#the lads will return in the next chapter

[dragonofeternal]

Chapter 5: Blue Summer Sky ~3K Words Years in the past, but not many, a Merciless Knave wanders beneath a painfully blue sky. Content Warning: canon-typical "Legato kills someone with their own body" violence

Wooo hoo! After four chapters of me feeling kinda bad for spamming the Knives/Legato tag when they hadn't shown up yet in my fic, they're finally here, and these wordy bastards have outstripped my longest chapter by nearly a thousand words!

Time to roll back the clock by a few years and get us a lil meet-cute, in as much as Knives and Legato are capable of such a thing.

Read it now on AO3!

[endless-ineffabilities]

Chemical Override (bonus chapter)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: surprise! Something to tide you guys over until the heart-wrencher that is part five!! Y'know, gotta have some laughs before everything blows up 💣 or something like that :)

previous chapter ▪︎ series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

What happens when your castmates decide to have a drinking game based on yours and Ewan's interviews? Chaos. Absolute chaos.

"Is it just me or does my head look abnormally large in this?" comes Tom's query as they sit on the floor around the low table in Phia's living room.

Phia, Tom, and Olivia are snug on the carpet, legs strewn in varying postions, their attention on the laptop on the table.

"No, just you, mate," Phia responds.

"Nah, look at 'im," Olivia counters, "Looking like a right old egghead."

"I knew it," Tom clicks his tongue, smiling at the jab.

The friends were just having a nice time catching up in Phia's apartment, and after several coffees and rolled cigarettes, they found themselves nestled on the floor, beers in hand.

Someone made a suggestion to check up on the interviews being released as part of the media rollout. And so they watched the cast's interviews, already having done with the one from Wired, MTV, and the Buzzfeed Puppy Interview.

"I loved those pups," Olivia remarked jokingly. "But they didn't love me back. Story of my life."

"Oh, I love you, Liv!" Phia had exclaimed, pulling her friend in for a hug.

"Aaanyway," Phia says, reaching forward and scrolling through the suggested videos, "how about this one next! I miss those two." She clicks on an interview you and Ewan had done together, in that long press day where you guys were paired by the media team.

"They look adorable, don't they?" Tom says. "Here's to hoping the lad's finally made a bloody move."

"What about the goss on that girl you all were with? The one at the pub?" Olivia curiously asks, not kept in the loop due to her holiday abroad.

"All bull. You know how the tabloids are. She was sweet and everything but Ewan was practically side-eyeing her all the way into oblivion when she kept clinging on his arm. Poor girl." Tom smirks, the memory still fresh in his mind.

"Awww, look! Ewan's looking at her all gooey-eyed. Even then!" Phia simpers, leaning against Olivia.

"Of course, I was extremely excited and nervous to join the cast for season two," you can be heard saying, "being a huge fan of the book and the first season... I mean, it was such a tall order for me to step into this world but you know - "

"She did it so flawlessly," Ewan says to the interviewer. "We were so lucky to have her join the show."

"Oh, come on," you can't help but blush and shake your head. "Everyone was so welcoming, really."

"Well, it's safe to say that the audience loves your character!" the interviewer says kindly.

"Thank you so much, I'm glad to hear that," you beam in return.

"What a character, indeed," Ewan says, looking at you again.

Tom giggles, swinging his beer, "The look on his face, oh my days! Ewan is whi-ipped, I'm telling you. Just look at those stars in his eyes, you'd think she's an angel or somethin."

"She is an angel," Phia muses.

"Lovely girl," Olivia agrees.

"Oh!" Tom sits upright suddenly, leaning forward on his knees, "How about this? They've got a couple interviews up, right? Drinking game then, shall we? A shot each time Ewan looks at her or pays her a compliment!"

Olivia laughs nervously, but she's more than game to participate. "A swig of beer or... "

"Nah!" Tom scrunches his face in response. "Say, Phi, have you got vodka or tequila or whatever?"

"I... think I've got some leftover tequila," she ponders. "Are you proposing a shot of tequila every time Ewan fawns over her? Isn't that a bit dangerous? Should we stick to beer?"

"It'll be fun," Tom reassures, already getting on his feet to fetch the bottle from the kitchen. "Ewan's a professional," he says, when he returns with tequila and three shot glasses. "Surely he maintained his focus during all of that. Can't be more than - what, three or four shots each?"

Oh, how wrong he is.

It only takes another interview for them to realise that they might have been overzealous in taking on the challenge.

Most Likely To with the cast of House of the Dragon, the screen displays. You and Ewan pop up in intervals, and they eagerly await your clips with shots in hand.

"Most likely to be late on set?" you say, raising your hands when you answer with, "I'm happy to say that it was not me."

"No?" Ewan asks.

"Nope, early each day," you smile at him.

