sorrow to steady her. “Please, Daemon. It can’t be true–”

“It is true,” Daemon whispered back softly, the gentle timbre of his voice was meant to soften the blow, yet the truth still cut deep. 

“No,” she croaked in delian, her voice barely above a whisper. “It can’t be true–it can’t be… what happened?” Her eyes searched his for an explanation, desperate for something, anything, that might undo the grim news he had confirmed. “What happened? W–what happened?”

Daemon’s voice was heavy with the weight of the truth as he spoke, his eyes firmly on her. “Aemond Targaryen was at Storm’s End for the same reasons Lucerys was,” he explained, his tone deliberate and measured. “Lucerys had delivered his message for his Queen and made to leave when Aemond demanded he put out his eye for payment for his…”

Rhaenyra’s face contorted with raw anguish, her eyes wide and filled with disbelief as she searched Daemon’s face for some glimmer of hope. “And he took my son’s life for it?”

Daemon lowered his head, the fortification of his heart momentarily giving way to a flicker of grief of his own, and the sharp stab of anger. “Lucerys refused Aemond’s demand for retribution, and attempted to leave… Luke… Luke and Aemond clashed in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay,” he recounted solemnly, his voice thick with the gravity of the event. 

“It must be a mistake. He could–”Rhaenyra started, her brows knitting together as she desperately clung to any other choice than the grim truth–that her son had met his end at the hands of Aemond Targaryen. “He could still be alive, right? He might have fallen into the sea…”

“Rhaenyra–” Daemon tried to interject, his voice laden with empathy.

“Or perhaps they’ve taken him hostage, like they did Daenera…” she continued, her voice pleading, gripping him with a desperate strength, her face etched with torment and hope.

“If they had taken him hostage, we would have received a raven from the Hightowers with their demands–”

“So we are to trust the words that tell us my son is dead?!”

The letter he had tucked away seemed to scorch the fabric of his trousers, its weight oppressive in the pocket where he had hastily stashed it to free up his hands. Now, Daemon carefully withdrew the damning parchment and placed it on the side table beside them. It lay there, a simple roll of parchment, yet its mere existence was a curse. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze fixed on the rolled parchment, her eyes wide with dread–the terror of a mother bracing herself to confront the devastating words it contained. She drew a ragged, shuddering breath, tearing her eyes away from the note that delivered such heartbreaking news. Her gaze drifted aimlessly, unfocused as her face contorted with pain. The muscles twitched involuntarily as something seemed to dawn on her. Her voice was a whisper of horror, a mother’s guilt flooding through her in a crushing wave. “Did I send him to his death? Oh, gods, did I send him to his death?”

“No,” Daemon counted firmly, his touch intensifying with his insistence. “The blame lies solely with Aemond Targaryen and those usurper cunts who stole your birthright.”

“I can’t–I can’t do this,” she gasped, her face contouring with unbearable anguish as she clawed at him. “I can’t bear it–”

Daemon’s hands tightened reassuringly around her, cradling her face and bringing her forehead to his. His voice was resolute, yet tender as he murmured, “You can and you will.”

Her nails pressed into his wrists, the sting barely registering to him as he remained wholly focused on her. As he slightly withdrew, he noticed Maester Gerardys and Lady Elinda poised at the threshold of their bedchamber, ready to assist. 

Turning his attention back on his wife, Daemon’s tone softened to a gentle whisper, “Let the Maester see to you.”

Daemon kissed her forehead gently, a soft gesture meant to reassure. As he drew back, he felt her grip on him loosen. Rising from the bed, he noted the deep frown etching her features, a look of utter desolation that mirrored the expression she had worn no more than days ago as they mourned the loss of their daughter–a visage marked by profound loss and emptiness, an echo of a woman. He turned away, his heart heavy, as he began to move towards the doors.

As he did, Maester Gerardys entered, their paths crossing in a silent exchange of roles. Daemon found himself at the threshold when her voice, fragile yet piercing, stopped him.

“You’re leaving me…” And though she didn’t continue the indictment, it was still there; again. When I need you.

The words hit Daemon like a physical blow, and he turned to face her again. Her eyes held a desolate scorn that seemed to almost burn, the glow of an ember in the fading light. He frowned, his response firm, “I’ll see to the council and come back.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted away from him, a silent acquiescence to his necessary departure. With a heavy heart, Daemon left the room, the cho of her despair lingering in the air as he stepped out. 

Daemon moved with purpose through the halls towards the Chamber of the Painted Table, his expression set in a deep frown, his thoughts consumed by the daunting steps ahead. His heart pounded heavily in his chest, the restless energy tingling at his fingertips as he quickened his pace. Each of his footfalls echoed off the stone walls, a low thrum of urgency that permeated the corridors. 

As he ascended the steps into the chamber, a low murmur of conversations filled the air, but his arrival swiftly cut through the noise, commanding immediate silence. The room’s attention snapped to him, a palpable and solemn tension hanging in the air. 

Daemon’s gaze swept over the assembled lords and ladies, each one shifting uneasily under his intense scrutiny. Their faces were etched with apprehension and worry, waiting for him to speak, to explain what had happened with their queen and the course of action they were to take. His eyes lingered briefly on each face, measuring their resolve and their fear, before he prepared to address the council. 

His gaze drifted across the Chamber of the Painted Table to the hearth at the far end, where it burned brightly–where his wife had once stood at the head of the table. A twitch of his fingers betrayed his unease. He led his ground, choosing instead to remain at the opposite end, near the steps. 

From this position, he commanded the room just as effectively. Daemon drew in a deep, controlled breath before his voice cut through the silence, firm and clear: “Lucerys Velaryon is dead.” He paused, then continued. “He has been slain by Aemond Targaryen.”

A palpable stir swept through the assembly, the room descending into a heavy solemnity. Corlys Velaryon, seemingly overcome by the news, stepped back from the Painted Table, the tap of his cane piercing the quiet as he sank into a chair. His hands gripped the cane tightly, head bowed in a silent shroud of grief. Beside him, Rhaenys placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, her presence a silent pillar of support. 

Nearby, Rhaena turned and sought solace in her sister’s embrace, burying her face in the crook of her neck, seeking a refuge from the storm of emotions unleashed by the news. 

Daemon continued, his stance firm and voice resolute, fingers twitching at his sides. “The Queen needs her rest.” His tone left no room for debate. “The council meeting will resume on the morrow.”

Rhaenys, her resolve evident despite the tremble in her voice, declared her own intentions, “I will take Meleys and return to patrolling the Gullet.”

Daemon nodded decisively, signaling his intention to conclude the council for the night and return to Rhaenyra’s side. However, as he turned to leave, his gaze fell on his daughters–Rhaena, her head bowed in sorrow, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle her sobs, and Baela, gently rubbing her sister’s back, her own tears barely held back. 

As the council began to disperse, the chamber filled with shocked murmurs and was heavy with apprehension. The shuffle of feet across the smooth floor created a low, continuous thrum. In this solemnity, Daemon approached his daughters. He placed a comforting hand on each of their shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze, a simple gesture. 

He drew them close, enveloping them in a firm embrace–and though it was mostly to soothe their grief, Daemon found a semblance of comfort in holding them close. He had held them the same way once before, when their mother had died. 

As they eventually stepped back, they moved only as far as his reach allowed, keeping his hands on their shoulders as he met their teary gazes. “You must be strong now. Rhaenyra will need you in the days ahead…”

Wiping away a tear and summoning a look of determined courage, Baela stood tall as she spoke, “We should take Caraxes, Meleys, Syrax, and Moondancer and fly to King’s Landing.”

Daemon responded with equal firmness, “You are needed here to look after and care for your younger siblings as their mother gathers herself.”

As much as Daemon wanted to mount Caraxes and fly to King’s Landing to lay waste to the usurper cunts, he knew that the city would undoubtedly be on high alert, with defenses primed for such an assault. They’d be expecting them and that put them at a disadvantage. He understood that confronting Aemond Targaryen would necessitate at least the strength of Meleys to stand any chance against Vhagar in aerial combat. 

Yet, despite his readiness to seek vengeance, Daemon knew he could not act on his impulse without Rhaenyra’s explicit command–and perhaps, more importantly, she needed him here. 

“The Greens would have prepared for an attack,” Daemon said, when Rhaena wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, adding, “And they still have Daenera…”

Daemon nodded, “If we attack now, we risk her life…”

“If we do not bring the fight to them, at least let me fly to the Eyrie and inform Jace of his brother’s death,” Baela argued, her resolve hardening as she pressed her point. 

A surge of solemn pride swelled in Daemon’s chest as he observed his daughter’s readiness to act, her resolve reflecting the strength of her lineage. Despite the turmoil within him, a faint smile curved his lips as he gently but firmly refused her proposal. “I will have a raven sent in the morning.”

