#the best laid schemes

[mariocki]

The Saint: The Best Laid Schemes (6.1, ITC, 1968)

"You know, it's, uh, pretty obvious that somebody who knows your aunt's past medical history is trying to drive her mad. I must admit they're doing a pretty good job of it, too. But now suppose the end object of the exercise is not to have her committed but to get her to the state where she would take her own life. Be neat, wouldn't it?"

[theeminentlyimpractical]

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: Jason Todd is back. He's back and he's angry and also a cat. It's somehow Tim's problem.

Author: sleepypapaya

Note from submitter: get cat-ifyed idiot

[randomfoggytiger]

The Scully Family In-Depth (Part XVIII): Best-Laid Schemes Often Go Awry

The dynamic Bill Scully and Fox Mulder strike up stems directly from the maelstrom of Scully's cancer and impending death.

As Bill sees it, Dana has chosen crumbs from her negligible partner over the love and comfort of her family; and her final days on Earth will be spent with said partner incessantly pouring guilt into her ear (intentionally or otherwise) because she can't keep up with the work, the work, the work. Therefore, Bill plans to handle the problem with tact, for Dana's sake: don't upset the dying, keep conversations short, and let Mulder be.

However: that path requires patience and compassion-- neither of which he has in abundance (and none of which he has for the man in question)-- and his behavior quickly morphs from cool acceptance to strongly worded warnings to outright hostility as Bill tries and fails to keep Mulder from pouring scifi-snake oil "cures" down his sister's throat (or under the back of her neck.)

STAGE ONE: BILL KEEPS TO HIMSELF

Having recovered from hypovolemic shock but markedly on the decline, Scully pleads, eyes desperate, for Mulder to accept the sacrifice of her reputation: “Mulder, if I can save you, let me. Let me at least give some meaning to what’s happened to me."

Before Mulder can rebut or cave to his partner's dying wish,  the door abruptly opens and Maggie’s head peeks through. 

“Dana?” she whispers, face soft and understanding. Despite the intense emotions Scully's decisions put her through, Maggie's set them aside-- determined to let her youngest girl pass in peace knowing she was loved and cherished.

Her understanding doesn’t stop there. 

“Hi, Fox,” Maggie greets, including him in her smile just as Bill appears from behind.  

“Hi, Mrs. Scully,” Mulder echoes, happy to see her. He keeps his emotional guard up, however, by putting on a brave face for her as well as his partner-- a coping mechanism of his cultivated for Tena Mulder after Samantha’s disappearance (post here, here, here, and here), and one he exercises with those closest to him. Despite this, his eyes are warm, his posture relaxed, his attitude unashamed even with a hand is still caught in Scully’s death grip. 

Maggie takes in their posture-- Scully’s serious-unto-death expression, Mulder’s slumped shoulders and gentle carefulness-- and knows that something somber has been discussed, one without a happy or hopeful conclusion. 

Bill, meanwhile, remains a silent centurion behind his mother (literally as well as figuratively having her back.)

“I hope I’m not interrupting?” Maggie asks, intuiting by her daughter’s expression that she and Bill were, indeed, interrupting. 

Bill gives Mulder a polite smile which belies his private thoughts and opinions… and which leads Mulder to believe, for a short while, that Bill is another loving Scully that will welcome him with open arms. 

“No, no,” Mulder says kindly, turning briefly to Scully and clutching her hand with both of his, “I was just on my way out.”

Mulder and Maggie are uniquely knitted to one another: not only have they faced Scully's death before, side-by-side, but they've also won each other's love and trust (post here.) Further, he knows they are both keeping strong not only for Scully but also for each other.  

Demeanor relaxed (as much as is possible, given the circumstances), he offers Maggie a beautiful smile; then extends that smile to the man he likely assumes is one of the elusive Scully boys. Mulder believes that the acceptance his partner, her mother, and her sister gave him is a family trait... to his detriment.

Unaware of darker feelings floating under the surface, Mulder also assumes the Scullys won't be bothered by his comforting overtures, bending down to kiss his partner's hand before he leaves.

The intruders observe without comment; but Bill’s grip on Maggie’s shoulder tightens, just a bit.

STAGE TWO: BILL'S INITIAL CIVILITY

Giving one last smile in Maggie’s direction, Mulder intends to glide away but stops himself as he passes Bill. Better inclinations move him to pause and offer commiseration and empathy to another older brother facing the loss of yet another younger sister. 

Without warning, he grips Bill’s hand in greeting, causing the latter to spin around defensively as Mulder introduces himself. 

“I’m, um, Fox Mulder,” he begins; and Bill forces himself to relax a fraction, sighing out his frustration and anger, pasting on a smile and nodding his head in recognition. To Mulder, all the signs of a surprised and grieving brother-- not ones of a man who is clinging to restraint for his sister’s sake. 

“I’m Bill Scully,” Bill replies, widening his false smile for introduction’s sake. He even lets Mulder pump his hand up and down vigorously, not denying but not quite returning the gesture. His posture straightens as he places a hand on his hip, waiting for Dana’s partner to leave before he joins his mother and sister inside.  

Mulder does not leave, biting his lower lip as he peers back into Scully’s room. While taking in the scene, his eyes become glossy and red; then lock on Bill with a new shade of vulnerability. “I’m sorry about your sister.” 

He nods along with Bill’s nod, not noticing the other man has reached his limit by this display of empathy (which Bill perceives as flippant and distasteful.)   

STAGE THREE: BILL'S PATIENCE VANISHES

Bill, brusque and impatient by nature, finds his restraint has evaporated now that Dana's partner sought him out. By turns resentful that Mulder is disturbing Dana in her final days, cautious for the sake of his sister’s feelings (or what he thinks her wishes would be), and furious that Mulder's fake sincerity nearly pulled a tear from his own eye, he treads as civilly as he can.

“Mr. Mulder--”, Bill calls as the latter begins to retreat.

He takes a breath, weighing how best to attack this situation. 

“I know something about you.” 

Mulder freezes. Assuming Bill is referring to his “reputation” at the FBI, he looks down, anticipating rejection. However, when her brother continues “--about what Dana’s been through with you, so--” , Mulder’s relieved, nodding along agreeably, assuming he’s hastily misinterpreted Bill’s intent. 

How right and wrong he is. 

Bill, again, pauses to weigh his words-- more accurately, to hedge what he really wants to say. 

“Let’s leave the work away from here, okay?”

He gives Mulder another smile, no longer laced with the appearance of goodwill-- dripping, in fact, with fury and disdain. His words are warning, but his eyes are threatening. 

Mulder has been rescued from the pit of despair only to be thrown down once again from a greater height: from the pain of rejection to the gratitude of relief to the blow of unmitigated hatred. Anger and disdain he’s used to-- from his peers, his authority, even his friends and himself. But not from Scully, not from her family; and never to this extent.

He stands back, stung, tilting his face slightly in reaction to Bill’s conclusive head nod.

Brother Bill reveals his complete lack of faith in Dana’s trust in Mulder, in Dana herself (post here): “Let her die with dignity.” Let her believe she’s died for a good cause; let her live a normal life the last few days she has; let her go without your issues burdening her.

Although he wants to protect his sister, he doesn’t trust her decisions: believing instead that Mulder fed her “for the greater good” delusions, and that he continues to feed off of her loyalty and devotion.

Bill silently reinforces a barrier between his family and Mulder with one last parting glare: Mulder's out if he brings the work in; Mulder's in if he keeps the work out; and Mulder's separate from the family unit, regardless, because of the “consequences” of his actions.  

He swiftly leaves Mulder behind, joining his mother by Scully's bedside. Neither woman picks up on any lingering stress or anger; and Scully even indulges him, reaching up to take his hand and smiling over whatever he has to say. 

Bill wouldn’t be above rubbing this family bonding in Mulder’s face, perhaps, but he doesn’t seem to be doing it here intentionally: he believes Mulder truly doesn't consider Dana's feelings, believes that Mulder prefers to to huff off somewhere to work rather than remain by Scully’s sickbed (probably assumes he already has), believes that Mulder won’t suffer too much from backing off, anyway. 

But Mulder does see, does feel excluded, is dealt another blow watching Scully soak up her family. Because, to him, the realization that this Scully existed before his Scully-- the same openness and affection-- is further proof that she could have easily lived a long, happy life if not for his quest, if not for him. And it guts Mulder.  

He straightens his spine to inhale; and continues to stare, transfixed, as the screen fades to black. 

CONCLUSION

Not the best introduction... but the worst is yet to come.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[oopsallmabari]

i'm just happy that when playing inq i saw that the trevelyans are a noble family noted for their piety and service to the chantry and eventually said 'got it. so the trevelyans quietly have the long-term goal of controlling at least 1 of the circles and eventually installing one of their own on the sunburst throne'. it took me a second to get fun with it but eventually i got there

[mr-craig]

“Our own ambitions and tasks that we set for ourselves, the frame-work we attempt to impose upon the world is no more than a shadow of a tree cast across the snow. It will change as the sun moves, be swallowed in the night, sway with the wind and when the smooth snow vanishes, it will lie distorted upon the uneven earth. But the tree continues to be.”

~ Kettricken, from Royal Assassin by Robin Hobb (1996)

[saisons-en-enfer]

Thirsty, hungry, seldom stopping to rest like a spirit roaming the night

[brian-in-finance]

Gif: @clairelizfraser

S02E06 Best Laid Schemes… • 14 May 2016 Official Script

Outlander Rewatch 2023 Countdown To Season 7

Favourite Word

The Mother thought it best Milady remain, so not to travel the streets at night. I allowed it. — Fergus

Gif: @give-me-a-thousandkisses

Favourite Line

Stop fooling around! Pay attention. — Claire

Gifs: @aye-sassenachh

Favourite Image

Wee one, it’s your father. I cannae wait to meet you. — Jamie

Gifs: @avasetocallmyown

Remember… we always seem to find a way back to each other, no? — Jamie Fraser

22nd of 75 • Monday, 24 April 2023

[beatlespussy]

dropping this here bc the fic its part of is kind of not working. He Left A Twenty Four Year Old Freak With A Baby

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men

It was the precepts of this school which rendered the supreme power in the hands of Marcus Aurelius a blessing to the human race… — Dugald Stewart

Robert Burns (1759–1796), the national bard of Scotland, was good friends with Dugald Stewart (1753–1828), a professor of philosophy at Edinburgh University, and an expert on Stoicism. Read the full article here: click!