"I believe you, I mean, I wish we actually had scenes together," Ewan says, smiling right back, eyes lingering on you when you add something more to your answer.

"Shot!" Tom exclaims. The trio's faces crunch up when the burning liquid slides down their throats.

"Fuck's sake," Olivia mutters. "Ewan better keep his googly eyes to himself."

"Don't get your hopes up," Phia says, knowing the both of you well.

"Most likely to accidentally date a serial killer? What the hell is this question?" Ewan snorts, eyebrows shooting up.

"Are we even in the right show for this?" you joke, and Ewan laughs harder, his hand finding your forearm and squeezing briefly.

"Shot, I suppose," Phia mumbles. "I mean, look at his face, the sweetheart."

Another round, and everyone feels warmer and more lightheaded.

"Wouldn't be me, I don't know about you?" you ask Ewan.

"Oh, I wouldn't. I don't think Aemond would either, he would see right through that."

"Next, most likely to show up in a stunning outfit," you read from the prompts off-camera.

"Hmm," Ewan muses, "I would say maybe Liv Cooke... she's had really good outfits on the carpet lately..."

"I agree," you nod enthusiastically. "Liv's killing it."

"And you, definitely," Ewan turns to you again. "I mean, stunning would be an understatement."

"Shot!" Olivia half-yells. "And bless her, look! She's turned all red from Ewan's flirting."

"Thanks, mate," you say, tilting your head at him. "You as well! Your stylists have outdone themselves this press tour, for sure."

"Half a shot cause she gives something his way?" Tom suggests, comically shrugging. By the end of the video, the group had done three and a half rounds of shots, all growing redder in the face, their laughter turning unhinged.

"I'm actually scared to do another interview," Olivia groans. "Can those two just shag each other already? Goodness!"

"Who knows? Maybe they have? Would be about time," Tom cheekily says, ever the agent of chaos.

"Ewan did fly out to see her," Phia nods. "They're both in America right now, my darlings."

"Another interview!" Tom gets to clicking, landing on the one you and Ewan did with Rotten Tomatoes.

"We ask everyone this question - can you tell me your favourite movie from this year?" is what the interviewer starts with.

"That's a good question," Ewan says. "Uhhmm, well, it isn't from this year I think but her film - " he gestures to you, " - is one of my all-time favourites. I think it came out late last year, if I'm not mistaken?" He looks to you for confirmation, and your flustered self manages to hum a response. "I just think the whole film was brilliant. It definitely showcases her talents and solidifies her as one to watch."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tom sighs, and they all bring the shot glasses back to their lips.

"Guys, I might pass out by the end of this." Olivia stands to fetch herself a glass of water. "Ewan's a menace!" she calls out from the kitchen.

"We shouldn't have done this," Tom shakes his head.

"You suggested it!" Phia punches his arm, laughing.

"I guess I underestimated the degree of whipped that Ewan is. That cheeky lad."

Four more rounds of shots later, and the group has their tally up to eight and a half.

Yet another interview plays on the screen, and when Ewan - with all his bloody audacity - pushes a lock of hair away from your face on camera, Tom's eyes nearly bulge right out of his head.

"Oh my god!" he cries out. "He's trying to kill us! I think I'm actually going to puke."

"I quit." Olivia slumps against the base of the velvet couch. "I can't drink any more. Ewan wins."

Phia giggles at the screen, at the sight of her two dear friends slowly but surely falling in love right before the audience's eyes. In some show of celebration, she takes another shot, the last player left in the game.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Meanwhile across the Atlantic...

"Hey, darling," you hear Ewan's voice on the other line. "I just settled in my hotel in New York."

"That's good! Did your flight go well?"

"Mhmm, my meeting's tomorrow afternoon so I've got time to prepare," he takes a breath, before softly saying, "I miss you."

You laugh, "So you keep telling me, Mitchell."

"We're still on that huh, darling? Shouldn't you be calling me something more... personal, by now?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

"Well... the internet does call you their babygirl."

"Oh come on," he complains, smiling nevertheless.

"What is it, babygirl?"

"That's how you want to play it, bunny?"

"Ewan!" you groan. "Okay, okay."

"Anyway, darling," he says. "I really do miss you. I can't wait to see you again.'

The longing is clear in his voice and it tugs at your heart so much that you need to pause and collect yourself, before finally saying, "I miss you too, baby."

Cheers to all of yous who voted here! Baby it is ~

In the meantime...

Update! ~ part five

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[ddreamywitch]

Chapter Three - Swan upon Leda

knight!benjicot blackwood x princess!reader

word count: 3.8k

a/n: things are warming up between princess and benji :)

warnings: the king is a terrible dad, mentions of complicated childbirth

song: Swan Upon Leda - Hozier

Marion is exasperated. Her hands fling through the air like a nervous little bird, desperate to get their point across and yet failing all the same. 