“But–” Baela started to protest, seeking to push her argument further. 

“You are needed here,” Daemon interrupted, shaking his head to reinforce his point. “Moondancer is needed here to protect Dragonstone.” 

Accepting her father’s decision, Baela took a deep breath, lifting her head high, and nodded firmly in acknowledgement. Daemon gave his daughters a final squeeze, releasing his hold on them. Then, turning on his heels, descended the steps and began the long, solemn walk back to the chambers he shared with his wife. Each step echoed through the halls, the night alive with the news of the prince’s death. 

Daemon’s steps quickened as he approached the bedchambers he shared with Rhaenyra, his heart laden with the dread of finding her inconsolable. Upon entering, his eyes immediately sought the familiar comfort of their bed, but it was empty–a stark, unsettling void instead of the presence of the person he loved the most. He halted, a grown creasing his brow as he stared at the desolate bed, feeling his heart drop. 

“Rhaenyra?” He called out, his voice encoding slightly in the spacious room. 

Only silence greeted him, accompanied by the mournful howl of the wind sweeping over the ancient stones of the castle, as if lamenting in chorus with his own unease. The fire in the hearth crackled, the only other sound in the tense quiet. A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides. 

With a sense of urgency, Daemon turned and hastily exited the room, the doors closing behind him with a definitive thud. His footsteps thundered against the stone floor, each echo resonating through the darkened halls like a determined march, as he searched the castle for any sign of his missing wife. 

As soon as Daemon spotted Ser Erryk and Ser Lorent standing outside the Chamber of the Painted Table, deep in conversation, he approached them briskly, biting out, “Have you seen Rhaenyra?”

The two Queensguard members bowed quickly, their expressions growing concerned. “No, my prince.”

Without pausing for further discussion, Daemon issued a crisp command, “Find her.”

He moved swiftly past them, his presence commanding immediate action. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of their armor as they sprang into motion, Ser Erryk falling in step behind him while Ser Lorent headed in the opposite direction, likely to alert the guards. 

Continuing his relentless search, Daemon descended the serpentine steps and walked through another hall. There, he found Maester Gerardys in conversation with Lord Bartimos Celtigar. Both men stopped and greeted him with the same deference as the Queensguard had. Without breaking stride, Daemon turned his intense gaze upon Maester Gerardys, his voice sharp as he addressed Maester Gerardys, “Where’s the Queen?”

“My prince?” Maester Gerardys responded, looking momentarily taken aback, his eyebrows knitting together in both surprise and confusion, then continuing uncertainty, “She’s in your chambers…”

“She is not,” Daemon retorted quickly, his tone terse. His agitation was palpable, each word punctuating by a rising beat of apprehension in his chest. 

The maester shifted uncomfortably, a look of concern crossing his features. “I made Her Grace a draught to ease her nerves and help her sleep,” he explained, his voice steady despite the growing tension. “She thanked me and dismissed me afterward–”

Daemon did not linger to hear more from Maester Gerardys; instead, he quickly pushed past, his strides hurried as he made his way down another flight of stairs towards the lower levels of the castle, descending into its bowels. The halls were dimly lit by flickering torches and glowing braziers, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.

Accompanied by Ser Erryk, Daemon passed through the Library, a grand space with shelves reach up to the high, roughly hewn ceiling. It was a place where he had often found Rhaenyra lost in a book, bathed in the soft light streaming through the sparse windows. Tonight, however, the library stood silent, haunted by the echoes of their lineages storied past. The air was thick with dust moats and below the scent of aged parchment and the fire of the braziers, the scent of dragon reached them. 

Apprehension pricked his skin, his heart pounding with increasing dread as they moved deeper into the castle. The familiar scent of dragon intensified, and a cold draft whispered through the corridors, adding a chill to the already tense atmosphere. In the distance, the low rush of waves against the cliffs at the foot of Dragonstone could be heard, accompanied by the mournful howl of the wind through the openings in the rock face of the Dragonmont. 

As Daemon and Ser Erryk’s urgent footsteps resonated along the corridors, they penetrated deep into the cavernous expanse beneath the dragonmont, passing through an archway that led to the dragon landing. The cavern around them expanded massively, its edges swallowed by the enveloping darkness. Here, the thick smell of sulfur and dragon intensified–there was a usual comfort to be found in these familiar scents. Now, however, there was no comfort to be found–only a growing sense of urgency and dread. 

A whistled roar suddenly split the air, echoing off the cavern walls and reverberating through the tunnels within the Dragonmont. The sound filled the vast empty space, twisting through the shadows and vibrating powerfully within Daemon’s chest–a clear expression of apprehension and frustration that echoed his own. 

As they progressed, dragonkeepers emerged to meet them, carrying long staffs that towered above their heads. One of these keepers stopped directly in front of Daemon, bowing his head. The gesture, though respectful, did little to alleviate the palpable tension as Daemon prepared to engage with thim, his mind focused on the pressing need to find his wife. His fingers twitched at his sides, a visible sign of his growing frustration and agitation as he confronted the dragonkeeper, “Ñuha ābrazȳrys, skoriot iksis ziry?”

My wife, where is she?

The dragonkeeper responded with a solemn expression, the gravity of the situation reflected in his eyes. “Mazēdas Syraks.”

She left on Syrax.

Daemon’s frustration boiled over, his demand sharp and clipped. “Skorkydoso bōsa?”

How long?

“Daor bōsa, yn kesā daor māzigon zirȳla.” The keeper answered, the words heavy with a weight that seemed to echo in the vast cavern. His words hung in the air, suggesting a chase that might already be too late to begin. Not long, but you will not reach her.

Daemon exhaled deeply, lifting his gaze to the cavern’s ceiling, where the darkness stretched so thick and complete it seemed to swallow all light. His heart twisted with turmoil, and a vibration of frustration ran through him. He momentarily closed his eyes, attempting to ease the strain from his tense muscles, his agitation coiling within his chest like a serpent poised to strike. 

How could she abandon her duties? How could she fly off to the gods know where without protection, without him?

“Skoriot?” Where?

“Naejuragon zirȳla eikon.” To face her loss.

A heavy weight seemed to drop into Daemon’s chest as he stared into the weathered eyes of the dragonkeeper. He was painfully aware of where Rhaenyra had gone and what she intended to do, yet a part of him had clung to the hope that perhaps he was wrong. Storm’s End offered her nothing; if any trace of her son remained, it would have been claimed by the sea. Worse still, the Stormlands had pledged their allegiance to the Greens–the enemy. Her decision to venture into enemy territory alone and undefeated was not just reckless, it was perilous. 

With a sneer tinged with frustration and concern, Daemon bit out, “Se ao ivestragī zirȳla jikagon?” 

And you let her go?

“Konīr iksin daor keligon zirȳla.” There was no stopping her.

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt the onset of a headache. His chest tightened, the sensation almost like a physical constriction around his lungs. “Issa iā mittys naejot jikagon mērī.”

She was a fool to go alone. 

With a deep breath, Daemon steeled himself and issued a command. “Osaishad Karaksys.”

Summon Caraxes.

The dragonkeeper’s response was measured, his expression somber with the knowledge he intoned, “Kessa daor āmāzinon, Ñuha dārilaros.”

She will not return.

Daemon’s hands balled into tight fists, the skin over his knuckles stretched taut as he clenched his jaw in frustration. The restless energy prickled beneath his skin, coiling tightly within his chest as he fixed a hardened gaze on the dragonkeeper. The keeper nodded in understanding of Daemon’s earlier command, then turned to signal the other dragonkeepers, who turned back around to call Caraxes forth and prepare the dragon for flight.

With a swift turn on his heels, Daemon headed back along the path he had come, Ser Erryk following closely behind. “Alert the guards that the Queen has left, and have them keep an eye out for her return. And inform Rhaenys.”

“Yes, my prince,” Ser Erryk replied, his tone respectful yet tinged with concern. After a brief pause, he ventured, “might I ask what you’re going to do?”

Daemon’s stride did not falter as he answered tersely, his voice echoing slightly as they moved through the library, their steps echoing off the stone walls as they wound their way back from the depths of the Dragonmont. “I’m going to find my wife.”

“And leave Dragonstone undefended?”

“Do you believe yourself incapable of protecting the royal family while I am away?” Daemon retorted sharply, his gaze piercing as he spun around to face Ser Erryk, who stopped abruptly. The white cloak of the Queensguard fluttered around him as he halted. Although Ser Erryk stood taller, Daemon’s intense glower seemed to diminish the knight slightly. 

“No, my prince,” Ser Erryk responded, his voice steady. “But with the Princess Rhaenys patrolling the Gullet and you gone, you leave us without the defense of a dragon.”

“My daughter will be here to defend Dragonstone,” Daemon answered, turning to ascend the stairs, dismissing the knight's concerns. He could feel his patience waning, tethering on the terrible edge of a blade. 