[catgrandpa]

Gotham has always been weird, so when the groundskeeper at the cemetery noticed the Wayne kid’s plot was disturbed, he just chalked it up to more of the same ol’. Alright, so ‘disturbed’ may be a tad too light of a word, but what’s an empty grave in the grand scheme of Gotham? God knows in a city like this one, they could use all the burial room they could get. He figured he’d just jot it down on the website and hope nobody noticed for a while.

Too bad he didn’t account for the 13 year old boy in Bristol who periodically checks the cemetery’s website when he’s feeling particularly lonely.

Plot Removed.

Tim Drake stared at the two words under the heading for Jason Todd’s plot number. Removed? What do they mean ‘removed’? They can’t just remove a plot? That’s a person down there! That’s Robin down there! You can’t Remove Robin!

Calm down. Deep breaths. Assess the situation.

Robin has been dead for 5 months and 14 days. There is no reason for a grave to be removed that early, especially one of a member of such an affluential family. Chances are likely it’s a simple clerical issue. He can call first thing in the morning and make them aware of the mistake. He can have it all fixed in 5 hours.

Just a phone call.

In 5 hours.

…

Tim hates talking on the phone almost as much as he hates waiting.

Well it won’t be the first time he’s snuck out to head to Gotham proper at 1am. It can’t even really be considered sneaking out if there’s no one home to catch you.

Buses stop running at 2, so he layers a couple sweaters under his coat and grabs his best running sneakers so he can comfortably make the trek back.

Just a quick trip to settle his nerves. Maybe get a few shots in if he spots Batman, but really he just wants to see with his own two eyes that things are okay and Jason can rest.

It’s 1:37 by the time he gets to the headstone reading ‘Here Lies Jason Todd’ and the gaping, muddy pit in front of it.

This- This doesn’t make any sense. This is not removal. This is destruction. Desecration. Somebody did this. Somebody-

Assess the situation.

A hole in the ground, approximately 1.5 feet in diameter.

Mud and grass flung outward but with little force.

Large chunks of earth turned over and shoved away.

No signs of tool marks or clean lines of entry into the dirt.

Dragging claw marks.

Staggering, shuffled pairs of foot prints in the mud.

A trail of dirt.

Something… Something large clawed its way out of the ground here. Something large and bipedal and- and humanoid.

Tim refuses to jump to any conclusions he can see all the facts laid in front of him. He’s going to cautiously follow the trail and simply hope to any god listening that he isn’t the world’s first line of defense against the zombie apocalypse.

He’s been walking for 23 minutes and there’s good news and undecided news. Good news: he’s closing in on the target and the trail isn’t taking him out of the way so his trip home won’t be prolonged. Undecided news: The potential Zombie Robin is heading directly for Wayne Manor.

As zombie apocalypse news, this is very bad. From Tim’s collected observational evidence, his not-so-professional opinion is that Batman, faced with a horror movie level zombie of his dead son, would not respond well, and would likely not fight back.

In Batman and Robin news? Tim’s unsure. If Jason is simply back? What could that mean for them? Batman can have his Robin. He wouldn’t have to continue nearly killing others and himself every night in his grief. Jason could-

No. Stop. Do not jump to conclusions.

Hope only brings heartbreak.

What would Batman do? Get close and see if the target is a threat.

Target is male. Mid-teens. Dark hair. Pale skin. Leaning against surfaces as he walks. Appears injured and disoriented.

Minimal risk assessed. Approaching and attempting contact.

Target identity confirmed: Jason Todd.

“J-Jason?” It comes out as a croaked whisper. Jason shows no sign of acknowledgment.

Tim clears his throat, steps right in front of his path, and tries again.

“Jason. Jason, stop I want to help you.” Still nothing.

“Please, Jason. I can help, I promise I can help!”

Why isn’t this working?! Why can’t he just do something right for once?! He wants this to work, he wants to help Bruce, he wants to fix Batman, he wants to not be alone, he wants-

“Robin!”

Robin jerks to a stop.

Tim reached out his hand.

“Robin. Robin please, I’m sorry you’re going through this, it’s really scary, I’m really scared. But I just want to help you. Help you find Batman. Help you get home.”

Jason just stares at him. Of course he does. Of course it’s not going to work. Why did he even bother hoping he could help?

Hope only brings heartbreak.

His sight blurs as his eyes fill with tears and he starts to lower his outstretched hand.

His arm is slowed as a cold hand weakly grasps his own.

“Don’t… scared… Bat… help… Dad… help.”

A relieved sob tears out from Tim’s chest and he gathers himself together. He yanks his extra sweater off and gently pulls it over Jason’s cold shoulders. Jason lets Tim drag his arm over his shoulders to try and carry some of his weight.

“Okay, Robin. Yeah. Your dad will help us.”

Batman will solve everything once Tim gets Robin home.

[a-sour-nectarine]

Oh, I finally posted another chapter.

Forgot to mention that

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Clad in sea (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: It is not Harrenhal, what drives Daemon to the Gods Eye. It’s the memories of you and your daughter.

Warnings: ANGST. Suicide. Canon levels of violence. The afterlife. Guilt, suicidal thoughts. Harenhal’s induced nightmares ™

A/N: It’s angst but with a happy ending (Sort of) Come with me into a deep dive into Daemon’s mental torture. You only need to know the reader really loves the sea, and watch closely. Pay attention, everything has a reason.

As a young girl, you had always dreamed of the sea. There had been nothing you loved more than walking to the docks, and looking at the waves crushing under you, extending into the horizon.

It made you feel small, in the good sense. As if you were insignificant in the great scheme of things. The sea had been there when you had been born, and it would be there when you died. It would go on.

At night, you could still feel the waves under you, rocking your body. Sundrunk and deliriously happy, you always fell asleep in peace after spending your days in the beach.

The memory soothes you as you place your baby in front of you, watching her small body be rocked by the waves. She had felt so cold in your arms, and you had not dared embrace her in her last seconds, only hold her hand. Her stomach had been pierced by a sword, and moving her too much felt cruel.

You had never wanted your daughter to know pain. You had known it was an inevitable fact of life, but you had hoped she had more time.

Daemon had left. He had done something horrible, the men had said. Killed a boy. So now, they would kill the two of you and present your heads to him.

It sickened you, to imagine your beautiful daughter wandering the earth without a head. Of these animals desecrating her body, perhaps doing unspeakable things to you because of a war you had no interest in.

So you had picked her up and ran to the only place you had ever felt safe. And as the ocean welcomed you into her arms, turning you as cold as your daughter was, you could finally embrace her again.

You did not regret it. Not even as saltwater crushed your airways, and your lungs filled with water. Not even when you emerged, voice raspy with salt, and your daughter held against your chest, full of righteous fury.

There had been a girl once, with hair as dark as ink, and eyes full of constellations. Her lips had always been chapped, for her land had suffered a drought so long, they didn’t have a word for water. Instead, they called it Life.

The girl had a gift. Somehow, she always managed to find Life, wherever she went. It was no causality, her mother told her. Their God was taken with her, and gazed at her every time he could. Through the small ponds, the droplets of dew, the very waves crashing on the shore. She had to be careful because no matter how useful her gift, if she looked too much into her reflection, he might pull her in.

“Are you afraid?” Daemon had whispered, as the two of you laid in bed one night. The sheets were sticky with his spent and sweat, but both of you were too lazy to change them. Instead, you were carefully laid on your side, body curled against his, careful not to touch the pool of seed.

“Of what?” You had looked up at him, and Daemon had been distracted by your beauty. In the soft light of the eternal sunsets of Essos, you looked otherworldly. With your face shining with a light layer of sweat, and your neck and chest covered by his marks, you had to be a goddess.

You took pain like the best of his men. You looked much more beautiful than any of them had ever done.

“What?” You insisted, poking his ribs.

“Of dying?” He felt sick for even mentioning it. You were so alive, so vibrant in his arms, so full of life. As if aware of his thoughts, your hands went to cradle your stomach. Your pregnancy was still fairly new. It didn’t show yet, but his child was growing inside of you.

Daemon pressed his own hands over yours. You let him help cradle your child, and leaned back against him. The thought of you facing the birthing bed made him anxious, and he had to squeeze you to make sure you were still there.

His last memory of Westeros had been Aemma’s death. And while Essos had more advanced healing arts, and you were no Targaryen, he feared his seed might make the pregnancy harsher on you.

“I am of the sea, Daemon.” You had smiled at him, so happy it hurt to even recall it. “I was born from her, foam and blood. And to her, I shall return when I die. I do not fear death. There is no end in a circle.”

No end in a circle, you had said. But an Ouroboros died regardless. Daemon clutched the letter until it tore.

You had made truth of your promise. Somehow, while grievously wounded, you had managed to carry your daughter to the sea. In the soft sand, your footprints had never faltered. The two of you had made a path towards the foam, and disappeared into the water. Perhaps, sensing that if you left your bodies behind, they might have been desecrated. Or perhaps because you were a woman of your word.

The Gods knew what anguish you had suffered, watching your girl die. It was a pain no mother should have to withstand, and yet, you had had to because Daemon had inflicted it in Helaena to avenge the one inflicted on Rhaenyra.

A circle has no ending. He cursed the day he had thought stepping foot outside Essos was a good idea. Daemon should have never left you. The world was not a safe place, not with the reach of the Hightowers. You had not stood a chance.

They had come into the night, and made you watch as they murdered his daughter. Then, they tried to injure you. But somehow, you had managed to escape.

Broken. Bleeding. With a dead toddler in your arms, and perhaps a babe in your belly. Daemon could not recall the last time you were in your moonblood, before he left. Perhaps you had gotten it after. He would never get to know.