“You are out of your mind,” she cries. 

The jewels she’d been threading through your braids are long forgotten, a sparkling disarray on your vanity. You pick up a dark red ruby and roll it back and forth between your fingers. “If I don’t go, they’ll think I’ve abandoned them.” Your lips, painted a lush berry colour, pull into a pout that once worked exceedingly well on Ser Rodrick. “Please, Marion.”

Your handmaiden shakes her head. 

“It was a risk under the watch of Ser Rodrick,” she leans in closer, nervous eyes flitting to your door. “But with bloody Ben as your protector? He’ll have me impaled when he finds out.”

She whispers his name with fear, as though he would appear like some mirage at the mention of it. 

You’ve grown quite tired of this whole bloody Ben debacle. Benji, as he’s allowed you to call him, is less of a sword pointed at you now, but he still sulks, barely speaks. 

He doesn’t pose a threat, in this state he is in. You wonder if he would even notice if you let somebody else take your place. 

“He won’t find out,” you say, determinedly, even though you know it is to no avail. Marion is loyal and sweet but she is headstrong enough to not give leeway to every idea of yours. You love that about her, even if right now it is giving you a headache. 

She takes the gem from you and loops it into your hair with her magically talented fingers. “Maybe in a moon or two, when that lad doesn’t give me the collywobbles anymore. If that does ever happen.” 

“Alright then. But will you get word to them that I shall return soon?” You ask. Whenever you ask for things with Marion, you feel a bit childlike and silly. 

She smiles at you, the little scar in her lower lip stretching as she does. “Of course, your grace.” 

And then after a moment’s silence. “I am certain they forgive you.” 

You nod, but still you decide on a plan. A stupid one, irrational at the very least but a plan nonetheless and you were not really the kind of woman who enjoyed changing your mind. 

Though you had on Benji. In some ways. But that is different. 

You throw a glance at your reflection, decorated and done up. Your father is slowly losing it these days, his festivities growing in both frequency and size, one more ridiculous than the other and you cannot stand it.

You’d be a fool to live so lavishly and in such luxury and turn a blind eye to continue the pursuit of the only thing of substantiality that you’ve ever done in your life. 

Rubies to match the fiery shades of your dress today. 

Rubies found somewhere far away and shipped across stormy seas to find their place somewhere as ridiculous as your hair. 

You cannot stand it, your presentation at the high table next to your family, for everyone to gawk at and soon to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. 

As though she reads your mind Marion pipes up. “The son of Lord Whent is here tonight,” she says. “I hear he has great hair.” 

You scoff. “Yes, great hair and a great hunger for the brothels of the realm.” 

“You may find my lady, that such behaviour may prove itself of use to you.”

A low laugh rumbles from the door and both of you snap around, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. 

Benji stands, hands resting on the pommel of his sword and looking rather amused. 

“I do believe that is an improper topic of conversation,” he says. 

Your arm wraps around Marion’s midriff. “That you should speak of impropriety of all people,” you say. 

He is still a mystery to you. You do not know if he would not go and tattle on your friend if given the chance. 

But he shrugs. “Your brother says that you are to meet him in the court before sunset. Your sister is arriving.”

You gasp, sharp and loud, the quick inhale like a whip to your lungs. “Cordelia?!”

Your maid claps her hands together in excitement.

Benjicot looks a bit confused but he doesn’t scoff or roll his eyes so you presume that he really has decided to move on from his rather aggravating bit. 

“My god, she will hate my dress,” you say but the sheen of joy your face is dipped in betrays the negative nature of your words. 

“Out, Ser Benjicot. Womanly work is afoot in here,” she orders him, too fast with her tongue to worry about fearing him and forces you the other way again. 

He obeys. You see him bow in the mirror and  a small smile tugs at your lips. 

Maybe he wouldn’t be the biggest of your worries. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Marion is done with you at a speed that should be deemed witchcraft. 

Your hair is neatly pulled out of your face and braided, gleaming with red jewels like a dying fire. 

In general, you look like the roaring fireplace in the banquet halls, layers of shimmering red fabric falling around you. 

There’s a nice breeze today, it tickles at your neck and kisses your cheeks softly, as you await your sister’s arrival at the castle’s main entrance.

Your father is not here, occupied with what he claims to be kingly duties but you suppose is more likely related to the royal wine cellars. 

Your brother speaks in a hushed tone with one of the council members, no longer an oddity with the king occupied so frequently.

Your feet hurt in your new shoes.

Benji shuffles a little bit next to you.

You’ve noticed that he’s never still, a consistent motion in your periphery.

“How do you like my dress?” You ask him, quietly enough that your brother wouldn’t hear, though you doubt he would care to listen.

Your knight hums a little, almost laughs. You expect the jab, twist the sigil ring on your hand, pull yourself together waiting for it but it never arrives. 