“Forgive me, my prince, but your daughter and her dragon are untested in battle,” Ser Erryk called out, holding his ground as Daemon paused and turned back, now standing higher on the steps and looking down at the Queensguard. “They are young–”

“You would have me abandon your Queen to fend for herself?” Daemon interjected sharply, his irritation flaring as he felt his patience snap. “Here I thought the Queensguard  would wish to protect and defend their Queen…” He descended the steps to confront Ser Erryk more directly, his tone biting. “But I suppose you take your duty lightly, otherwise you wouldn’t have stood by and watched as the Hightowers usurped the throne. You and your traitorous twin.”

Daemon turned to walk away, granting Ser Erryk the opportunity to let the matter rest. However, Ser Erryk followed him, each of his footsteps echoing in the hall and push Daemon closer to the edge of his patience. 

“No, my prince, Ser Erryk said, his voice firm, and his hand resting unthreatingly on the pummel of his sword. He stood tall, his expression solemn and serious. “I am ashamed by it. That is why I abandoned the Kingsguard, and my brother, and came here. I take my duty and honor–”

Daemon’s patience finally frayed completely, his voice snapping with unrestrained anger, stripping away any remaining pretense of civility. “I don’t care,” he retorted sharply, the frustration clearly sharpening his tone as he stepped closer to Ser Erryk, his face set in a sneer. “Aegon was in your grasp. You could have killed him yourself.”

“Arryk and I were named to the Kingsguard at just eight and ten,” Erryk responded, his voice firm with conviction as his expression hardened, his eyebrows knitting together as he stood his ground. “And we swore the same oath: to defend the whole of the royal family.” He paused, head shaking slightly with sad exasperation. “So what are we to do when they turn against one another?”

Fixing Ser Erryk with a long, asserting stare, Daemon’s eyes bore into the knight as he contemplated the cascading consequences of past decisions. If Ser Erryk had seized the opportunity to eliminate Aegon, the current strife might have been avoided–Lucerys would still be alive, and his wife would never be swallowed by her grief. The Hightowers would have found it a challenge to consolidate power behind a child or to crown that one-eyed cunt. The path to the throne for Rhaenyra would have been smoother if Erryk had set aside his notions of honor to take decisive action that truly protected his Queen’s claim. 

His gaze intensified, laden with judgment. “The very least you could have done was protect your Queen’s daughter.”

The accusation struck a nerve. Ser Erryk’s gaze dropped, a visible flicker of shame crossing his features. “And it shames me that I could not,” he admitted quietly, his voice reflecting the depths of his regret over his failures. The Hightowers kept her tightly locked up after her attempted escapes. There were guards posted at her doors, and she was never alone. I regret that I couldn’t help her escape, but it was impossible. Had I attempted, I wouldn't have succeeded–I would be dead. I did what I could. I released Rhaenys and took the crown, and then I came here.”

Daemon absorbed the explanation, his frustration simmering beneath a stoic exterior. Finally, he responded, his voice cold and final. “That’s not enough.”

With those parting words, Daemon turned sharply on his heels and left. 

Rhaenys methodically adjusted the last buckle on her armor, ensuring the armguard confirmed perfectly to the curve of her arm. She could feel the firmness of the cool metal through the thick tunic she wore beneath it as she reached for her riding gloves, crafted from supple leather. A heavy sorrow lingered in her chest, a constant and familiar companion once again making its presence known after receiving the news of Lucerys’s death. It eased only slightly when Corlys’s strong arms encircled her, pulling her into a comforting embrace. She melted into the warmth of his hold, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. The anguish of losing Lucerys had settled deeply on her husband, robbing him not only of an heir and a grandson but also taking something else from him–something Rhaenys had already lost. 

“Be careful,” Corlys murmured, his voice a soft, low hum that vibrated against her temple. His lips grazed her skin gently, each word infused with a tender urgency. His touch conveyed depths of unspoken fears and desperate hope, sending a clear, heartfelt message without words: I cannot lose you too. 

Rhaenys responded with a gentle assurance, “I always am.”

She turned within his embrace to face her husband, her hands racing up to cradle his face tenderly. “We’ve endured losses before. We’ll get through this one too.”

Corlys leaned into her caress, his eyes revealing the unasked question that haunted him: Am I cursed to lose every heir I make? Rhaenys understood the depth of hope he had invested in Lucerys, the profound love he held for his grandson, bound not by blood but by another deep bond–a choice. He had been preparing Lucerys to succeed him as Lord of the Tides and Commander of the Velaryon fleet, placing upon him the same expectations and dreams once reserved for Laenor. Lucerys had been his legacy, his pride. The loss was another profound blow to his heart. 

Corlys responded to her comforting words with a soft, reassuring kiss, their lips meeting in a moment of shared sorrow and support. After a brief, tender connection, he drew back, his dark eyes conveying both gratitude and resignation as he gently released her, nodding for her to fulfill her duties. 

“I’m not sure when I’ll set feet upon solid ground again,” Rhaenys remarked, adjusting her boot where it pinched her leg uncomfortably, steadying herself with a hand on Corlys for balance. “There’s a council tomorrow, and Daemon will be restless, as usual–”

Her words were abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Enter,” Corlys called out authoritatively. 

Ser Erryk Cargyll stepped into the room, bowing his bread respectfully. “Princess Rhaenys, Lord Corlys.”

“Ser Erryk,” Rhaenys greeted him, noting the solemn expression on his face and she felt a tightening of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. “What news do you bring?”

“The prince sent me to inform you that the Queen has departed from Dragonstone,” Ser Erryk announced, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his brow furrowed with concern, drawing a line between them. 

Rhaenys’s gaze met her husbands, who voiced their shared concern first, “The Queen has left?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Rhaenys furrowed her brow, her voice laden with concern as she asked, “And what of Daemon?”

“The prince is… understandably worried that the Queen may be heading into danger,” Ser Erryk responded, his tone cautious.

A scoff escaped Rhaenys as she glanced down, fidgeting with the straps of her armguards.

“Of course, he is. We all should be, Corlys interjected with a measured tone, giving Rhaenys a significant look. Rhaenys returned the look with a lifted brow, challenging him to disprove her concern for her younger cousin. 

Rhaenys shook her head slightly, a knowing expression crossing her features. “If I know my cousin well, he’d wish to go after her.”

Daemon, ever the impulsive one, had earned the moniker ‘The Rogue Prince’ for good reason, though under current circumstances, she found it hard to fault his urge to act. However, she understood that even if Daemon pursued Rhaenyra, she would not return until she had achieved what she sought–until she was ready to return. Rhaenys suspected that, deep down, Daemon recognized this truth as well, and she could only hope it would temper him. 

“He cannot leave,” Corlys asserted firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “With the Queen absent, the council will need him to assume her duties.”

At this, Ser Erryk shifted, the sound of his armor rustling softly and his white cloak swaying behind him. “He intended to leave, but it seems he has reconsidered and called it off…”

“At least he regains some sense,” Rhaenys muttered under her breath, her words barely a whisper. 

“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” Corlys said, effectively dismissing the knight. Ser Erryk bowed respectfully to both of them before exiting the room. Corlys then turned to Rhaenys, his dark eyes meeting hers with an expression that hovered between a shrug and exasperation. “The council meeting will be interesting.”

“I have a feeling that will be an understatement,” Rhaenys remarked, her tone laden with foreboding. “Temper him if you can, he shouldn’t be making rash decisions in place of the Queen.”

“Daemon may be reckless and impulsive, but age has tempered him,” Corlys replied, trying to reassure her. Despite his words, Rhaenys couldn’t help but scoff in disbelief. Undeterred, Corlys moved closer, placing his hands on her arms gently. “He understands his duty and will do anything to protect Rhaenyra’s claim.”

“That is what I fear,” Rhaenys answered apprehensively.

Corlys expression softened slightly at her words. He pressed another tender kiss to her brow, a gesture of support and affection. Rhaenys squeezed his hand in gratitude and acknowledgement, then walked past him and out the door. 

With a heavy heart but a resolved demeanor, Rhaenys departed their chambers to make her way to the caves beneath the castle. Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone as she moved through the corridors of Dragonstone. A slight frown creased her brow, her thoughts with Rhaenyra and the profound grief that she must be enduring–a grief all too familiar to her own. 

“Wait!” A familiar voice suddenly pierced the air, “Stop, Joffrey!”

Rhaenys halted, her foot poised to step into the flickering light of a new corridor. Her gaze followed the voice down the hallway where she saw her granddaughter, Rhaena, in a flurry of motion. Rhaena scrambled after a small, determined Joffrey, managing to thrust herself in front of him, effectively blocking his path. Rhaenys remained concealed in the shadows, observing the scene unfold as Joffre, bristling with frustration, tried to push past Rhaena. Despite his efforts, Rhaena’s hands clasped firmly around him, holding him in place even as he resisted. 