No one had been able to stop you. Not even the men who had hurt you so. They had been unable to find your bodies, lost in the waves. The sea had raged that night, mourning the loss of her daughters. No one could have survived that.

Still, hope blossomed inside his chest every time he thought of it. The feeling was paralyzing. It didn’t allow him to grief normally. He kept thinking the two of you may be alive somewhere, lost in the sea. That a fishing boat might have picked you up, and helped you hide.

Because if you were truly dead, Daemon would have felt it. He was certain of it. Caraxes, who had always been finely attuned to his sister, this other sea goddess, would have felt it too. He would have cried in the manner Syrax did, when Rhaenyra took to the birthing bed.

His dragon had a connection to you. He knew your touch, your voice from all others. Both of you had been born out of the sea. You had ridden him as many times as Daemon himself. At least he would have known.

But not a peep had been heard from Caraxes. Ever since they had arrived at Harrenhal, he seemed subdued, as if preparing to hibernate. Sedated. He no longer wanted to fly, no longer wanted Daemon near.

Daemon thought he would have known, but perhaps, he had been unworthy of it. And Caraxes sensed it. He knew it was all his fault.

Were you laying down, lulled to sleep by the songs of the seashells or alive somewhere mourning your daughter, it was all his fault. Daemon had not been aware that the price to pay for a son would be this steep. His two girls.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? They really thought women were worth less in Westeros.

The lack of Life had never been so intense. The drought had gotten worse, the crops withered, the few animals died. Desperation filled the girl. Her mother was getting old, and she was no longer able to partake in the long walks in search for a droplet of dew.

So one day, she walked to the shore and sat by, watching the waves. She breathed in, found her courage, and said: “I wish to speak to you.”

Daemon tosses and turns, fixing his pillows. The room is gloomy, no matter how many candles he has lit, and there is a strange draft that not even the brightest fire can fight.

He closes his eyes, feeling a sudden warmth behind them. If you were here, you would embrace him from behind, playfully pinning him into the bed. You would press your lips to his temple, and sing of lands long forgotten, a city underneath the sea. A city so great, the Gods had punished it by sinking it.

Your soft voice would soothe him into sleep, your arms holding him tight. Daemon can almost feel the weight of them against his waist, the warmth of your body against his. A sob gathers on his chest, but dies in his throat.

He has not cried since getting the news. Instead, he has been cursed with the easiest sleep of his life. Harrenhal is damp and gloomy, and Daemon doesn’t like at all the looks the witch gives him, but every time he closes his eyes, he is out like a light.

Your absence is not so acute, in a bed not his own. He can pretend you are home, safe. Or that you have gone out, siren that you are, for a midnight walk along the shore. In those nights, when the sea had been at its most violent, you had roused your daughter and took her to watch the sea.

“The sea gives and takes.” You had often said, standing in the docks with her, from enough distance that the harsh tides wouldn’t hurt you. “We must respect her. Remember that.”

You had taken her on other nights too. The two of you would roll around in the sand, play in the waves, until you exhausted yourself and both crawled into bed with him, hair still wet and smelling of salt.

Daemon swears he smells it — now. His daughter’s soap, and the sea, clinging to her hair and skin, her little toes cold, and pressing to his calves.

But when he opens his eyes, nothing is there. Just the lingering smell of saltwater.

These phantom touches both comfort and torture him. He can pretend both of you are there, or safe at home, but every time he opens his eyes, you are not.

Daemon dreams of the both of you every night. They are not nightmares. He is aware he is dreaming when he is in them, and getting to see your faces is bittersweet. He knows he will never see you anywhere else. The sea you had so loved has taken you, and he has nothing to mourn. Not a body, not a painting, not even your bones.

The dream is the same every night. It resembles a story you had once told him, and makes him wonder why his subconscious has chosen it, out of all the sea tales you had shared with him.

In the dream, you stand on the shore of Dragonstone. You are naked, with your hair loose over your shoulders. You hold your daughter, but she is not the age she had been when Daemon had left. Instead, she seems to be a baby again. Daemon cannot be sure because what you hold is a bundle of linens that you rock back and forth, and her face is never seen.

Your eyes are fixed on the horizon. You do not seem to notice him at first. The rocks that make up the beach dig on your bare feet, and the sea rages, hitting against your ankles with such strength you should fall over. You do not.

It makes Daemon nervous.

“What are you doing?” He always tries to convince you, not a night goes by where he doesn’t. “Come here, love. The sea is too dangerous tonight.”

There is a steel band around his chest, and it tightens when he sees you take a step further into the sea. He has this feeling something terrible is about to happen, that the next wave will hit you and drag you under, that it will drown you and his girl. That it will be the last.

But every night, you refuse to listen. You continue rocking the baby, eyes stubbornly set in the horizon. Your face gets the same pinched look it had gotten in life, when the two of you argued, and you refused to back down.

He had learnt to grovel by your side. He tries that, next.

“What are you doing? Please, love.” Daemon gets more desperate then because he tries to get closer to you and never quite manages. He had never been as fearless of the sea as you had been, and in the dream, the mere sight of the water caused him intense terror. “Please. What is it? We can talk about it, I can help. I can protect you.”

Daemon knows it is a lie. He has failed at that once, already. And you seem to know it too because it is to the promise of protection that you turn.

“I can’t.” And your voice sounds old, full of wind and salt. It shatters his soul. You are slipping through his fingers once more. The thought is unbearable. “Our daughter needs to eat.”

Your arms open, and a miracle occurs. The island, so dry and so infertile, the jagged rocks that make up the ground, the sulfuric smell, they all disappear. Suddenly, the world is brighter, there are trees and flourishing bushes, the crops are thriving. The air smells of fruit, and sun, sweet as the first days of summer.

It only serves to terrify him further.

“I’m afraid.” Daemon admits, voice pitched low. It’s not something he would ever say while awake, but he fears so much for your safety, it slips out. When it does, he finds the bravery to rush to your side. “I don’t want anything to happen to the two of you.”

“Don’t be scared, silly.” You laugh, and turn to face him. Daemon reaches forward, attempting to take the babe from you. The blanket opens in the process, but instead of a baby, a rush of seawater falls out.

When he lifts his gaze to meet yours, horrified, you disappear under his hands in the exact same manner.

And Daemon screams, but no sound comes out. Tries to hold on, but water slips through his fingers every time.

Her mother sees it all. Her girl leans in, as if to kiss her reflection, and tips over. The water swallows her whole.

She runs, then. But when she reaches the pond, her fingers only grasp water.

No one in the village believes her. They forget the girl easily, busy with their newfound prosperity. The place blooms with new life.

There has to be something in this place. Perhaps it’s the witch. Perhaps it’s the curse. Daemon had never believed in ghost stories, and he had once mocked Rhaenyra’s concerns over Harrenhal, but now he has the same doubts.

His grip on reality feels flimsy at best. He had spent an entire afternoon chasing his daughter through the halls, convinced he could hear her laughter and footsteps in the corridors.

Simon Strong had jerked him out of that one, asking him to hear the inane disputes of the rest of the Riverlands. His perplexed face at Daemon’s insistence he could hear a child running around had vexed him to no end.

Another day, Daemon had been in a meeting with the lords when he had heard you singing. It was that damn story again, about the girl, and the ponds… He had been lost into his own thoughts, and ended up insulting them because he couldn’t focus.

The witch has taken to looking at him with pity. Does she walk through dreams, too? Can she see you, haunting every body of water near?

It’s late at night, and Daemon cannot sleep. He keeps hearing footsteps, and laughter. Water runs near, an intolerable murmur. He gets up, without bothering to put on his robes, and decides to investigate.

Harrenhal’s corridors are dark and empty. His footsteps echo, explaining the noise. Someone must be walking somewhere. But the water? There is nothing beyond a leak in the roof.

Daemon has a terrible headache. The infernal noise water makes is constantly in his ears, even when he plugs them. It chases him, flowing and ebbing, but never disappears.

Perhaps some fresh air might do him good. He doesn’t dare ask Alys for any further concoction, less she is the one poisoning him. He walks to the courtyard, instead.

As he crosses the dilapidated training grounds, Daemon sees you. His heart lurches. You are as beautiful as the day he married you. You wear your Valyrian robes, and hold your daughter’s hand. She is clad in a miniature set of the same robes.

Daemon rubs his eyes. It cannot be. You are not supposed to be here. Why would you be here, dressed like that? There are runes traced in blood in your forehead, and in your lips. You are fresh out of a wedding.

A flash of jealousy makes him clench his fists. Have you betrayed him? Faked your death to marry another lover? You have come to taunt him, surely. You had survived the attack, and so had your daughter, and this was a way to punish him for leaving you unprotected.

Burning with rage, he walks after the two of you. You seem calm, talking to your daughter in a low voice, and making her giggle. The two of you walk, carefree, through the Godswood.

You look so normal. Like you always did. Solid. There is nothing in you of the vengeful sea goddess that haunts his dreams and disappears under his hands. He doesn’t dare call out either of your names, for fear of alerting you he is on your tail. Daemon wants to see the bastard that you are meeting.

He has suffered all these nights, thinking you dead, and here you are, alive! You dare flaunt yourself, after taking his daughter and causing him immense pain.

“You bitch.” Daemon mumbles under his breath. He follows you outside the castle’s walls, noticing you seem familiar with the terrain. You do not pause even once, while he has to stumble over branches and dried leaves that cover deadly holes made by horse’s hooves.

Once you reach the hill overlooking the Gods Eye, you pick up your daughter, and do not hesitate to make your way down to the lake. Daemon curses under his breath. He doesn't’t dare do the same. His footsteps are nowhere near as secure as yours are while carrying a toddler down a hill.

Instead, he hides behind some trees and watches. Will your lover meet you here?

But no man steps out of the shadows. You set your daughter down and undress her, tenderly. You fold her robes, and remove yours. Then both of you walk into the Gods Eye, until the water swallows you whole.

Daemon rushes to the shore then, nearly twisting his ankle in the process. There are no robes and no footsteps in the mud. There is only the pale moon, winking at him from the surface of the water.