“Red’s my favourite colour, Princess.” 

It’s not a compliment. It’s a statement and he says it with all the nonchalance he should have, because it isn’t a compliment. 

But the little flutter it sends down your spine has all the characteristics of being complimented. 

You almost thank him but then you think better of it and just nod to yourself. You would tell him what your favourite colour is, or that you enjoy red as well but it feels too friendly. You’re not even sure if anybody knows your favourite colour. You’re not too certain if you have one at all, now that the matter has crossed your mind. 

But you are certain that it is not the colours of your house, as it is the case with Benjicot. 

What a foolish thing to be racking your brain over, you think but luckily the horn serves as salvation from your faults. 

The gates creak upon to reveal your sister and her entourage, all of them in a royal shade of dark green. She married into the neighbouring kingdom, her blood now runs in their colour. It has been over half a decade but you cannot get used to the sight of it, her days spent draped in your house’s symbols are all gone. 

The courtyard is almost empty. Good. No need for formalities.

You fiddle with your fingers as the carriage swings open, lightning running through your veins. 

Her face is just as it always is and your sister, after stepping down with caution, at the sight of you, immediately opens her arms. 

Your brother laughs, wholeheartedly as you plunge forward, like a horse nudged on, gravel flying up beneath delicate heels. 

She smells different and she is older but she feels all the same to you, just as she had when you were a little girl hanging onto her skirts. 

Your giggling melts together, a vibration of both your chests. 

“Oh darling girl, how I have missed you,” she whispers, soft kisses pressed into your hair. “You’ve grown into a wonderful woman.” She cups the side of your face and you lean into it. 

“Alright, what about me,” Tristan calls out, arms out by his side. 

Cordelia grins at him and steps past you. “I imagine the heir to the throne gets enough attention as is,” she taunts but she greets him nonetheless, with the same affection she had for you. 

“There is never enough,” he says, before he says something into her ear. Quietly and quickly. 

She nods and then she regards your knight, now solely left behind, waiting to accompany you. “Ser Benjicot Blackwood, I gather?”

He bows his head, looks at her through that tousled mop of hair of his. “Yes, your highness.” 

She laughs. “Goodness, such decorum. I am Cordelia here. My queenship leaves me within the walls of my home.”

Benji nods but he does not correct himself. It would be odd, you suppose. He doesn’t even call you by your first name, why would he do so with a Queen. 

Cordelia gives your side a nudge with her elbow. “Quite handsome,” she says, much to your dismay loud enough for him to hear. 

Your cheeks begin to burn. “He is sworn to protect me, sister.” 

She just shrugs, indifferent to your embarrassment as siblings tend to be and then steps along. 

“I do hope there won’t be a scene made over my arrival,” she calls over her shoulder, you and Tristan hurrying along. “The maester recommended I do not subject myself to much ruckus, at my old age.”

It would be slanderous to refer to your sister as old. Your brows pull together. “What do you mean? Are you ill?” 

She whirls around to face you, one hand clutching her belly. “You could say so.” 

Your jaw drops and Tristan recoils next to you. 

Her face drops a bit. “Well, at least pretend you are happy for me.” 

“But with your last-.” Her hand flies up, in hopes of silencing your brother. 

“I will not dwell on the past. My husband wishes for an heir, as any king, any noble man would and I can only pray that this one will be a boy.” 

The sweetness of her visit is immediately tainted, it itches on your tongue to utter something at the monstrous prospect of having to witness your sister bear more children for the King of Arbormere near torturous but you do not speak it. 

You clear your throat. “It is good news. And we are happy that more babes will come into the world carrying your kind nature, are we not?” 

You look at Tristan, whose face has drained of colour but he nods still. 

Such is the fate of noble women. Made to squeeze out heirs for their highborn husbands. 

And such will be your fate one day as well.

Cordelia presses her lips together and inhales deeply. “Yes, I shall stay in our kingdom until delivery. My king thought it might help for an easier birth.” 

The good in this gleams through and you find it in you to be joyful. “At the castle?”

She nods. “Yes, a few weeks and then I thought I might go north, to mother's home.”

You clasp your brother’s arm. “Might I go with her then?”

Benjicot shuffles. Sometimes you think he is trying to speak this way, as though encoded. 

“No. Father won’t allow it. There are no suitor’s to be met in the north.”

You roll your eyes. “There are no suitor’s to be met,” you mimic, voice squeaky and high. 

Behind you, you can hear Benjicot fail to stifle a laugh. 

Cordelia extends her hand toward you. “We have a few weeks together, don’t we?”

Not enough. Never enough. 

“That dress of yours is ridiculous,” she adds, but she says it fondly. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The atmosphere at the banquet is odd. You cannot quite place it, but your brother won’t cease his whispering with various members of the court. 