“Where are you going?” Rhaena demanded, her brow furrowed with concern as she gripped him tightly, refusing to let go.

“I’m going to find my mother!” Joffrey retorted, his small fingers struggling to pry hers away. “And we’re going to find Luke and bring him back!”

Hearing Joffrey’s words, Rhaenys felt a pang of grief stab between her ribs, the loss of Luke piercing her heart anew. Her fingers clenched tightly around her riding gloves, a surge of sorrow gripping her. Meanwhile, Rhaena gently lowered herself to Joffrey’s level, her grip softening slightly yet remaining secure. Her voice shook as she tried to explain, “Luke is gone, Joff–”

“No he is not!” Joffrey’s scream echoed through the hallway, his defiance clear. “Mother will find him and bring him back, and I will help her–I will protect her and bring them back home!”

“And how are you going to do that?” Rhaena’s voice was gentle, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she posed the question.

“I will mount Tyraxes and we’ll protect them together,” Joffrey declared resolutely, struggling to free himself from her grip.

“Tyraxes is too young to carry you,” Rhaena corrected him, her tone firm yet tender, not yet letting him slip away. “He can’t fly you all the way to Storm’s End–”

“I don’t care!” Joffrey shouted, then continued, “Then I will ride Caraxes or Moondancer; they’re big enough to make the journey!”

Rhaenys watched as her granddaughter fought to keep her composure, blinking rapidly to ward off the tears. A slight tremor tugged at the corner of Rhaena’s lips, her gaze softening and her head tilting slightly as she inhaled deeply. Her hands, previously firm around Joffrey, now gently rubbed up and down his arms, maintaining a comforting yet restraining touch. 

“You cannot mount another rider’s dragon,” she gently informed the boy.

“Why not?” 

“A dragon can only have one rider at the time,” Rhaena explained, her voice carrying a hint of sadness, even as she strived to remain composed. “You cannot mount another rider’s dragon; it won’t recognize you. If you try, it will throw you off or worse.”

“I don’t care, if Tyraxes is too small to fly to Storm’s End, I have to try! I have to take another dragon!” Joffrey protested, undeterred by the consequences such actions could have. His voice trembled then, thick with tears as he insisted, “I have to protect mother and find Luke.”

“I know you want to protect your mother, but I promise you, she will be fine–”

“You can’t promise that!”

Rhaena softened her approach, racing out to gently touch his shoulder. “Your mother is strong and fierce. She has Syrax with her to protect her. You know she won’t let anything happen to your mother,” she reassured him, hoping to ease his fears about his mother’s safety. “Rhaenyra will return to you soon.”

“And Luke?” Joffrey’s voice was a whisper now, a mix of hope and dread lingering in his question. 

As Rhaena tried to maintain her composure, her expression faltered momentarily and she swallowed thickly, her distress evident even as Rhaenys observed her heartache from a distance. Finally, with a voice barely steady, she managed to say, “Luke is gone. He won’t come back.”

The words shattered the fragile calm around Joffrey, triggering his tears as he vehemently insisted on finding his brother and bringing him back and protecting his mother. Struggling free from Rhaena’s grasp, he pushed away from her, angrily wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his doublet as he shouted. “It’s not true! He is not gone! If you had a dragon, you could go and bring them back!”

Overwhelmed, he spun on his heels and dashed back to his room, slamming the door with such force that it echoed through the hall. Rhaenys stepped fully into the corridor then, her own heart heavy. She watched as Rhaena lingered crouched for a moment longer, then rose and wiped away her tears upon noticing Rhaenys approaching. 

“Do not take his words to heart,” Rhaenys advised softly. “He is grieving and lashing out. He did not mean anything of it. It will take some time for him to understand.”

“He is not wrong, though,” Rhaena admitted, her voice breaking as the pain she felt was etched clearly on her face. “If I had a dragon, I could have gone with him–I could have protected him…” Her head shook and she looked down at her hands. “Maybe if I had been quicker, I could have claimed Vhagar,” she continued, her voice trembling as a sob broke through. Her eyebrows lifted in despair, tears welling in her eyes once more, “If I had claimed Vhagar, none of this would have happened–Luke would still be alive.”

Rhaenys felt the sting of tears in her own eyes as she reached out to her granddaughter, gently brushing a long lock of pale hair over her shoulder. She then firmly gripped her, meeting Rhaena’s grief-stricken gaze with her own steady one. “None of this is on you. The fault lies solely with Aemond,” she affirmed, her tone both soothing and firm, seeking to assuage the heavy burden of guilt Rhaena seemed to have taken on. “You are not to blame for his actions.”

“But Vhagar was my mother’s dragon,” Rhaena choked out, her voice faltering as she blinked back a relentless tide of sorrow, tears streaming down her cheeks. “If I had claimed Vhagar before Aemond–”

“A dragon chooses its rider,” Rhaenys interjected firmly, her voice steady. “I don’t know what Vhagar saw in Aemond, but she chose him as her rider.” Her hand gently slid to lift Rhaena’s chin, ensuring their eyes met again. “Regrets of the past do nothing for the present. You cannot torment yourself with ‘what ifs’–believe me, it will only haunt you. Vhagar made her choice, and we cannot say there would have been another outcome. 

As much as Rhaenys wished to believe that Vhagar might have accepted Rhaena, had she attempted to claim her, she knew there was no certainty in the perilous ritual of dragon claiming. Vhagar made her choice; she had accepted Aemond as her rider, and nothing could alter that now. 

“I feel useless,” Rhaena confessed, her large, dark eyes–so reminiscent of her mother’s–reflecing a depths of despair. “Baela is patrolling Dragonstone, and Jace is at the Eyrie. If I had a dragon, I could help, I could… I could be useful.”

Her voice trailed off, seeming to choke on the weight of her unfulfilled potential and the feeling of being sidelined at a time when every action could tip the scales. Rhaenys listened intently, her heart aching for her granddaughter’s feeling of helplessness in the face of such family responsibility and danger. 

“There’s still time,” Rhaenys reassured gently, her eyes locking with Rhaena’s in a moment of comfort. “You are your mother’s daughter. I see so much of her in you.” Seeming to feel the weight of Rhaenys’s words, Rhaena leaned into her embrace, resting her cheek against Rhaenys’s armored collarbone, her arms wrapping tightly around her. 

“You are Laena’s daughter, never forget that. And your mother was more than just a dragon rider; she was a force in her own right. So are you.” Rhaenys’s voice was firm and encouraging, emphasizing the strengths that lay within Rhaena beyond the legacy of dragon riding.

In the bedchamber, the fire crackled and sputtered within the hearth, casting a warm glow that fought against the creeping chill of the darkness. Daemon sat slumped in his chair, his gaze locked on the dancing flames, one leg bouncing with restless energy. A cup of spiced wine stood on the table beside the chair, the flagon at its side half-empty. Night dominated the chamber, its dark, heavy silence broken only by the occasional pop and hiss from the fire. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision as he watched the flames twist and writhe. 

He had dismissed the dragonkeepers earlier, sending Caraxes back to the hidden recesses of the Dragonmont. With Rhaenyra gon, the weight of the crown rested squarely on his shoulders, yet her absence left him feeling powerless, confined to waiting and watching. 

The longing to follow Rhaenyra tugged relentlessly at Daemon’s heart, yet he remained in place. He harbored a deep desire to mount his dragon, fly to Storm’s End, and bring her safely back to Dragonstone. However, he knew all too well that she would never consent to such an action. Equally, while his instinct was to stand by her side as she grieved, he recognized that they could not both forsake their duties. The responsibility to defend her claim to the throne, especially in her absence, anchored him firmly to Dragonstone, compelling him to set aside his personal desires in favor of the greater need at the moment. 

Irritation simmered beneath Daemon’s skin, his frustration mounting with each passing hour. He understood Rhaenyra’s need to mourn her son, yet he also knew the realm couldn’t afford for its Queen to linger long in her grief. Responsibilities to the crown couldn't be so easily set aside–not like his brother had done so often. His mind echoed with troubling questions: How long would she be consumed by her sorrow before she could return to rule? How long before the alliances of the great houses and their men began to waver in her absence? How much time could pass before their support crumbled completely?

As he gritted his teeth, a more haunting question emerged–would she ever return? The possibility that she might not twisted inside him like a knife, stroking the dark embers of fear and doubt that threatened to overwhelm his resolve. These uncertainties echoed ominously, feeding the shadows that flickered in the corners of the room, mirroring the turmoil within him. 

Rhaenyra was queen now to a throne that had been usurped. She had to be a queen before a mother. The longer she remained absent, the weaker her claim became and the weaker their alliances grew. It pained him deeply that they had lost Luke, yet he recognized the necessity for them to remain steadfast. More was at stake than their personal grief–there were the futures and lives of their children, and the legacy of their house to consider. 