The girl is now a woman. She walks out of the sea one day, carrying her daughter in her arms, and hugs her own mother tight.

“I have come to visit. I wish to meet my friends too, but she is too little to take with me. Would you mind staying with her?”

Her mother, enchanted by the return of her daughter, cannot help but agree. She imagines the afternoon, spent coddling the new granddaughter.

“You have to promise me something.” The woman begs of her. “No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, you must never unwrap her.”

Daemon waits for thirteen days in Harrenhal before his nephew comes face him. He marks the passing of each day through carving a mark into the heart tree at sunset.

You loved sunsets, when alive. You loved to feel the warmth on your skin, and the light reflecting on your face. Your mood had always improved when spring began, and Daemon had fond memories of days spent rolling in the sand, kissing each other until it was difficult to tell if you were flushed because of the sun or the kisses.

Aemond shows up on the fourteen day, after a moon spent terrorizing the Riverlands. His nephew had turned into a petty King, using fire and blood against anyone who stood on his path.

How plebeian. To think he had in his grasp the last beast that had seen the conquest, and he used her to burn fields and peasants. It showed the boy was still green, drunk in his newfound power.

His behavior was unbecoming of a Targaryen Prince. He treated Vhagar as if she were a mere weapon, and not the source of their power. Dragons deserved more respect than that.

Aemond doesn’t come alone. Behind him rides Alys, the witch of Harrenhal herself. The witch’s belly is swollen with child. Daemon wonders if she is fulfilling her own prophecy. Why else the fierce woman he had met during his first stay at the castle remain by his nephew’s side?

Perhaps, she knows she has to be his so the Prince who was promised is born after the extinction of the dragons. It shall not come from his line, but maybe from the one that starts with the babe in her belly.

Daemon has come to understand that he has his own destiny to fulfill too. He was never meant to have you, he realizes. You were a daughter of the sea, made from blood and foam. Daemon, instead, had been born out of fire and blood. Water and fire never mixed, and in another lifetime, they might have never had.

He had been meant for Rhaenyra, Alys had told him once. Made of flames, to burn together. But his love for you had been so strong it had allowed to defy his fate.

Aemond circled twice around Harrenhal, and then brought Vhagar down in the outer ward. Caraxes, as if sensing his rider’s unease, hissed a few flames. Daemon patted his flank, trying to soothe him. It wasn’t time yet. It couldn’t happen here.

Alys got down from Vhagar’s back, aided by her lover. When she was safely away, Aemond turned to face him.

“Nuncle, I hear you have been seeking us.”

“Only you.” Daemon had never been seeking Alys. He liked the witch enough to spare her, despite the rotten seed that had taken residence in her womb. A bastard babe was no threat to him. “Who told you where to find me?”

“My lady,” Aemond said, proudly. “She saw you in a storm cloud, in a mountain pool at dusk, in the fire we lit to cook our suppers. She sees much and more, my Alys. You were a fool to come alone.”

The witch had probably come to see if he fulfilled his destiny. It was important to her, to keep balance between the threads of fate. Daemon doubted that Aemond knew the witch was weaving with his thread too. In bringing him here, Alys had doomed him. She knew as Daemon did that both of them would die today.

“Were I not alone, you would have not come.” If Aemond was anything, it was a Hightower rat. A coward. He would face his death scared, unlike Daemon. He had made his peace with it a long time ago. You were dead. His daughter was dead. He had no further reason to live.

“Yet you are, and here I am. You have lived too long, nuncle.” Aemond tells him. Does he see, too? This twisted mirror of himself, thirty years his younger, and yet, he knows it. Men that defy fate never live too long afterward.

“On that much we agree.” Daemon smiles, wryly. He had led a good life. Nine and forty years, and he had known it all. Even love. Especially love.

Grief never took it away. It only made the tendrils wrapped around his heart into spears, that dug in deep, and never let go.

Daemon purposefully didn’t chain himself to his saddle, so it would be easy to jump. He took the higher ground, pushing Caraxes upwards. His beloved beast. He hoped that this gave Caraxes a fighting chance.

Vhagar was much slower, due to her size. She flew wide, taking her rider over the waters of the Gods Eye.

It was a perfect summer day. The sun was setting, in the manner you had so loved in life. It tinged the water a soft gold. The usual violent currents were calm. Everything around Daemon looked warm, and inviting. The golden hour, as you called it, was upon them.

Vhagar didn’t see them, but she was rapidly approaching. Daemon ordered Caraxes to dive by Aemond’s blind side, slamming against Vhagar with such force he feared he might fall. His dragon let out a piercing shriek, and the old whore answered him with her own.

The two dragons battled against each other, throwing flames and bites. The heat was unbearable, and Daemon had to duck nearly parallel to Caraxes so he was not burnt by Vhagar’s flames.

It was as he leaned in that he saw it. The water. It showed both of the dragons grappling against each other, falling while locked on a deadly embrace. It showed the fire, and the abundant blood falling from them. But it also showed you.

You, radiant in your wedding robes, swimming lazy circles. You, with your arms extended, as if hoping to catch something. Catch him, Daemon realized.

He looked up. Alys was a small figure in the highest tower of Harrenhal. It should have been impossible to see anything from this distance, yet Daemon could swear he saw her smile.

At that moment, he understood. All of it. A circle.

Daemon jumped from his saddle.

As soon as the mother opened the wrapped bundle, a rush of seawater came out. If there was once a baby, she was now gone.

Yet, miraculously, a young woman appears from the sea, fully grown. She is naked, covered only by her hair, and of a beauty so exquisite not a single mortal would dare gaze upon her.

“Fear not, grandmother.” She says, kindly. Her hands against the woman’s cheeks feel wet. Salt from the sea, and the old woman’s tears. “I am not a child any longer, that’s all. But you will never lack for drink as long I live.”

And the young woman faces the setting sun. And slowly, she begins to dance.

Lady Shella walked the halls of Harrenhal, in silence. It had been a long time since there was anyone here she could talk to. Her husband was dead, and her daughter long married. She hardly ever visited anymore, busy with running her own household.

The servants never made for good company. They rotated far too often for her to grow attached to any of them. They always complained of footstep and laughter in the hallways, and mysterious pools of water that no one knew where they came from.

Shella knew. She wasn’t about to tell them, of course. What was the point of owning a haunted castle if you couldn’t use it to scare others?

She made her way to the highest tower in Harrenhal. Her liege lords, the Tullys, had declared for the King in the North. They were kin to him. Shella remembered little Catelyn Tully, with her copperish hair. In her youth, she had been stunning, but Shella knew she must have lost all her luster by now.

If not from having five children, from widowhood. It had sucked all the beauty from Shella, after all. She deeply missed her Walter. They hadn’t been a match of love, but of convenience. She had grown to love him regardless. Years do that, she supposed.

Shella didn’t want to lose Harrenhal. It was the last tie she had to her husband. Inside this castle, they had made their home. They had raised children. They had been deliriously happy.

But Shella had little choice. Her scouts had seen Lannister banners less than half a day away. If she didn’t surrender the castle, they would take it by force. She didn’t have enough men, or time to ask her liege for help. Resisting would only mean death.

She wanted to see it one last time, though. One last sunset. One last trip with her ghosts.

Shella made her way to the window, and waited for the sun to start lowering. As the Gods Eye turned gold, laughter began to be heard in the hallways. Rushed footsteps turning corners, little bells ringing.

“… Daemon! Don’t!” The woman laughed.

“Higher, Daddy, higher!” A girl shrieked, voice pitched high with happiness. It made Shella’s heart ache. She reminded her of her girl.

“Come on, the two of you. We are late.” The voice was deeper, more commanding. And they were. A bit late, perhaps because spring was just starting, and the days were turning longer.

Nothing could be seen, beyond slight depressions on the grass. The marks of boots running alongside bare feet.

But for a second, as the sun turned the Gods Eye an angry orange, Shella saw them. A family of three, their little girl held between the parents, jumping into the lake. All shrieking in laughter.

Prince Daemon Targaryen, his lady wife and his daughter, reunited in death like they weren’t able to be in life. Yes, Shella thought, she could not wait to see what Tywin Lannister made of these ghosts.

.

.

.

A/N: Hello! If you are chilean like me (I really should shift to spanish for this, and I will) Si son chilenos como yo, la historia que usé para dividir el fic es una que reconocen. O al menos ligeramente. Es la historia de la Huenchula y el Millalobo, papás de la Pincoya, con un poco de adaptación para que sea fácil de entender y calce con lo que estaba escribiendo.

[heliads]

Something More

Based on this request: "a jealous four. reader isnt oblivious and sees the way four looks and acts with her but she gets tired of him taking long to shoot his shot so she starts flirting with another dude to make him jealous"

request sourced freshly from wattpad

masterlist

Something in this room is driving you mad. You can feel the weight of it pinned directly between your shoulder blades like a knife, following you relentlessly no matter where you go. You can pace back and forth across the training room, you can traverse the whole of the Dauntless complex, but you still know it’s there, he’s there. Watching. Waiting. 

Four. 

It is not an aggressive stare, this, it does not make you afraid, far from it. Four is not a threat to you, nor, you think, he will ever be. He is simply looking, simply observing, but for some reason that act has the power to completely throw you off kilter. 

Maybe it’s because he is only ever looking at you like this. Yes, that must be it. Four is an instructor, he has the responsibility to watch everyone here to keep them from harming themselves or others, but something is different when he’s around you. Instead of passively observing, he’s well and truly looking at you, like he likes what he sees and wants to see more, too. 

You try to put it out of your mind. Four is not your concern here, or not so anything more than the fact that he’s one of your initiation instructors and you’re trying not to get dropped before you enter the faction properly. It’s not Four’s fault if you get distracted by his attention. It’s not Four’s fault if it only ever leaves you wanting something more. 

As time goes on, though, and that something more never comes, you start to chafe against the constant pressure of his attention even more than before. He treats you differently than the other initiates, but only slightly, only ever enough to make you dream of the possibility of something changing down the line. He’ll never give you more than the time of day, but from the way he won’t ever stop his constant affiliation with you, you can’t escape the idea that maybe, just maybe, he wants that something more just as much as you do. 