Cordelia, though you’ve spent the better half of the evening dancing, has now begun watching everything the way a predator may watch its next meal. She does not look happy. 

Though, your father is as reliable as always. King Alexander is doing a wonderful job as presenting himself as the drunken decadent rake he is known to be, though Lady Cathcart has been brazenly replaced with what you can only assume is a common whore. 

You feel bad for her, you cannot imagine that it must be fun to spend one’s days entertaining men, let alone men such as your father. 

Benjicot is excused from his services for the night at your father’s command, he had lingered in a corner of the room for a while but he disappeared a while ago. 

You are pining for a good moment to slip out of the room, Cordelia’s power to protect you from annoying princelings and highborns only going so far. 

Lord Whent, despite having stayed true to Marion’s promise of having great hair, had spent his time talking to you staring down your corset and otherwise seemed to like himself a bit too much. 

“Cordelia?” You whisper.

She does not look at you when she replies, eyes still trained on someone in the crowd. You cannot figure out who it is when you follow her eye line. “Yes?”

You get up. “I shall be right back.” 

She nods. 

You do not stop for the formalities of bidding goodbye or greeting anybody you pass, the doors close behind you and with one quick scan, you begin to run. Your foot is bleeding, warm liquid gathering and you curse the cobbler behind your pain. 

Your feet carry you deep into the basement of the castle, the scent of darkness and dampness strong in your nose and then you finally reach your chamber.

Marion’s fiance had helped you set it up over the course of the past few years.

Scandalous as can be, you reach into your cleavage where your key is hidden and swing the doors open. 

You must hurry. It is much more difficult to find your way out of the castle without your maid by your side to guide you and you cannot waste time. 

You are a flurry of red rushing around the room, collecting all the herbs you need. A jar bangs to the ground and you wince at the noise it makes, wince even more when you realise that the last of your melted bear fat now seeps into the dirty floors. 

“Bollocks,” you curse but you cannot do anything, except hope that there will be a hunt soon. Though Ser Rodrick would no longer be able to retrieve it. 

“What in the name of god is this?” A voice rings through the small room and you almost cause more distraction, just quick enough to stop yourself from screaming. 

Your knight stands in the door, looking at you both confused and enticed. 

You swallow thickly. “Uh.”

Words have blipped from your head, your mind suddenly a blank sheet of paper.

Benji walks in, looks around behind him and closes the door. “I can’t imagine that this is part of your royal duties.”

Surely, there are some words you could say now. Anything really, would do. Just anything to defend yourself. 

He snorts. “Not in the talking mood?” He looks around. 

Dried plants hang from the wall, a cauldron stands in the middle of the room, jars are filled with various concoctions.

Oh this looks horrible.

“I do not practise witchcraft,” you croak out. 

“Sure does not look like it, princess.”

You set down the ingredients clutched to your chest. “It is medicine.”

He picks up a small vial, admires the brown liquid in it. “For who?”

“Nobody. For fun.”

He doesn’t believe you. “It gets boring.”

“So you go after your hobbies after nightfall? During banquets?”

You nod and go to take the vial from him, but he is quicker, arm raising above you. “Does the king know? Your brother?”

A scowl etches onto your face, your arms crossed. It is quite annoying how tall he is. “I don’t believe it is proper to keep my belongings from me, Ser Benji.”

“Is it proper to brew potions in the dungeons?”

“Why would you follow me?”

He shrugs. “You looked quite distressed. And it seemed unnecessary to spend a moment longer with those highborn leeches.”

You raise your eyebrow, grasping for some sort of higher ground. “Not even the ladies?”

Benji chuckles, a low rumble. You are close enough to think you feel it. “Do not take it to heart, princess, but I do not care for those puppets who care for nothing but appearances.” 

You huff. “Only a man would make such rude assumptions.”

“And yet it is a man who has discovered your secret.” He tilts his head. “Now who are you making this stuff for? Your maiden?”

You attempt to jump for the vial but it is no use. “I do not trust you.” 

“Who would I tell? I do not wish to have your surveillance become more intense. It’s annoying as it is.” 

The broken blister hurts now, and you are glad the shoe is red, otherwise you’re certain it would have been ruined by now. Frustrated, you step back and sit down on the nearest chair, lean back, arms dropped at your side and legs stretched out. 

It is a question of luck, but you don’t think he would let these matters rest without plausible explanation. 

“There’s a family on the outskirts of the city. I met them on one of those horrible charity visits. They couldn’t afford to pay for these aids and so I took matters into my own hands. And then they told people that there is a way to help and it kept going.”

You meet his eyes and you are suddenly struck by their warm hue of green. 

A beat of silence passes. “So you are…a secret apothecary?”