Had they taken decisive action earlier as he had pressed for, their circumstances would be different. They would have been able to lay siege around King’s Landing by now, with the Hightowers facing justice, displayed on spies as a grim testament to their treachery, and Rhaenyra would be seated on her rightful throne. But they hadn’t heeded him. Instead, they had engaged in a drawn-out war of diplomacy and ravens. 

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the persistent throb of tension behind his eyes. With a weary sigh, he reached for the cup of wine on the table beside him, quickly draining the remnants of its contents. The wine, rich with spices, briefly masked the sour taste that had settled in his mouth. Setting the empty cup aside, he leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. He rubbed at the tension behind his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing just enough to send a swirl of colors dancing behind his closed eyelids. 

Lucerys had been like a son to Daemon–in truth, he was a son to him. Daemon had raised him since the boy was eight, witnessing his growth from a child into a young man. He had presented Lucerys with his first saddle for Arrax on his tenths birthday, and had proudly watched as he had mounted his dragon for the first time. He was there, too, when Lucerys had dismounted, albeit shakinly, losing his footing and hitting his head against the saddle before falling to his ass on the beach, his teeth leaving a permanent impression in the leather. 

Daemon had overseen Jace and Lukes training with swords, joining the boys in mock battles and regaling them with tales of their father, Laenor, and his own battles in the Stepstones–and had at times mentioned Ser Harwin’s service under him as the Commander of the City Watch. 

He had loved Lucerys, and yet, like so much else that was theirs, the Hightowers had cruelly ripped him away. 

Part of Daemon felt a deep, gnawing responsibility for Luke's death. He replayed the events in his mind, knowing he should have been present at the council meeting when the decision was made. Instead, he had been patrolling with Caraxes, driven by his frustration. He should have advised Rhaenyra to send Rhaenys to Storm’s End—Rhaenys, with Baratheon blood in her veins, would have secured the allegiance of the blustering stag.

If Rhaenyra insisted on sending Luke, Daemon should have accompanied him. He should have done something—anything—to protect the boy. Now, the guilt weighed heavily on him, mingling with the cold fury that simmered just beneath the surface.

The relentless itch for action tingled at Daemon’s fingertips, a deep-seated need for decisive moves. Vhagar, the oldest and most formidable dragon alive, had witnessed the conquest of Westeros by Aegon and his sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya. She had survived a hundred battles and was part of the Targaryen legacy. He loathed to see such  a historic creature destroyed, yet Daemon recognized the necessity of the act. 

Eliminating Vhagar and her rider, that one-eyed cunt, would critically wound the Greens. With Vhagar gone, their most potent weapon against Rhaenyra would be lost, leaving them undefended. The only other battle-ready dragon they possessed was Sunfyre–a young, untested dragon ridden by their usurper king, whom Otto Hightower would hardly risk in open battle. Without Vhagar the Greens’ defenses and position would be severely weakened, diminishing their ability to maintain power.

Given Vhagar’s immense size and formidable battle prowess, Daemon know that facing her alone was tantamount to suicide. But Vhagar, for all her might and experience, had grown old and slow–this was to their advantage. Still, victory against such a behemoth would require more than just bravery; it necessitated more than one dragon. With the help of Meleys, he was sure they could take on that gaudy old bitch. Her agility and speed, coupled with Caraxes’ own strengths, would provide crucial advantage.

Daemon’s plan was to set a trap: he needed to draw Aemond and Vhagar away from the safety of King’s Landing and into an ambush where Meleys and Caraxes could engage them. By leveraging the combined might of the two dragons against the aging Vhagar, they could hope to overcome her defenses swiftly and with minimal casualties.

By successfully eliminating Vhagar and Aemond, Daemon could not only avenge Lucerys but strategically cripple the Greens. The loss of their strongest dragon and its rider would leave King’s Landing vulnerable and ripe for siege, especially with the Velaryon fleet starving the city of its recourse. 

With King’s Landing surrounded, Daemon’s forces could press the city hard, leveraging their newfound advantage to compel the Greens into making concessions–most crucially, the release of Daenera. 

Exhausted and infuriated, Daemon rubbed his brow, exhaling deeply. Just then, a soft knock at the door broke the silence of the room. There was no response from him, and yet the door slowly creaked open, allowing a frail stream of light to slice through the darkness, mingling with the flickering glow from the hearth. Daemon’s gaze shifted wearily to the figure hesitating at the threshold of his chambers, who, after a moment’s pause, gathered the courage to step inside. 

Rhaena moved gracefully through the dimly lit room, her form draped in a loose dress covered by a robe. Her hair was neatly tied back, secured with silk–a trick she had picked up on from her mother. The firelight softened her delicate features, casting gentle shadows that accentuated a slight furrow in her brows as she looked at him. Her presence brought a quiet tension to the air as Daemon withdrew his gaze. 

With a gruff exhale, Daemon leaned back in his chair, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m in no mind to offer good company right now.”

“I know,” Rhaena replied softly, hesitating on the fringe of the hearth’s light before gathering her resolve once more and moving to sit in the chair opposite him. “But I don’t think you should be alone.” There was a moment of silence before she continued, “Joffrey tried to mount Tyraxes and fly off…”

Daemon let out a humorless, sardonic laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. He shook his head slightly, turning his attention back to the flames in the hearth.

“He doesn’t understand that Luke isn’t…” Rhaena’s voice wavered, her emotions barely contained. “He doesn’t understand that Luke isn’t coming back. He wants to find his brother.”

Daemon poured himself another cup of wine then, with a gesture of subdued generosity, filled another cup halfway and slid it across the table towards Rhaena. She acknowledged the gesture with a gentle smile but left the wine untouched. Settling the flagon aside, Daemon took up his own cup, cradling it in his hands. He absentmindedly toyed with the foot of the cup, his blunt nails tracing the grooves etched into its surface. 

They sat together in silence, the only sound the crackling of the flames, each lost in their own thoughts. The quiet stretched between them, a comfortable yet heavy blanket, until Rhaena finally spoke, her voice soft but carrying a sharp edge of pain. “If mother had been alive, Luke would be too…”

Dameon let out a breath, his voice laden with weary warning, “Rhaena…”

He closed his eyes briefly, signaling his exhaustion. Comforting words and reminiscing were beyond him at the moment; solitude with his thoughts were what he craved, and more than anything, he yearned to hold his wife close again. 

But Rhaena did not heed his warning, her voice quivering with emotion, tears threatening to break through her composure. “Vhagar was mother’s dragon,” she said, the pain evident in her trembling words. “I can’t–she was mother’s dragon… If I had been quicker, if I had claimed Vhagar then–”

The volatile, restless energy that had been simmering within Daemon reached a boiling point. Abruptly, he slammed the cup of wine down on the table, the sound echoing like a thunderclap through the dimly lit room. Wine splaced from the cup, staining his hand and spilling over the table onto the floor. He fixed his daughter with a long, stern look, wrestling with the urge to lash out as frustration and grief mingled within him. 

Rhaena, with her eyes wide and filled with unshed tears, stared at a spot on the floor, deliberately avoiding his gaze. 

Daemon understood the pain behind her words–he knew that she was grappling with knowing that the dragon, who had once belonged to her fierce and gentle mother, Laena, had killed someone she loved. They had once chosen each other. Rhaena struggled to reconcile that her mother’s dragon could be part of the violence they now face. Daemon, however, was painfully aware of the harsh truth–that the bond between dragon and rider had perished with Laena, leaving Vhagar a different creature altogether, driven by new allegiances and the brutal instincts of its rider. 

Claiming a dragon was more than an act of dominion; it was the forging of a deep and profound bond, almost as if their souls were intertwined. A dragon was not a pet but an extension of the baser instincts that reside within all beings, a tangible connection to a primal force dwelling within each person. A dragon was a weapon with a mind of its own, the greatest force of nature that existed and it was to be respected, revered and feared. When Aemond claimed Vhagar, their souls became intertwined, uniting rider and beast, man and his purest, most unguarded instincts. In response, Vhagar had become an instrument of Aemond’s will, embodying his desires and ambitions as only a dragon could. 

Regret gnawed at Daemon’s stomach as he processed Rhaena’s expression. Reaching out, he took his daughter's hand in his own, enveloping it warmly as he offered the only comfort he could muster–a gentle squeeze. “A dragon is not a pet to be inherited. Vhagar chose Aemond as much as he chose her. There was nothing you could have done to prevent that. Aemond wanted Luke dead, and Vhagar acted on that desire. It was Aemond who killed Luke–his will, his desire. The bond between a dragon and its rider is profound.”

Rhaena’s voice was soft as she met Daemon’s eyes, her hand gently squeezing his. “Is it like that for all dragonriders?”