The end of Phase One of Dauntless initiation draws ever closer, and Four fails to act on anything he may or may not be feeling. You could be wrong, of course, he could mean nothing by his ever present attention, but you’re not willing to take the risk of letting a small something fade away and be forgotten once initiation is over. 

If Four will not do something, well, then, the burden of acting on these impulses falls to you. Tricking an initiation leader into revealing his hand won’t be the easiest task in the world, but you’re not one to back down from a challenge. Four should know that, seeing as he’s so inclined to marking your every action. He should know that you would provoke him like this, and he should have seen it coming from quite far off indeed. 

You need one more person in your scheme to get under Four’s skin. You find your target with ease— Thomas, a dark haired boy also in your initiation class,  close enough to your rank that you won’t have to worry about keeping him close but just enough below that you’ll be able to drop him without needing to fear retaliation. Thomas is fast, smart, strong, all the things that would perhaps give someone like Four cause for concern. In short, he is perfect, and so the plan is laid. 

Next morning, you ask Thomas if he wants to spar together the next morning, just to practice. He nods readily; you’re one of the best people here, it’s why you thought Four started paying attention to you in the first place, up until the point when he stayed there in your corner even when you made mistakes. The two of you head to a fighting ring near the side of the training hall, and if you specifically chose the one right in Four’s line of vision, well, no one needs to notice that but the two of you.

You jump up and down, trying to get some blood back into your muscles. Across the ring, Thomas does the same. He grins at you, evidently proud that you’ve chosen him of all the other eligible fighters. “Hope you aren’t looking for a victory, Y/N, because I’m going to kick your ass.”

He’s grinning, though, so you smile back. “You wish. When we’re done, you’ll have more broken bones than everyone in the med wing combined.”

“Promise?” Thomas asks, laughing, and lunges for you. You roll just in time, hitting the ground right before him. 

Usually, this is the part where you get right back up again, ready to take him down for good. However, your primary motive for this little endeavor isn’t necessarily to win, just to get someone’s eyes on you. So, you stay down, grappling with Thomas so he has no choice but to pin you, up until the point where you escape out from under him and do the same.

Thomas raises a brow suggestively. “You know, I may have lost that round, but I’m kind of happy anyway.”

You grin. “Does that mean you’re fine with losing again? I’m sure my ranking and I won’t have any problems with that.”

Thomas opens his mouth to retort, but he’s cut off by the sound of an irritable shout. It’s Four, arms folded so tightly across his chest that he looks a few seconds away from breaking a rib. “Focus, initiates! You’re not here to talk.”

When you glance over at him, you can’t help but smirk at how furious he looks. Everything is going according to plan, then, he’s jealous, just as expected. He may be in charge of everyone here today, but damn if you can’t play him like any other. Looks like all that talk about so few fears and so much bravery doesn’t stand in the face of plain old envy.

In a great show of reluctance, you get off of Thomas, extending your hand to help him up. He takes it, knuckles lingering over yours for a few moments longer than necessary. You can just make out Four’s silhouette over Thomas’ shoulder, how every fiber in his body seems to radiate with barely controlled anger.

You can only push a ruse so far before it becomes too obvious, though, so you drop Thomas’ hand and get back into a fighting position. This time, you try a little harder to win, exchanging punches and kicks for a good period of time before ‘accidentally’ dropping your guard and letting Thomas tackle you around the middle. He’s obviously in the mood to play around too, and takes his time spinning you in the air before placing you carefully on the ground.

“You better watch yourself,” he says, breath uneven from the exertion of the fight, “I think I’m catching up to you.”

You look up at him, eyes half-lidded. Thomas’ dark hair falls around his face, given the impression of a halo by the light right behind his head. All of a sudden, though, he’s ripped away, and the blinding light falls onto your face to reveal a newcomer. You didn’t hear Four climb up onto the platform of the fighting ring, nor did you detect him coming so close until he pushed Thomas away from you.

Four’s face is a dark slate, devoid of any emotion except a sharp, cold fury. His voice is clipped when he speaks, and when he tells you to meet him outside, now, Thomas actually jumps out of his way. Thomas flashes you an apologetic look as you go, but you can’t find it within you to return it. After all, this isn’t a punishment, not for you. 

In fact, this is exactly what you wanted. A scene, a public show, some sign that Four would be willing to transgress his perfect picture of leadership to make his feelings known to you. You may have forced his hand more than a little, sure, but all’s well that ends well.

The door slams shut behind you, abandoning both you and Four to the dark emptiness of the hall outside the training room. All the other initiates are somewhere inside that cavernous chamber, running laps or practicing their form, and the other Dauntless are at their jobs. No one would see the two of you, then. No one would see what transpired here at all save you and him and the beating tension between the two of you.

Four’s face doesn’t lose its chill even when Thomas is out of sight. “Do you want to tell me what that was?”

You shrug as casually as you can. “I was sparring with a friend. I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“Oh, really?” Four asks, “A friend? That’s what you call whatever that little display was?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you tell him. It’s far more fun to play the innocence card as long as you can, it certainly doesn’t help Four’s temper.

Four scoffs. “Of course you do. You think I didn’t see how often you were looking at me? That whole time you were with him, purposefully going easy so he could keep his hands on you. You think I wanted to see that?”

“I don’t know,” you repeat, “You haven’t given me any reason to think otherwise. All you do is stand there and watch. Maybe one of us had to do something.”

“So that’s what this was?” Four asks, brows raised, “You wanted to do something? I’ll show you something.”

You’re expecting the kiss, you have been all morning, but that doesn’t stop the breath from leaving your lungs in one rapid rush when it finally happens. His hand is on the back of your neck, keeping you there, with him, in that moment. It feels like drowning, but the thought of living after this is such an inconceivable notion that you’d rather just let the waters claim you whole.

He breaks away eventually, unfortunately, and even in the shadows of the corridor with his face only bare millimeters away from yours you can still tell that he’s proud of himself, corners of his lips twisted up in victory. “Was it worth it?” He asks slowly.

You let out a half-laugh, a needy breath taking over the rest. “It was,” you decide.

“Good,” he tells you, and kisses you again, just so you can be sure. Perhaps jealousy has its merits after all.

divergent tag list: @rogueanschel, @with-inked-solace, @gods-fools-heroes, @23victoria, @manyfandomsfanvergent, @imwaysthelastchoice, @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed, @crazyhearttragedy, @alex-1967s-blog

[cherienymphe]

Basic Training XVII (Peter Parker x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, mentions of MURDER, violence, kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies​ | divider by @whimsicalrogers

➥ series masterlist

summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

~

You stared into the darkness of the basement for what felt like too long.

It was quiet down there, but not the kind of quiet that felt comforting. It was the kind of silence that felt suffocating—taunting. It was so loud in its taunting, snickering at you and your idiocy and naivety. Even as you laid on the floor, feeling like the lowest of jokes, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret the decisions that brought you here.

Nat was your friend. Or at least, you liked to consider her one, and even faced with the threat of the worst punishment Steve could muster, you just couldn’t imagine yourself doing anything differently. You couldn’t imagine yourself waking Peter up that night and telling him you saw the redhead escaping, effectively alerting the other husbands to her presence, leading to her subsequent capture. It just wasn’t in you, and clearly none of these men—not even Peter—knew you at all if they thought it was.

The first time you tried to move, you couldn’t, and for a brief moment, you thought that Steve had injured you in his delight to toss you down the stairs like a sack of flour instead of a person. However, you quickly came to realize that wasn’t the case. You could move your fingers and toes fine, even twitch your leg, but you just couldn’t find the strength to move. You felt beyond defeated, and when you blinked, you weren’t shocked to feel a sting behind your eyes.

There was the most awful aching feeling in your chest, both heavy and hollow even though you didn’t know how that was possible. You wanted to cry and scream, but you also never wanted to utter another word ever again. You wanted to let out everything you felt since the moment you came here, but in the same breath, you desperately wanted to feel numb. If you didn’t feel a thing, then you couldn’t get hurt, and you hurt so much, right now.

Peter killed Michelle.

He didn’t help kill her, but he did kill her, and in the grand scheme of things, maybe that shouldn’t make a difference. After all, you’d still been under the impression that he did nothing while his brothers did. You’d still been under the belief that he allowed it to happen at best and helped it happen and cover it up at worst. So, why did Peter pulling the trigger make all the difference in the world to you?

Was it because you thought you were falling in love with him?

That thought had you squeezing your eyes shut, so tight that it hurt, and it was hard to hold back your sob. Your nails scraped against the hard floor as you shook, struggling to breathe as your stomach turned. Once you started it was so hard to stop, and it wasn’t long before the sound of your choked cries were filling the basement. It was a thought you’d considered before, but that was when he wasn’t a murderer.

That was when he hadn’t murdered your best friend.

How could you possibly rationalize it now? Deep down, you knew that this wasn’t your fault. Deep down you knew that there were names and studies dedicated to people in your position and the psychology behind it, but that didn’t make you feel any better. Peter had murdered your friend in cold blood…

…and you thought you loved him.

The thought made you want to be sick, and with horror, you could actually feel your stomach turning. You hurried to sit up, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as you struggled to keep it down. The bathroom only some feet away was locked—wouldn’t be unlocked until someone came down to open it and let you in—and you didn’t think you could handle sitting in a room with your vomit just stewing in the corner.

Struggling to get to your feet, you pressed your other hand to your stomach, trying to settle it. Keeping your mouth closed, you breathed through your nose, lashes fluttering, and after some time, you slowly stumbled towards where you knew the bed to be. You didn’t care about turning on the light, finding no need, and when you sat down, your head drooped in defeat.

There was really no telling how long they’d keep you in here until they figured out what to do with you, and while you knew that Peter would try his damndest to get them to go easy on you, you also knew that they wouldn’t consider a word that left his mouth. You—and also Peter by extension—had proven Steve and the others right, and you found it unlikely they’d ever listen to another suggestion from Peter about you ever again. Or at the very least, not for a long time.

Besides, Peter wasn’t the aggrieved party.