You shrug. “Maybe not adept enough to call myself such. Sourcing knowledge about it is quite tiresome and tedious. And I must do it in secret. It is frowned upon for women, but even more so for a princess. And I do not wish to be accused of doing devil’s work.”

“Well, the dungeon isn’t doing much to alleviate that connotation,” he says. 

Is he joking? 

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I suppose so.” 

You draw in a breath. “Please do not speak of this with anyone.” 

He nods and gives the vial back to you. That one is for Marion, womanly matters. You are glad now, that you’ve never taken up to label the things in here.

“How do you get them to the people?”

“Ser Rodrick and Marion.” The lie comes to you quick and easy. It is only half a lie. 

You bend down and take off your shoe. Normally, you would not, but having exposed perhaps your most vulnerable secret, you do not see any reason to feign dignity and suffer for it. 

“I must finish this tonight. There’s a case of colic rushing through town.”

He is watchful, like your sister had been, but with much less disdain, as you go on with what you had started. 

Diligently you powder up anise and cumin and add it to the broth that you had let simmer over the last few days. You do not have cormorant blood at hand but alas one must make due with what they have sometimes.

You walk barefooted, careful to mind the shards and to your surprise, Benji begins gathering them, lips curled as he does. “What the fuck did you keep in that?”

You offer him a bemused hum. “Fat from a strong bear.”

“Has it been there since the dawn of time? Why does it smell so terrible?”

“Only since the last hunt. Four moons ago.”

He shudders and tosses the gathered glass into the fireplace. Remnants of its content sizzle in the heat. 

Silence befalls you again and he stands closer now, right next to you, as you begin to fill five separate flasks. 

“Should I take it to them then?”

A stray hair falls into your face, like a curtain between the two of you. “That would be wonderful.” 

You don’t like the idea. It is not a happy freedom you got by sneaking out of the castle to tend to the frail, but it was a taste of true freedom nonetheless. And you do not like giving out the medicine without clear instructions. 

But there is no choice for you to make. 

“The last chapel before the city walls, behind it you will find Theo. He will distribute it. Tell him they who receive it, must take three spoons in the morning with a bit of bread. And then the same again at night, until they feel better. And if they have some left even though they are healthy, they can keep it, in case the disease returns. There’s wine in it, it won’t turn bad.”

“As you command, princess.” 

You tuck your hair back. “If you wish, you can call me by my name.”

Benji steps back and leans against the wall. He ignores your offer. 

Too soon. Too friendly. 

“Take that satchel. We don’t need the court thinking you’re a drunkard as the king is.” With the nod of your chin you point to where it rests on a shelf. 

Something flits across his features, the shadow of something left unsaid but it is gone before you can place it. 

He takes it and slings it across his chest. You hand him your work and the tips of his finger brush across yours but this time it feels different.

You stand before him barefoot, vulnerable, your faith put into his ability to be true to his word. It makes your skin feel raw. 

If he recognises the delicacy of the situation, he does not show it. 

“I should accompany you to your chambers,” he says. And you want to protest, but you do not. Instead you lean forward, close enough to feel the rise and fall of his breaths and pull at the bookshelf behind him. It swings open and reveals a narrow staircase. 

His brow raises as he turns his head. “Impressive. Though I am less and less convinced that you are not a witch.”

“Do not make such jests,” you chastise, but you say it with warmth. 

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[murdockparker]

Foolish Endeavor - Part 8

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: To be, or not to be (a Bridgerton), that is the question. One that Mr. Benedict Bridgerton has yet to ask.

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: Mentions of sex, no actual smut, angst

A/N: it's a happy-sad chapter. that's all I gotta say mad lads

first part - previous part - next part

__

She hadn’t felt very well rested, not even the tiniest bit. No matter how tired she felt after last night’s escapades, the excitement that lingered in the air coursed through her veins, keeping her alert and awake for the entirety of the night. He hadn’t kept it much of a secret, not really.

Benedict Bridgerton was proposing. 

Today. 

While he practically proposed last night, bodies tangled together in a sweaty embrace, she knew a more formal question was coming later this morning or afternoon. It was only a matter of time before Benedict asked for her company, asked for her hand. She imagined he already discussed the details of their engagement, dowry and the like with her father before their visit to Aubrey Hall. Seeing as how her father couldn’t accompany them for the week and knowing how formal Benedict could be about situations just as this one.

A soft knock rang through the spacious room, followed by the entrance of Agnes, her lady’s maid. She was carrying a pitcher of fresh water and a rag, smiling lightly at the girl rolling in bed. 

“Good morning, miss,” Agnes said lovingly. She set the pitcher down on the desk, draping the cloth over the back of the chair. “I trust you slept well?”

“Of course,” she lied. “The beds here are divine, I reckon they’re stuffed with only the finest.”

“Oh yes,” Agnes nodded. “I’m sure the viscount has only the best in his home.”