“It should be,” Daemon responded, a slight furrow on his brow. His thoughts briefly touched upon his own connection with Caraxes. To Daemon, Caraxes was more than just a dragon; he was an extension of himself, much like Dark Sister was. Riding Caraxes allowed him to embody his truest form: a fusion of immense power and potential for destruction, yet also a profound source of unconditional love and support. This bond was not merely about the might Caraxes brought to battle but also the deep, unwavering companionship he offered–he was a mirror of Daemon’s nature. “A dragon is both an extension of the rider’s will and a creature with its own nature. It is to be respected.”

Rhaena grew quiet.

Together, they remained seated in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. 

After a while, Rhaena broke the quiet, bidding him goodnight with a soft voice. She then quietly withdrew, leaving Daemon alone with his contemplations. The room felt emptier without her presence, and the weight of his desired solitude pressed heavily on him as he sat back, left to wrestle with his thoughts in the flickering light of the dying fire. 

As the first light of dawn filtered through the tall, narrow windows, the council convened with an air thick with solemnity. The Chamber of the Painted Table was tense as Daemon entered, the members of Rhaenyra’s council seated apprehensively around the table. Daemon moved with purposeful strides, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, drawing a sense of comfort from its familiar weight on his hip as he assumed the position as the head of the table–a position rightfully belonging to his wife. 

Lord Bartimos Celtigar adjusted in his seat, a frown creasing his features as he spoke warily, “The Queen?”

“Is indisposed,” Daemon replied curtly, his tone as sharp as the edge of his blade. His expression darkened as he continued, “The death of Lucerys has taken a toll on her, and she needs time to properly mourn her son.”

The night had dragged on slowly for Daemon, who had spent the hours gazing into the flickering flames of the hearth, lost in the solitude of his contemplation. His thoughts turned over their next strategic moves and how best to avenge his stepson’s death. Despite the growing unease in his heart, he had held onto a sliver of hope, waiting for Rhaenyra’s return. Against his better judgment, he had hoped she would walk through the door and take up her responsibilities once more. But as dawn crept in and the shadows receded, it became clear she would not return–not until she had found whatever she needed outthere. She had left him alone, burdened with the weight of continuing in her stead, steering their course forward without her. 

Lord Simon Staunton shifted uneasily, the black wings upon a white fess emblazoned across his doublet standing out against the black and gray checkered background. He nervously fiddled with a ring on his fingers, clearly unsettled by Daemon’s intense glare. “Is it true that the Queen has left Dragonstone?

“She has gone to Storm’s End.”Lord Corlys Velaryon responded when Daemon remained silent, informing them of where their Queen had gone. 

“Alone?” Lord Gormn Massey interjected sharply, his voice laden with exasperation. The idea that their Queen venturing out alone, without any protection, seemed not only foolhardy but utterly preposterous to him. His disbelief was evident, echoing the concerns of many in the room about the implications of such a decision. 

Lord Corlys Velaryon attempted to calm the nerves of his fellow council members with a measured tone, his fingers tapping gently on the head of his cane. “The Queen has her dragon–”

“She is heading into enemy territory!” Lord Gormon Massey interrupted, his voice rising in alarm. “She could be walking into an ambush! The Hightowers have shown no qualms with spilling blood, and House Baratheon has declared for them, have they not?”

Corlys responded with a firmness that matched his calm, “House Baratheon might have declared for the Greens, but they are not likely to strike down a grieving mother and spill the blood of a Queen.” He paused, allowing his words to resonate before adding, “They know that should they harm her, Storm’s End would become a second Harrenhal.”

The room fell into a tense silence as the gravity of the situation settled over the council. Rhaena moved through the tense atmosphere, acting as the intermediary in the strained silence. She approached Lord Simon Staunton first, deftly pouring wine into his cup before turning to her grandfather to offer him wine as well. Corlys, however, gently placed his hand over his cup, signaling his refusal. He offered Rhaena a gentle smile, appreciating her efforts despite his decision to abstain. Acknowledging his gesture with a nod, Rhaena continued her duties, moving down the line to Lord Bar Emmon. He sat quietly, his eyes set on the table, seemingly lost in thought.

 In the absence of Rhaenyra’s heir, Jace, and her sister Baela, she took up this responsibility as a cup-bearer. 

Completing her service to Lord Bar Emmon, Rhaena crossed to the other side of the room to pour wine into Lord Staunton’s cup.  It was then that he turned to Daemon, seeking reassurance. “When will she return?”

Daemon responded to the pressing question with a stern, silent gaze that swept across the faces of the council before he replied curtly, “When she is ready.”

Lord Bartimos Celtigar carefully chose his next words, aware of the tension thickening in the room. “We all mourn the loss of the young prince,” he began, his eyes slowly scanning the council members, who all nodded in agreement. His hand rested on the Painted Table, a gesture indicating the gravity of his next statement. He then lifted his gaze to meet Daemon’s, continuing, “But we cannot hold off–”

“I agree, Lord Bartimos,” Daemon interrupted, his voice firm, cutting through any further elaboration. “Which is why I stand in her place.”

His statement was clear, signaling his temporary assumption of Rhaenyra’s duties and authority. 

Lord Bartimos, seeming to recognize the finality in Daemon’s tone, averted his gaze in a gesture of deference. He seemed to sense Daemon’s rising agitation–as did the rest of the council–and chose not to challenge him further. Daemon was not in the mood for prolonged discussions or objections. He was familiar with the tension building within him, a craving for the clear-cut simplicity of the battlefield, rather than the complexities of court politics, and while he’d wage war in Rhaenyra’s name, there was little he could do without her final decision.

Just then, Lord Gunthor Darklyn interjected with a new concern, shifting the focus of the conversation. “Has Prince Jacaerys been informed of his brother’s passing?”

With a swift, almost exasperated gesture, Daemon produced two rolled parchments from his pocket. Each was neatly sealed with red wax, embossed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He set the letters down on the table, clearly intended for dispatch. 

“Have these letters sent to both the Eyrie and Winterfell,” he instructed crisply.

“Yes, my prince,” Maester Gerardys responded, his voice a calm contrast to Daemon’s terse command. He rose from his seat, his movements measured as he rounded the table. The maester’s chain clinked softly with each step. And while picking up the two letters, said, “I will send them immediately.”

“No need,” Daemon answered, dismissing the need to make haste of it.

Maester Gerardys returned to his seat, laying aside the letters that would be sent after the conclusion of the council meeting.

Daemon had contemplated how to break the news to Jace, and had finally settled on being direct: 

It grieves me to inform you, but your brother, Lucerys, is dead. He was slain by Aemond Targaryen after leaving Storm’s End. Your mother has left Dragonstone in her grief, and her return is uncertain. I will send a raven once she returns, but until then, you must ensure that our alliances are solidified. Your mother will need the support of the North and the Vale in this war. Lay aside your grief and fulfill her duty as her heir. 

Daemon recognized that no further words could change the necessity of their situation. The support of the Vale and the North, as a whole, was crucial, and he trusted that Jace would understand the gravity and respond accordingly. 

Lord Bartimos Celitgar, showing visible signs of agitation, seemingly couldn’t contain his frustration any longer and let out a heavy huff, shaking his head in disbelief. “The murder of Prince Lucerys will shock the realm,” he asserted, voice tinged with both anger and conviction. “We must inform the great houses of the nature of this treachery. If they have not declared for us, they will now. Kinslaying will not win the usurpers any supporters…” He continued to shake his head, the disgust palpable in his expression. “None are so accursed as the kinslayer, and Aemond Targaryen has doomed himself with this wretched act.”

Corlys Velaryon’s voice carried a mix of concern and urgency as he turned to Maester Gerardys. “Is there any news from King’s Landing?”

“Nothing yet, my lord,” the maester responded with a measured tone, shifting slightly in his seat. “If there is any information to come out of the Red Keep, we should receive it shortly–within a matter of hours, maybe days.”

Daemon addressed the council, stating firmly. “While the Queen is away, we will continue our efforts. How does the Velaryon fleet stand?”

Corlys Velaryon straightened in his seat, his presence commanding as he turned his attention from Daemon to the rest of the council. “The fleet is slowly moving into position, my prince. The shipwrights are tirelessly working day and night to repair the ships that took damage in the Stepstones. Within the fortnight, we expect at least seven of those ships to be seaworthy enough to join the rest of the fleet as they position near the Gullet. Once all of the ships have been repaired and are ready to set sail, we’ll be able to completely seal the Gullet.” He paused, assessing the impact of his words before continuing. “Currently, Rhaenys manages to prevent most ships from entering or exiting Blackwater Bay, though not all. However, King’s Landing will soon start to feel the effects of our blockade, if they haven’t already.”

Corlys then turned his gaze back to Daemon, his expression serious. “If you will permit, I would like to return to Driftmark to personally oversee the repairs. I will keep you well informed of our progress.”