Bucky was, and such a thought made you shudder. You’d done well to avoid attracting Bucky’s ire even though he reminded you of Steve in some ways. Although, unlike Steve, Bucky didn’t seem the type to look for any and every excuse to punish you as he’d prefer in a contrast to Peter’s methods. Bucky seemed—if nothing else—fair to you, and that’s what scared you the most.

Bucky now felt wronged by you.

So, there was really no telling what was in store for you.

You recalled the way he’d reached for you, desperately trying to get past Peter in his efforts to get his hands on you. You didn’t want to imagine what he would’ve done had he succeeded, and you swallowed as your mind went rampant with the possibilities. Your hand came up to graze the tear in your sleeve, wincing at the slight sting you felt when your finger came in contact with the skin. Some part of you knew that had Bucky succeeded, he just might have killed you in his rage, and where you once would’ve welcomed such a thought…

It only made your heart ache, now.

You didn’t want to die, and when you thought about why, your stomach only twisted into knots once again. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you keeled over, throat tight as you tried to swallow down another sob. Your chest hurt so much, feeling like someone had an iron grip on your heart and was just squeezing and twisting it to their content. When you gasped, a cry escaped with it, and the only other time you could recall feeling like this was the day you realized your friends were dead and you were all alone.

You cried until your throat felt raw, and you didn’t fight your body as it started to collapse to the floor, sliding off of the bed in a heap. Covering your face with your hands, your lightly dragged your nails down your skin, frame shaking as you rocked back and forth. Your stomach wouldn’t stop hurting, and you couldn’t stop shaking. In fear or anger or despair—you didn’t know.

You did know that this was all Peter’s fault. He was the one who decided he had to have you, as if you were some thing to be acquired instead of a human being with a life and feelings and autonomy. If it weren’t for him, your friends would still be alive, and you wouldn’t even be here. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be feeling ripped apart by how you felt about the man who kidnapped and raped you. All of this was Peter’s fault…and even still…more than anything…

All you wanted was for him to hold you.

It was hard to say how long you stayed in the basement. The darkness and silence was endless, and it felt like months, but in reality, it was probably mere days. You did know that it was long enough for your stomach to ache from more than just fear and for your nightgown to stink from more than just sweat. You didn’t think you were capable of feeling embarrassed about that anymore. After all, Peter never made you feel like it was something to be embarrassed about, but that was before you heard the sound of the locks on the basement door.

Despite your shame, you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

Until the light from the top of the stairs outlined a familiar silhouette.

You merely stared at him as he stood on the first step, yours on him and his eyes on you. You couldn’t hear any noise coming from the main part of the house, and you said nothing when he closed the door behind him. Peter wasn’t good. You knew that since the beginning when he told you that everything he did was so that he could have you, making it all okay. Peter had never been good.

So, why did looking at him now hurt so much more than it ever had?

As soon as Peter was close enough, the first thing he did was take your face into his hands. You couldn’t really feel them, realizing that you got your wish to feel numb, and that just made your chest ache more. Just days ago you were desperate to feel the comfort of Peter’s touch, and now you couldn’t feel it, at all.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured, face a mere inch away from yours.

When you didn’t say anything back, you noticed the way his face fell, lips pressed together as he eyed you. His gaze lingered on yours for the longest, thumbs just grazing your skin, and you watched the way his tongue darted out to swipe between his lips.

“We need to get you cleaned up.”

His words had you blinking, and it was only then did you notice the fresh dress resting on the crook of his arm. You didn’t ask him what day it was because it didn’t matter. You only knew what would be happening today, and it’s why the dress on Peter’s arm was so pretty. It was why you’d been locked in the basement for days. It was why Peter looked at you the way he did as he helped you stand.

“I’m so sorry,” were the words he murmured into your hair as soon as he leaned you against him.

What was he apologizing for exactly? For killing Michelle or lying to you about it? For taking you and ruining your life in the first place? Or for failing to protect you from the wrath of the other husbands? Maybe he was apologizing for what was to come, and that made you shut your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again as he brought your head to rest in the crook of his neck.

You didn’t respond—didn’t know how to—only allowing him to guide you into the bathroom after unlocking it. You couldn’t really say how you got naked, only feeling as if you blinked before finding yourself sitting in a tub of hot water with Peter raining water down over your head. He was talking to you, saying something that went in one ear and out of the other. All you could focus on was that dress on the toilet, wondering what they planned to make you do while wearing it.

When you felt the weight of Peter’s gaze, it was only then did you take note of the silence. You didn’t know if he’d asked you a question or if he simply opted to stare at you, but when his hand came up to graze the side of your face, you assumed it was the latter. Perusing you, you watched as his gaze became distracted by the shallow scrape on your arm from Bucky’s nails, and when Peter’s jaw tightened, you knew that he realized where it came from too.

“Peter,” you softly forced out, throat tight.

He gave you his undivided attention, and you licked your lips.

“What are they going to do to me?”

Your question came out almost inaudible, just barely above a whisper as you found yourself almost too afraid to ask—too fearful to want to know. When Peter’s face fell some, your own frown deepened, and when he sighed, your heart sank.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he slowly told you, and you could see that he was telling the truth.

You knew that Peter would have no say in this, you’d known that, but faced with the knowledge that was completely in the dark only served to make your stomach twist more. Only this time, you weren’t able to stop it, and it was Peter who kept you from falling as you hurried to get out of the tub. You only just made it to the toilet in time, and with nothing in your stomach to throw up, all you expelled was bile.

One of Peter’s hands were on your waist, the other soothingly rubbing your back as you vomited again. With every heave of your stomach, you shook more and more, and when you were done, you could only stare at the wall behind the toilet.

“You’re sick,” he said, tone strained with worry.

You shook your head.

“No, I’m just… I’m scared,” you honestly told him, lifting your gaze to meet his. “…and heartbroken.”

Peter sadly tilted his head, and your lips quivered.

“Why did you lie to me?” you breathed. “Why did you…? Why did you minimize your part in it?”

You continued before Peter could lie some more.

“Why did you hold me and comfort me and tell me you weren’t as bad as them when you’re much worse?”

“I’m not,” he argued, grabbing your shoulder.

“…but you are,” you said with a frown. “At least with Steve and Tony and Bucky I know who they are. I fear them because they’ve shown me why I should.”

Peter pulled you closer, resting your head on his chest as he rocked you.

“You made me love you.”

The words came out small and choked, your face crumbling as Peter stilled, and you’d stupidly thought you had no more tears left. Your body proved you wrong, frame shaking as your chest tightened, a cry escaping you in the otherwise quiet bathroom. Peter didn’t respond right away, just holding you as you cried.

“I’m still the same person I was before you found out,” he whispered, rocking you. “…the same person you begged to run away with.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’m not proud of what I did,” he confessed. “…but it’s why I can hold you every night for as long as I want.”

He leaned down to gently kiss your forehead, and your vacant and tearful gaze was on the bathtub, now.

“You don’t have to agree with it, even I don’t agree with it, but it had to be done if I wanted you all to myself.”

You knew that justified it all in Peter’s mind, and the part of your brain that was conditioned to normalize your new reality wanted to pull him closer, but the part that desperately missed your friends and family and old life only wanted to be sick.

When Peter rinsed you off and dried you, his fingers grazed your skin as he helped you get dressed. Soothing words left his lips that didn’t really mean much because how could he calm you against something that was unknown to him too? He didn’t even know what he was comforting you from. Once dressed, he stood before you, looking you over with his fingers grazing over yours.

When your eyes met his, his gaze softened, and you didn’t stop him when he leaned in to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. Like every touch and kiss of his, now, you didn’t really feel it, and when Peter pulled away, you felt that the numbness that consumed you reflected in your own gaze. He heaved a sigh, fingering the ring on your finger.

“I still love you,” he assured you, looking at you from beneath his lashes. “That’ll never change…and even… Even when I have to do whatever it is I have to do today, I’ll be doing it with love.”

Those words didn’t exactly comfort you, and your eyes briefly closed when he walked you out of the bathroom. The stairs were hard to take, courtesy of your lack of food and what little sleep you’d managed to get. You shook beside Peter, and you knew that it was from more than just not eating. In fact, you were sure you were going to throw up again.

The house was unusually quiet—as well as empty—and that did nothing to alleviate your uneasiness. Peter’s hold on your hand was gentle, and as much you loved to hate him in this moment, you appreciated that he walked outside with you instead of walking you outside like a prisoner. You were surprised by how early it was in the day, bringing your hand up to shield your eyes from the rising sun. Days in the darkness had them hurting from the harsh natural light.

Just as you got used to it, a familiar and intimidating voice spoke.

“Leave her right there.”

Only, it wasn’t the voice you were used to being on the receiving end of. Your eyes met familiar blue ones as Peter was forced to step away from you, Bucky’s gaze very much transparent as he looked at you. His anger and disgust were palpable, and you found that you couldn’t hold his gaze.

That was a mistake.

“You will look at me,” he sneered, hurrying over to you and harshly gripping your chin.

Behind him, you could see Peter take a step forward only to be stopped by Sam. Bucky’s fingers were painfully pressing into your skin, and as difficult as you found it, you held the brunette’s gaze. It was in that moment that you realized why the house had seemed so quiet on your way out. You noted that the only person missing was Jane, and you guessed with her pregnancy and a need for someone to watch Margaret and Sharon’s children, they decided to kill two birds with one stone.

They clearly didn’t want to stress her, and that only made you more fearful of what was in store for you.

“We’re not stupid, you know,” Bucky said to you, and you swallowed. “We expect the odd escape attempt here and there.”

You weren’t used to being on the receiving end of Bucky’s venomous gaze, blue eyes icy.

“We look forward to it even,” he confessed. “None of you will ever succeed, so it helps you realize that, and you get it out of your systems.”

You blinked back tears, and Bucky took note of them, lip curling over his teeth.

“In fact…we had been anticipating yours from the moment we let you out of that basement, but I guess you really were too docile to fight back properly,” he continued, voice growing bitter. “Too docile even to tell one of us when our wife was trying to escape.”