“Did you sleep well, Agnes?”

“I slept just fine, my lady,” the maid said sweetly. “The staff’s lodgings are quite elegant. If I had half a mind, I would mention something to your mother…”

(Y/N) giggled, the sound dampening against the plushness of the bedding. “Consider it done, I’ll bring it up over tea.”

Agnes’ eyes lit up like a candle in the night—bright and ever glowing. She nodded softly before floating over to her lady’s bed to assist in her dressing. “I drew you a bath for this morning, I figured you may wish to take one after the exhausting day that was yesterday.” (Y/N)’s entire face flushed, the color creeping up from her neck. Surely the staff couldn’t have possibly heard anything from the study last eve, could they? “The carriage ride was much too hot for my liking, I myself washed up last evening.”

“Oh,” she coughed, patting her chest lightly. “Yes, I agree. Traveling in the summer months is always a hassle.”

“Should I set out your dressings for when you return, my lady?”

“Of course. That would be lovely.”

“Which one do you fancy for this morning?” Agnes asked, opening the wardrobe, now fitted out with the various silks and outfits they had packed for the week. Her eyes danced across the rainbow of colors before placing her hand on one. “I reckon Mr. Bridgerton will quite like this one."

“Agnes!” (Y/N) chided, suppressing a laugh.

“I’ll set it aside,” the maid hummed knowingly, placing the selected dress on the door to the wardrobe.

—

The dress Agnes had picked out was quite the stunning piece, the fanciest of the day dresses they had packed. The sleeves were almost entirely a thick lace, meeting the crook of her elbow with grace. Colored to match the sky on a summer’s day, the gown had matching white accents one could nearly mistake for clouds, a slightly darker azure pulled everything together on the bodice. It was the epitome of class, the finest handiwork once could find in the ton.

He thought she was breathtaking. 

He normally thought so, of course. This morning, however, she looked nearly as radiant as the sun. His sun. He knew it was going to be a good day, with her smiling as sweetly as she was. He had to restrain himself from reaching into his pocket and falling to his knee immediately, his better judgment getting the best of him. 

“Lady (Y/N),” Benedict greeted her, bowing lightly to appease the other eyes following them in the room. 

“Benedict,” she curtsied back. 

“Might you do me the honor of accompanying me on a promenade this morning?” He asked, brow arched up, his lovesick smirk ever apparent.

“Of course,” she nodded before turning to her side. “Though, we will need to find a chaperone—” 

“I’ll join you.”

“A walk could do me some good.”

Both the countess and dowager viscountess spoke in the same breath, flustered at the sudden attention on themselves. They both seemed too eager to join the happy couple this afternoon, for no reason in particular.

“You are both free to join us,” Benedict nearly laughed. “We are set to promenade around the gardens, I wish to enjoy your lovely flowers, Mother.”

“Oh yes,” (Y/N) nodded enthusiastically. “Lady Bridgerton, your gardens are quite the spectacle.”

Violet waved them off, nearly embarrassed. “Oh you two flatter me so terribly.”

“Oh but I have to agree, Violet. You simply must tell me where you found your florist,” the countess smiled. “Theodore would love the blooms you have out here.”

“Well, I hardly think they’re a secret,” Violet said, voice dropping to a murmur before leaning into the countess’ side. “But I’ll extend their information to you posthaste.”

The women giggled, both taken at the joy of the afternoon—Benedict and (Y/N) still in their own little world.

“Pall-mall is this afternoon,” Benedict said thoughtfully, extending his arm for his beloved to take. “I recall your proficiency at the game, has that changed?”

(Y/N) shook her head, beginning to walk with Benedict towards the gardens, mamas in tow. “No, of course not. If anything I simply have gotten even better than you recall.”

He let out a laugh, warm and thick like honey. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Anthony suggested the match a day or so prior to your arrival, something about fond memories from childhood—” 

“Really? You’re sure he doesn’t wish to try and best his family to look good for his future bride?”

“Ah, the viscount would never dare use his family as a pawn for his marriage,” Benedict said seriously. “But, trying to best Daphne will be his greatest feat.”

“The duchess is joining us?” She asked, allowing Benedict to open the garden gate for her. He hummed.

“She would never dare miss an opportunity to lay claim to her rightful place as the best Bridgerton pall-mall player,” Benedict chuckled. “Well, I suppose she also wished to meet Miss Sharma, should Anthony get off of his sorry behind and actually propose…”

Violet Bridgerton loved her garden in Kent—her and her husband had a rather fondness to the country—leaving her gardens to be quite the sight to behold. The young couple spent many a day in the gardens in their youth, playing and chasing the other around. Last year, Anthony had commissioned a small fountain to be added for their mother's birthday, it was the new jewel of the grounds. 