Daemon responded with a measured nod, signaling his approval. He stood, his movements signaling a shift towards the conclusion of the council’s discussion. “When the Queen returns, we shall inform her of our progress. I want to be kept informed about everything happening in King’s Landing as well as the Stormlands.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the council members to ensure he had their full attention. “Send raves–inform the realm of the usurpers and their act of kinslaying.”

Then, pausing for a moment to let the weight of his words sink in, he concluded with a declaration that reverberated off the ancient stone walls, “And prepare for a war fought with steel.”

[streetsweepershenanigans]

Street Sweeper's Icemav Masterlist

Updated 2/1/2024

Fics are listed in order of most recent to oldest.

Oneshots:

(Posted to AO3):

Wanting for Home- Very whumpy, as with everything, please heed the tags and warnings. Features Mav going through a sexuality crisis with internalized homophobia mixed in due to the time period and his position in the United States Military. Happy ending, though, don't worry. Hurt/Comfort.

Silence Is (Not) A Virtue- Another whumpy one, this time with some past child abuse resulting in selective mutism. Hurt/Comfort.

Third Time's The Charm (Oblivion AU)- A purely self-indulgent Oblivion AU with Top Gun characters. This is a companion piece to In My Dreams I See Us Falling, told from Ice's point of view.

In My Dreams I See Us Falling (A Top Gun Oblivion AU)- The first of my Oblivion AU's. If you have seen and enjoyed Tom Cruise's Oblivion, I highly recremond these.

No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk- A single!parent Maverick fic wherein he is forced to come clean to Ice about having a kid after they've been seeing each other for a while.

Here Lies Iceman's Personal Space- A fluffy domestic fic about Maverick invading Ice's personal space and somehow endearing himself to Ice even more.

Caught In The Headlights- A whumpy hurt/comfort fic featuring parental Icemav and baby Bradley. After Maverick is seriously injured in a car accident, Ice has to contend with the reality that he might be all Bradley has left in the world.

It's (Not) Okay (But It Will Be)- Maverick suffers a life-altering injury during the events of the uranium mission and now he and Ice must learn how to contend with the past and move forward together.

Just Like The Song- Drunk Maverick finds his way to Ice's house in the middle of the night and shenanigans ensue.

Mother Goose Knows Best. - Stranded in the rain after class, Maverick can either walk home or accept a ride from the last person he wants to be stuck in a car with.

The Winner Takes It All (I Don't Wanna Talk)- A sweet, soft, fluffy, domestic one-shot- my first ever Icemav fic. Sometimes, actions speak louder than words.

(Posted to Tumblr exclusively):

Baby Goose's First Swear Word- The story of how Baby Goose learned his first swear word.

One Day (An Icemav Fic)- Iceman and Maverick always find their way back to one another- even decades later.

Lunch Mix Up- Ice and Baby Goose's lunches get mixed up one day.

How Do I Say Goodbye? - Angsty short one-shot featuring Maverick having to come to terms with losing the closest thing he's ever had to a father.

Multichapters:

Caught In Oblivion- Chapters: 4/6- A full-fledged and fleshed-out Oblivion AU with our beloved Top Gun Characters. Very self-indulgent, but you can read it too. 4/6 chapters.

Icemav Imagines (Open for use if you feel inspired by any of them, just tag me so I can read):

Italian Maverick

Maverick vs the smoke detector's dead batteries-

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

kdnfb's Ten Years of Fanficion Mania Featuring: The Midnight Train

Summary: Desperation breeds desperate acts. Katniss makes a deal to protect her sister from the reaping, with no idea of how far-reaching the consequences will be.

Originally written for the @everlarkficexchange Spring 2018 Edition based on the prompt -- “I know what you want. You have money, but what I have are a very particular set of skills. Skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a dream come true for people like you.“ Sexually frustrated trophy wife Katniss commissions artist Peeta who immortalizes naked women after giving them the greatest O of their lives. -- I deviated a tiny bit from the prompt.

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS

Rating: E for explicit sexual content, explicit language, explicit consent, dubious consent, age difference, implied/referenced underage sex, implied/referenced grooming and sexual manipulation of a minor, canon typical violence, suicidal thoughts, depression, implied/referenced child abuse, domestic abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, incest, step-relation incest, infidelity, dark!(ish?)Peeta.

Relationship tags: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen/Other(s), Peeta Mellark/Other(s)

A/N: Some readers tell me that the tags on this one make it sound worse than it is, others say the tags are absolutely needed. It's not easy to explain them without giving away too many of the twists. Maybe I should say that the tags are there because awful things happen to Everlark in this story, and they do some things that can potentially be viewed as morally gray. They do not, however, intentionally or deliberately hurt and/or cheat on each other... at least not by my definition... again, hard to explain without too many spoilers. Ultimately, though, The Midnight Train, is an Everlark endgame story.

This story is one of those ones that I tried writing one version, which was significantly lighter in themes and plot, but it just wasn't working. Instead, I just sort of zoned out and started typing on the idea of Katniss as a trophy wife. It took a hard left turn into darkness and then wouldn't stop happening. So yes, this story is not for the faint of heart, but I am also exceptionally proud of what I created here.

There has been talk about a sequel, which as of right now is a disaster of about ten chapters drafted, another fifteen chapters planned, told from Peeta's POV. It would span the events of The Midnight Train, and extend several years into the future. I do not know when, if ever, I will finish it. If you've read The Midnight Train, then you can probably take a wild guess that writing anything from this Peeta's POV, especially something that long, is painful and difficult, and can only be done in small doses.

Anyways, for those of you brave enough to try it or revisit it, I give you...

The Midnight Train on AO3

[simping-overload]

ᴀ ᴛɪᴇꜰʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴛᴀɪʟ - ᴄʟᴏᴛʜꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀɪʟ (ᴀꜱᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ)

a/n: a tieflings tail is a 10+ chapter series involving bg3 men and a variety of scenarios with tiefling tavs tail

tags: gn tav, tailor astarion, fluff, 531 words

synopsis: Astarion makes you a sleeve for your tail to keep it warm during the winter months.

『read on ao3』

ヾthis is a multi-fandom blog that is designed for mlm/nbmlm identifying readers! so if you're female or fem please do not follow or interact with my mlm related post!! you will be blocked if you do not heed this warning ゛

Over the course of your adventures with your ever-growing group, Astarion appointed himself as the tailor. Stitching together any holes and tears, he’d find in someone’s clothing.

According to him, he refuses to allow himself to be seen with people who look like disgusting hobos.

He’s mainly self-taught, but after Halsin joined the party, he’s learning from him as well. Halsin himself was taught by his mother and, along the way, picked up more unconventional tricks when he looked after the children of the Emerald Grove.

You are his test dummy to try his newly found tricks on. Though, not only because you’re his lover, but because you’re usually the one who ends up with the most tears and holes in your clothes.

Just as you were now, standing in Astarions’ tent as he patches up your clothing. Some are from old tears, and others are from completely new ones in different places.

Astarion, per usual, grumbles out his disappointments. “By the gods’ love, can you ever just not rip your clothes to shreds anytime you leave camp?”

You suppress your shrug, wanting to avoid getting jabbed with a needle again. “Sorry, Star, we both know that isn’t possible.”

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes as he completes the last stitch. Stepping back, he tugs on the fabric, making sure his stitches are secure, and hopefully won’t be teared for at least another few weeks.

It doesn’t seem he’s done as when he stepped away to rummage through his belongings. You stay in your spot, tail curling in curiosity. He turns back around with a long piece of cloth in his hand.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not sure what to name it but, it’s for your tail. Since winter is nearing, I wanted to make you something for your tail. Just to keep you warm.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him that you don’t need one. Since you're a Tiefling, your body heat was more than enough to keep you warm during the winter months.

“Thank you, Star.”

He hummed in response, pulling the long sleeve up your tail and fastens so it won’t fall off. He left a small hole in the end for the tip of your tail to poke out, since you’ve told him before you don’t like that part of your tail being surrounded by anything since it’s the most sensitive there.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. It didn’t look bad at all. The color compliments your skin tone. Twirling and moving your tail around, you get a feel for it. It’s quite comfortable against your skin and were you more susceptible to the cold, you’d for sure be able to keep warm with this.

You hop down from the stool, turning to Astarion. “I like this a lot, love and rest assured I will keep it intact.”

Astarion snorts, grabbing your hand and pulls you to him. “You better, or I’ll make sure you wake up bloodless the next morning, hm?” He teases.

You fake an offended gasp. “You wouldn’t dare.” Leaning down, you press your forehead against his.

“Oh, love, but I would.” He giggles and places a soft kiss on your lips.