When you blinked again, a tear finally escaped, and you didn’t know if you were supposed to respond. Evidently you were.

“What?” Bucky wondered, roughly letting your chin go. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

Your chest heaved with a deep breath, and you started to glance around.

“No, don’t look at them. Look at me,” Bucky ordered. “After all, it was my wife who anything could’ve happened to.”

When your gaze met his again, more tears spilled over, and you sniffed.

“I’m sorry-.”

“We expect you to fight back…try and make a run for it… What we don’t expect is more loyalty to a traitorous wife than the men of the house,” he interrupted you, spitting the words out and making you flinch. “…because anything could come of that. You could kill one of us.”

“I… I’m sorry,” you said again, knowing it wouldn’t change anything but also knowing it was what he wanted to hear.

Bucky stared at you for a long time—too long—just looking down his nose at you as if he could barely stand to look at you. You were all too aware of the eyes on you, all too aware of the example being made out of you. You were in the dark about what was going to happen, now, and it made you want to be sick. However, of all the things you expected…

You didn’t expect Bucky to quickly grab your arm, twisting it—and you with his other arm—before violently shoving you to the ground. It happened so fast that when you finally cried out in pain, clutching your wrist, you were already looking up at him from the grass. He wasn’t looking at you though, hands behind his back as he stepped away from you.

“There are two outcomes for you today,” he started, making his way towards Peter who looked like he was moments away from committing murder—again. “Personally, I’m partial to either outcome…”

When you started to push yourself to your feet, the dark-haired man heard it, pausing to look at you with a wag of his finger.

“No, no. You don’t get up yet…”

Heart sinking, you sat back down, clutching your arm to you as you looked between him and Peter.

“The first,” he dragged out, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We finally get to see what Peter has in him…”

You froze, skin growing cold and heart dropping to your gut.

“…see if he has what it takes to make you…” Bucky turned his gaze to you, eyes glinting wickedly “…beg him to stop.”

You couldn’t stop more tears from spilling over, the realization of what this day could possibly bring crashing down on you like a wave. When you glanced over, your eyes met a familiar green pair, and Nat’s disgust and regret was plain as day on her face. She looked at you like she wanted to take your place in a heartbeat, but you both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

You couldn’t hold in your sob, pressing your hand to your mouth.

“You can’t cry, now,” Bucky’s voice reached you as he neared you. “We haven’t even started yet.”

He forced you to your feet, and his hands were the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

When you first got here, Peter promised that that would never be you. He told you that he would never, but considering the circumstances of your offense, that choice was no longer up to him. You couldn’t stop sobbing, choking noises climbing out of your throat as Bucky continued.

“The other option is two months in the basement.”

When your eyes met Bucky’s again, there was a gleam in his eye and a curve to his lips that told you it wouldn’t be so easy as choosing which you’d prefer. You didn’t even want to say that the choice would be easy if given one because while your worst fear was recreating what Margaret had to go through during your first days here…you also knew that two months down in that darkness would break you beyond belief.

Two months down there, and you were sure you wouldn’t even be yourself when you emerged.

“It all depends on who gets to you first,” Bucky softly said, making you frown at him.

When he stepped away, you swayed on your feet, but his hand met your arm again when he turned you towards the small pond, free arm gesturing towards the dense trees behind it.

“Those legs that are near and dear to Peter’s heart are going to take you as far as you can go…”

His whispered words made you frown.

“Now, don’t think that you’re getting away…” he looked at you and you slowly looked at him. “…because you’re not. Someone will catch you, it’s only a matter of who, and that determines if this pretty little dress is coming off or not.”

His reminder of one of the possibilities made you lightheaded, and you pressed your hand to your chest when he walked away.

“If Peter catches you, then Peter will do what he has been instructed to do…”

The man in question spoke up, quietly pleading with Bucky, but the older man ignored him.

“…and I was going to participate in this little game,” Bucky said, jaw ticking as he looked at you. “…but you deserve to be terrified after what you did.”

You pressed your lips together, blinking away tears as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

“So…” he backed up, a small smile on his pink lips. “If Steve catches you…”

You couldn’t stop your knees from buckling, world spinning as you caught yourself on your hands and knees. Your skin pricked, and you felt almost on the verge of a heart attack.

“He gets to put you in the basement…” a pause. “Again.”

The sounds of the world were going in and out, and once again, you felt like you were going to throw up. Both options were the last thing you ever wanted, and once you ran into those trees, you didn’t know what would relieve you less—the sight of Peter or the sight of Steve. It was sick, really, because obviously you would rather be caught by Peter, but not if it meant…that.

…and if Steve caught you, you just knew it wasn’t going to be that simple

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Bucky’s words were mocking, filled with a mixture of disdain and satisfaction, and as you looked up at him, you didn’t know who you hated more—him or Steve. The blond in question was someone you had avoided looking at since you stepped outside, bitter to see the sick satisfaction that no doubt covered his features at your humiliation.

Your comeuppance.

Pushing yourself to your feet was a struggle, and you didn’t look at Peter, too afraid to realize that he might be who you wanted to catch you, after all, even if it did mean public humiliation beyond comprehension. You felt beyond alone as you walked down the small decline, the dewy grass so nice against the soles of your feet despite the circumstances.

It was only when you got to the tree line, staring inside, did it hit you.

You were going to be hunted and chased down like some animal, and depending on who caught you first, that was what your punishment would be. Both options were enough to make your stomach flip, and for the life of you, you just couldn’t decide which was better. With a panicked sob, you forced your feet to move.

Every tree looked just like the other to you, and there was nothing in these woods to signal some kind of progress as you ran. It was crazy to think that there had once been days when you dreamed about being in these woods, closer to freedom and away from the craziness you’d been forced into. Now, however, you were in said trees and all you could think about was who would get to you first.

Bucky’s words echoed in your mind.

It wasn’t a matter of whether either of them would catch you. Both of you knew that you weren’t getting away from here, let alone from Peter or Steve in these woods. One of them was going to find you first, and even as you brushed past harmful branches and stumbling vines, you still didn’t know which choice presented to you was better. More than anything, you wanted it to be Peter to find you, but could you be okay with being raped for the whole household to see? This wasn’t like that day with Margaret…

Both Steve and Bucky wanted to make the biggest example out of you, and so the entire household would be there to witness your humiliation. However…it was one day. One hour even at the most of Peter doing what he normally did whenever you were alone…just in front of everyone else. If Steve caught you on the other hand…

Two months in the basement was a thought that actually made your knees shake, causing you to stumble against a tree. You knew—you knew—that you couldn’t handle that, and you knew that Peter knew it too. One option was just one bad day, that was all, but the other option would turn you into even more of a mess than you already were. You’d spent less than a week down there at the most, and both times were hell for you.

The second more so than the worst, and you didn’t want to unpack why that was.

When you heard a tree branch snap, you felt yourself freezing. The tree you were next to was larger, much larger than you, and you remained perfectly still as your hand rested against it. You had only stopped for a few moments, and the whole time you’d been lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t even heard any footsteps. In fact, something in you told you that you were supposed to hear the snap of that branch.

When you dared to peek around the trunk, all of your breath left you.

The sight of Steve’s blond hair and back was a stomach turning one, and just as quietly as you peeked around, you hid yourself behind the tree once more. With one movement, you could end this torture and not have to be fucked for the whole household to see, but no matter how much you didn’t want that…you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

…because you didn’t want the alternative either.

Steve terrified you beyond belief—something Bucky had acknowledged—and something in you just knew that he wasn’t going to find you and take you back to the house as easy as that. Outside of raping Margaret, you had never heard of Steve doling out any kind of physical abuse, but you had a sneaking suspicion that Steve would strike you square across the face if he could get away with it.

Peeking around the tree again, you watched him walk away, scanning the area before him for any sign of you. Your nails pressed into the trunk, and with a sinking heart, you both accepted and hoped that Peter would find you, making peace with what that meant for you. With Steve completely out of your sight, you didn’t know which way to go, and so you went forward, adjacent to the direction Steve went.

You felt like you were getting so turned around the further you walked, and you wondered what would happen if you just decided to go back to the house. You wondered how the punishment would be decided then—provided you actually made it back without being caught. The thought of being caught by Steve prevented you from remaining calm and thinking clearly.

Or maybe it was everything else that did that.

You could feel a familiar burn behind your eyes, and you struggled to swallow, throat feeling incredibly tight. You’d thought that you cried enough in the basement, but that kept proving to be untrue. A few tears skipped down your face before many more followed behind, and you took in a shaky breath.

How was it that you hated Peter so so much for what he did…while also wanting nothing more than to just return to your bedroom with him when this was over? You didn’t want to go back down there, alone and bathed in darkness. You wanted to sleep in your bed with Peter and you wanted him to hold you while you cried about the very thing he’d done that caused the tears.

You hated him, but you wanted to be near him.

You didn’t want to hate him from afar. You wanted to hate him while staring at his face every night and listening to the sound of his breathing and feeling his hands on your shoulder as he sat behind you in the bathtub. You hated Peter so much for what he did—and lying about it—but it just wasn’t the kind of hate where you couldn’t stand the sight of him, and you hated him all the more for that.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the sound of footsteps, and considering you’d gone in the opposite direction of Steve, you were prepared to meet your fate when your gaze would meet that of a familiar brown one. Only, the eyes that met yours weren’t brown…they were blue…and you felt your lips part.

You didn’t hesitate to run the other way, a scream climbing out of your throat when you were tackled to the ground. Steve’s hand was pressed to the back of your head as he slammed your face against the leaves and sticks, making you gasp, and when his arm snaked around your neck, a choked sound left you.

You weren’t surprised when he threw you to the dirt again.

“I knew…” he started, slowly following you as you attempted to crawl away. “From the moment Peter gave us that crock of shit about a gentler method, I fucking knew.”

You clawed at the dirt when Steve reached down to pull on one of your legs.

“I knew then that he was being too soft with you,” he spat, flipping you over. “I knew that it would come back to bite us.”