[anthropologyruinseverything]

New fic series! WWE Mafia AU

Welcome to what is essentially my dark romance, junk food series. I want to practice writing in the genre so here we go! Plz see CW warnings. There are 3 fulls stories and a 1 shot planned, I will be writing stories and one-shots as part of this universe as time goes on. As of right now Jey, Damian, Roman and Tama are in the works but I’d like to expound so hit me with recs!

(They may take time to write)

Now on with it.

18+ only from here plz - minors dni

Sea & Moon

Jey Uso x IndigenousFMC

Summary: Nokomis “Kiki” Levy was a normal twenty year old college student whose biggest concerns were passing chemistry and what graduate programs would want to see on an application.

Joshua “Jey” Fatu is thirty-one and has recently been appointed heir apparent of his father’s branch of their families shadowy enterprise and needs to prove himself up to the task.

Their worlds collide when Kiki’s father, a detective with SFPD, gets too close to Jey’s family business. While they start as enemies there is an undeniable burn between them. Will a much larger threat be their end or give them a chance to thrive together?

🚨It’ll be a dark journey for the Levy girls, please heed content warnings that include mild n0n-con between main characters, dubious consent, violence, mentions of difficult topics such as substance abuse, mental health issues and more. There will be various k!nks such as prim@l play, masks, captiv!ty, 🔪 play, ch0king, and more. The boys are morally grey to black but love and obsess over their ladies.

There is an HEA for everyone! I probably won’t post more than the prologues and one shots here on Tumblr and leave the really dark stuff on AO3. I will post links though and just drop a comment if you’d like to be tagged in any further updates.

## Prologue

**Nokomis “Kiki” POV**

⭐️*character note, Kiki has vitiligo which affects her face over her right eye, her hands and other other areas.

It was just supposed to be another regular movie night at home with my sister and cousin, nothing unusual or life altering. The same sort of thing we did almost every Saturday night since we could remember. I didn’t think twice when my folks decided on a last minute date night while we three girls piled onto the couch for comedies and popcorn, waving them off as if I’d see them in a few hours.

I wished I’d hugged them tighter and longer. As if that would have somehow stopped what happened next.

Not long after my parents had left my dad’s retired K9 partner Atlas started going insane, running back and forth to the back door and barking. I assumed he was interested in a rabbit or some other critter like a possum in the backyard so I hushed him and sent him to his crate for acting so crazy. In the long run I’d probably saved his life but I had still wished for his protection with what came next.

We never heard the back door locks being picked or footsteps in the kitchen. Between the movie, our laughter and the occasional dog bark nothing else penetrated our space and like most college students on a Saturday night our minds weren’t on the dangers lurking in the shadows. We didn’t know anything was wrong until Kai went to the kitchen for drinks and her scream alerted Kiri and me to our unwelcome visitors.

I’d never felt so stupid and slow as I did when the large men in masks appeared in the doorway, one with a particularly vicious face mask, long black hair and icy gray eyes held a long knife to Kai’s throat, clutching her tightly to his front with his other arm. Every time I ever swore to myself and my parents I would fight back went out the window when I realized it might actually cost my cousin her life. Instead I reached for Kiri’s hand as we stood frozen to the spot. Her light brown eyes were blown wide in fear and her normally tan face had gone ashen.

Everyone was quiet except for Atlas’s enraged barking.

The shortest man was still at least six feet tall and he wore a black mask with red spiral designs that covered his lower face. Withdrawing a gun from a shoulder holster he indicated the elderly german shepherd. “Shut it the fuck up.”

Instinctively Kieran and I both moved to stand between him and Atlas, her fingers digging into my hand tighter than ever before while her other came up in a placating gesture as I spoke. “Please don’t hurt him, he’s old and scared.” She turned to me with frightened eyes and indicated I should comfort him with a jerk of her chin. Dropping I tried to soothe him and at least got him to quiet down to a whimper.

The next thing I became aware of nearly made me lose control of my bladder. A harsh, cold metal gun barrel was pressed to the back of my head as Kiri’s hand was wrenched from mine.

“You girls gonna behave?”

I swallowed past the thick lump in my throat and nodded, hating that every inch of me was paralyzed. What happened to being an officer’s daughter who could stand her ground? All I could think about was that knife pressed to Kai, that gun leveled at the back of my head or at Atlas. If I didn’t behave they could be hurt or I could be killed. I risked glancing up at Kieran who was so still and quiet, being held by the largest of the three. His purple and black mask was monstrous like the tattoos on his exposed arms.

“Stand up slowly. Where’re your parents?” Out of habit when someone stared at me intensely I let my hair fall forward over my face even as I did what he said. His dark brown eyes looked black in the dim light of the living and the comedy kept playing in the background offering a ridiculous soundtrack to such a grave moment. Everything felt surreal in the flashing lights.

“N-not home.” My voice shook even as I tried to sound calm. “Our dad, he’s a cop, he’ll be back soon.” As if supplying that information would make him think twice.

The tall one chuckled, responding in a deep voice that fit his intimidating stature. “We know mija. He’s why we’re here.”

Kai’s whimper brought my attention back to her and the man holding her. He was far too interested in running his knife down her chest. “Hey! Stop it!”

Kai was two years younger than us and as such we’d always been protective of her. I realized what I’d done when those cold gray eyes flashed to me.

The man with black eyes didn’t hesitate, stepping in uncomfortably close to put the barrel under my chin. “Behave.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Survival mode engaged apparently. I realized we were truly fucked when he tugged his mask down to reveal an equally black beard but handsome face. “Leave a note D. We’re taking them and their old man can turn himself in when *we’re* ready.”

The last thing I remembered for a while was Kai crying out and a sharp prick in my neck before everything went black.

———

**Joshua “Jey” POV **

Catching the purple haired girl as she fell I moved to set her on the couch with the other two so they could be tied up. We’d come looking for Detective Levy and we were leaving with his twin daughters and their cousin. Not the worst all things considered but still not my plan and I didn’t like it when things didn’t go according to plan.

“You said he’d be here tonight D.”

Damian tugged his mask off with a shrug, accepting the roll of duct tape Roman had retrieved from his bag. He passed me one as well and we went to work taping the girls wrists, ankles and mouths.

“I’ll talk to J.D.” Unlike our family Damian ran a crew of people he’d collected with no ties aside from shared interests. It made them difficult to trust and easy to be angry with as far as I was concerned. I owed Damian my life, not them.

“Do that. Let’s get the fuck outta here.

Roman, you can mess with her later.” He was preoccupied with the pretty little woman he’d pounced on in the kitchen, running his hands up her thighs over her pajama pants. Instead of answering he just rolled those alarming eyes of his and threw her over his shoulder. I took a second to really assess the young woman in front of me. Her name was Nokomis, one of the detectives two daughters. College student majoring in biology and member of the chess club. Of course. What I hadn’t known about was her vitiligo and I found myself more interested than I should have been in the beautiful patterns on her skin. A particular blaze over her right eye was especially striking.

Shaking the thoughts loose I followed his example and so did Damian with his new charge. Our SUV was parked in the alley behind the house and it had been easy enough to blow out the lone street light a few days prior. We put our two in the third row while Roman climbed in the center with his prize. I felt a twinge of pity for her. Capturing his interest so intently was not an enviable thing for anyone.

I waited until Damian was pulling the car onto the street to speak. “Obviously this changes things.”

“No mierda Jey.” Damian’s irritation was obvious. He knew I hated it when jobs went wrong and I knew it irritated him as well. Not to mention bad intelligence was always followed by a period of mistrust and I knew J.D. was already on thin ice as it was. “You were serious about holding them?”

I looked back at the middle row to find my cousin petting the woman in his lap even as she seemed to struggle against him. It would have been funny if I didn’t know him. “Yeah. Can have some fun but don’t kill ‘em.” I looked pointedly at Roman.

“I don’t kill women Jey. Just…like to play rough.”

“Yeah with professionals, not college kids.”

“You sure that’s a good idea? She saw your face cabrón.” Damian cut in. He had a good point but I wasn’t worried. If I hadn’t thought through this possibility I may have been more stressed about the decision.

“Nah, when they see what we do to their old man they’ll be too scared to say shit and we’ve paid off or killed anyone else who could do shit about it anyway.”

He flexed his broad shoulders and stole a glance in the rear view as the other girls were coming to and shifting around in the far back seat. I wasn’t blind or dumb and while he wasn’t as obvious as Roman I could see he was interested in the little one he’d held onto.

“Could let off some steam.”

I smirked. It wouldn’t be hard to seduce them, a few drinks and some promises and they’d be pliant like most other females I dealt with on the regular. I’d be lying if said I wasn’t intrigued by the girl who stared at me in the rear view, her light brown eyes looking golden in passing streetlights. I could see the defiance in them.

Good. Maybe having to wait a few more days to end the cop who got too close and couldn’t be bought wouldn’t be so bad. Not with some pretty company.