Steve squatted over you, one hand tightly curling around your throat, and you struggled to breathe as he slowly forced you to your feet. Your scraped at his hand, gaze tearful and pleading as Steve stared you down, nostrils flaring. His blond hair was a mess, an unusual sight for you, but those blue eyes were as cold as ever.

Steve really hated you.

“Bucky is better than me,” Steve hissed at you. “…because if Margaret had gotten as far as Nat did because of you, I wouldn’t make Peter stop until you were begging for him to put you out of your misery.”

You pushed at his hands, panicked, and he only shook you in response.

“You think he’s your best fucking friend,” Steve breathed through clenched teeth, sizing you up. “Instead of the man who owns you.”

When he threw you down, your head spun, and you struggled to right your vision. You pressed your hands to your temples as you cried, fighting the urge to curl in on yourself.

“That ends today…”

Steve’s words were spoken with finality, and you didn’t quite understand the meaning of them as you heard approaching footsteps. You heard Steve exhale, and when you dared to look up, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of Peter.

“Peter,” he acknowledged. “Love that timing of yours.”

Peter didn’t hesitate to hurry towards you, placing a hand on your head as you sobbed. As you’d suspected, you knew it wasn’t going to be that simple if Steve caught you instead, and you realized just how complicated it was going to be at the sound of his next words.

“We need to make sure nothing like this happens again, Peter,” Steve told him, and they shared a look, something unspoken between them that had Peter’s jaw clenching.

“So, is that why you forgot who she belongs to? Is that why you treated her like you used to treat Peggy on her really bad days? She’s already terrified of you. What more do you want?” he sneered at him, briefly looking at you and brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“I need her to be terrified of you,” Steve answered, hands on his hips. “I told you from the beginning that you were too soft with her. I told you what needed to be done for her to get it.”

“Yeah, Steve, alright, I get it-!”

“…but you don’t,” Steve yelled at Peter, staring at the younger man just like a brother would. “You don’t get it because if you did, this would’ve never happened.”

Steve gestured around, cutting you a scathing look that made you wither.

“She would’ve never felt more loyal to Nat than the men who run this household. She would’ve understood that she exists to serve you and the house as a whole by extension.”

You hated the way Peter’s hands slowed on your face, and when you looked at his own face, he looked to be deep in thought.

“Not just the wives and whatever they think is best, but what’s best for the family,” Steve paced. “You are going to make her understand that she’s not your friend and certainly not your fucking equal.”

You watched Peter defeatedly exhale, eyes falling closed.

“You are going to make her understand that, right now,” Steve snarled.

“Steve…”

Peter’s tone was pleading, and that was when you finally sat up, looking between them with a racing heart. You scooted back, but Peter’s hand on your arm prevented you from going far. When your gaze met his, his eyes had softened, something in them pleading with you.

“I will make you, Peter.”

Steve’s tone was scarily calm, and you glanced at him, lips shaking at the malice in his eyes.

“Do you understand me? I will not rest until I catch her slipping up again, and depending on my mood that day, I just might make you fuck her right there in the garden for all to see,” he quietly told him. “So, it’s either now or it’s later…but it is happening. You decide.”

In truth, you didn’t know why you were crying. You had already accepted that you’d rather get the bad thing over with than drag it out for two months. However, that was the thing, wasn’t it? Steve was going to make Peter do this and still turn around and throw you right down in that basement. Even though there was less humiliation involved, it still seemed unfair.

“Do this and…maybe I can convince Bucky to only leave her down there for a month,” Steve proposed, and by the tone of his voice, he knew that he’d won.

You barely had time send Steve a scathing look of your own before your back roughly met the ground.

Peter’s mannerisms were rough, and while you knew it was because Steve wanted them to be, it didn’t mean you had to like it. You didn’t think Peter had ever been rough with you, and you cried out at the harsh pull on your hair, his other hand painfully digging into your waist.

“See, you need to understand, sweetheart,” Steve’s voice reached your ears as he circled you. “That you belong to Peter. You exist as an extension of him, now. You exist to exalt him, and the only way that you will get it in your head that you’re his property…”

Peter had flipped you onto your stomach, now.

“Is if he treats you like it.”

You yelped when your chest was forced to the ground, Peter manhandling you in the way he knew Steve wanted.

“…and what better way to do that than to show you that he can and will take you wherever and whenever regardless of who is around to see it,” he slowly said, making sure he was heard loud and clear.

The humiliation of feeling Peter push his cock into you before Steve’s very eyes had you squeezing yours shut, a harsh sob escaping as Peter’s skin slapped against yours. His hand was on your throat, and you clawed at it, gasping when his teeth pressed into your shoulder.

“You don’t have autonomy over your body anymore. You don’t exist independently of Peter, and that extends to this family…”

Peter’s harsh thrusts made your toes curl, and what was once a rough entry had become much smoother. With no warning and feeling wholly unprepared for this turn of events, tears escaped your eyes, and your fingers dug into the grass and dirt. The feel of Peter’s cock pushing into your walls was a familiar one you’d grown to love, but the sound of Steve’s pacing steps and voice made you want to crawl in a hole.

You felt torn apart.

“Had you previously understood that, all of this could’ve been prevented.”

Steve sounded pleased with himself—and Peter—and the thought made you sick. When Peter pulled your head back, you winced, and you started to move away from him, wanting this earlier and regretting it now—especially since you were going back into the basement anyway.

When Peter’s lips grazed your ear, you shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you, hand painfully pulling at your hair, making you cry out again.

You recalled Peter’s words from earlier, and you knew why this was happening. You understood the hierarchy in the household, understood that what Steve said went, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that Steve would’ve absolutely made this happen for the whole house to say. You understood that this was the better alternative, but that understanding is what made you cry more.

This wasn’t something to be understood. The man thrusting into you had killed your friends and kidnapped you, and the man before you had helped. Peter wasn’t your husband or your lover but instead your captor and rapist. Nothing about any of this was right, and in this moment, you shouldn’t be rationalizing or understanding anything.

…but you did.

You understood why Peter grabbed you with no hesitation and proceeded to fuck you under Steve’s watchful eye. You understood why being raped for all to see had briefly been the better choice to you than being sent back into the basement. You understood why Peter was murmuring sweet nothings and apologies into your ear as he roughly held you down and plunged his cock into you.

You understood it all, and you hated it.

You didn’t want to simultaneously hold Peter closer and push him away as he roughly fucked you against the grass, face to face with you, now. You didn’t want him to obey when Steve told him to fuck you harder. You didn’t want to understand that Peter didn’t actually want this because if that were true he simply wouldn’t do it, right? You didn’t want to accept that this house didn’t follow the rules of the outside world and that so long as you were here—and you would be here forever—neither would you.

“Are you sorry, now?” Steve wondered, somehow able to hear his voice over the sound of your cries. “Hmm?”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but you knew you gave him that anyway the moment you started crying. When Peter’s eyes met yours, he shushed you, a poor attempt to make this better somehow, and his next words made you blink.

“Do you see how much worse I could be?” he whispered, too low for Steve to hear. “How much worse they want me to be?”

You stared at him, nails digging into the skin of his arm, and with another harsh sob, you nodded.

“Do you understand what I’ve been trying to protect you from?”

Again, you nodded.

Peter’s nose grazed your own.

“Do you get it now?” he sadly asked you.

When you nodded again, unable to find your voice between cries, Peter shushed you. His fingers pressed into your skin, and his hips painfully came down against yours. When his lips pressed against yours, they swallowed the noises that escaped your throat.

“I never wanted this for you.”

…and you knew Peter was telling the truth.

[spacerockfloater]

Cassian had been eating an early breakfast with them this morning when Rhys had gotten the bill for Nesta’s night out. When Rhys had read each item aloud. Bottles of rare wine, exotic foods, gambling debts …

Oh, do shut the fuck up people. You’re acting as if Nesta requested three muscled, naked, oiled up, male sex workers come to her table and feed her whipped cream with their dicks. She ordered fucking food and drinks for fuck’s sake. The horror! You’re building a fifth mansion, you can afford to pick up the tab you cunts, especially after she fought your fucking war for you. Boo fucking hoo.

Feyre had stared at her plate until silent tears dripped into her scrambled eggs.

Now, what the actual fuck is this grown ass woman crying about? Bitch, pull your melodramatic self together. You’re acting as if Nesta made the front page of the local newspaper for being a serial killer. Calm the fuck down. Your husband is reading you a fucking bar’s bill, for crying out loud. A private bill, that was available only for you to see, until your toddler of a partner decided to let everyone know about it. Like, the only acceptable reason for you to shed a tear is realising you’re shackled to this piece of shit for eternity.

Cassian knew there’d been previous conversations—fights—about Nesta. About whether to give her time to heal herself, as they’d all believed would happen at first, or to step in. But as Feyre wept at the table, he knew it was a breaking of some sort. An acceptance of a hope failed.

Yes, because we all know that the only two ways of helping a traumatised person are either leaving them completely alone with their self destructive tendencies and excluding them from our lives (not a single painting of Nesta in Feyre’s home, pity job offers from Rhys, just superficial attempts of Feyre inviting Nesta to witness her perfect new life and house but no true attempts at connecting with her) or stripping them off of every bit of freedom and forcing them to do unpaid physical labour. Now every hope is obviously lost!

It had required all of Cassian’s training, every horror he’d endured on and off the battlefield, to keep that same crushing sorrow from his own face.

Cassian, for the millionth time, I hope someone throws your hypocritical ass in a deep fryer as soon as possible. Looking forward to Elain’s prophecy coming true.

Rhys had laid a comforting hand on Feyre’s, squeezing gently before he looked at Azriel, and then Cassian, and laid out his plan. As if he’d had it waiting a long, long while.

Rhysand, you sly, manipulative snake, you. You never fail to disgust me. Aiming to break your own fucking wife apart so that she, in her vulnerability, goes along with your pre-prepared schemes, while simultaneously acting as if you’re her shoulder to cry on when you’re in fact the reason she’s crying, is actually nauseating. And I thought Tamlin was the beast! Rhysand is the worst thing that ever happened to Feyre. At the very best, they deserve each other. And that’s me being generous.