It was the perfect place, Benedict had decided.

“Why do you think our mamas are following us so closely?” (Y/N) asked quietly, tightening her grip on Benedict’s arm.

“They’re pretending to be interested in the roses,” Benedict whispered, turning to look back at his mother and the countess. The women seemed flushed, their attention drawn a bit too closely at the blooms. “But I believe they’re waiting with bated breath for something extraordinary to happen."

“And what, pray tell, would they be waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?” Her heart began to pound, surely the small babbling of the fountain did nothing to hide it.

A grin spread across his face, one that was lopsided and all-too-sweet, his gaze warm enough to set aflame. “Perhaps they’re waiting for…this?” He removed his arm from (Y/N)’s grip, slinking down to one knee. Benedict thanked any God who would listen he had the bright idea to practice the gesture before this moment, as it hopefully looked as graceful as it felt. With only a slightly shaking hand, he took her own.    

“Oh!” Lady Kent squealed from behind. Lady Bridgerton was quick to pull her close—as if to not ruin the moment. 

“Lady (Y/N) (Y/L/N), you have been a constant at my side. Your friendship has been a balm on my worried heart for the many years I have had the pleasure of knowing you,” Benedict began, trying to keep his voice steady. “How lucky am I, to have found such a partner in my greatest friend? How lucky would I be, if that partner agreed to spend the rest of her days with me?”

“Benedict…” She had begun to cry. She had known he was proposing today, and yet, she still begun to cry.

“(Y/N),” Benedict repeated her name like a prayer, “will you do me the honor of making me half of the happiest pair the universe has ever seen? Will you marry me?”

A box suddenly appeared in his other hand, a glittering ring shining in the morning sun. It surely wasn’t a family ring, no, it looked to be brand new, like he had it made especially for her. Benedict had asked Lady Bridgerton about family rings but never quite found one that spoke to him—so he took matters into his own hands. 

A delicate cluster of pearls with shining sapphires, all adorned like a flower in bloom. He had been torn on the sapphires, but secretly, a part of him wished for her to have the staple Bridgerton color, blue, with her always. A small claim, a slightly possessive way for him to show she is his at all times. 

If she didn’t already have her answer before this moment, seeing Benedict on the ground, bearing his heart out to her in front of a beautiful scene—and their mamas—it couldn’t have come any easier. 

“Yes!” She squealed, falling to the ground to meet Benedict in an amorous embrace—dress be damned, society be damned.

He nearly fell over, arm steadily snaking its way around her waist, holding her tight against him. He knew he was close to tears, but seeing his love on the same precipice nearly sent him over the edge. “If our mamas weren’t looking…” Benedict whispered into her ear, holding her tight against him, his words a secret to her alone. 

“I simply don’t care,” (Y/N) murmured, turning his face towards her own, lips nearly attacking his. What started as a passionate celebration had melted into something more substantial—a far cry from any other kiss they had shared before. This was not just a kiss from a friend, a kiss from a lover, no, this was a kiss between a husband and wife. The passion was not lost on them, but it took perhaps a second too long to fully realize that their mothers were still very much watching.

“Ehem!” Lady Kent cleared her throat, cheeks rosy as the blooms beside her.

“Relax Mama,” (Y/N) giggled, pulling herself to her feet, assisting Benedict to reaching his own as well. “What is the worst thing to happen? Force us to marry faster?”

“I rather like the sound of that,” Benedict murmured, dusting off his pants. 

“Er, no, I suppose there’s nothing—” Lady Kent sighed, turning to Violet. “Should we petition for a speedy ceremony?”

“Oh hush,” Violet admonished, laughing lightly. “One kiss between betrothed is not a ruin. However,” she looked at the newly affianced couple with a narrow gaze, the one of a strict mother, “I would not make it a habit until you are wed.”

“Of course, Mother,” Benedict nodded, trying his very best to not laugh out loud. 

“My lady,” a butler had come up from behind the proud mothers. “The duchess has arrived.”

“Oh! Splendid,” Violet cooed. “Benedict, do see to it that you and your fiancée greet your sister, I am sure she would be most pleased at your news.”

“We shall inform the family before pall-mall,” Benedict said decidedly. “Just another reason to celebrate.”

“Just think,” Lady Kent sighed, turning to walk with Lady Bridgerton back to the estate. “By the end of the week you will have two sons set to be wed! A joyous celebration indeed.”

“If Anthony is truly engaged at the end of the week,” Benedict said quietly, words only meant for his fiancée to hear, “then the world has turned upside down.”

They both laughed. 

—

“Is Anthony still attached to the black mallet?” (Y/N) asked, arm in arm with her new fiancé. “I recall a near bloodbath for it the last time I played pall-mall with your family.”

“Far more than one would realize,” Benedict nodded. “One would suspect he carried and birthed the bloody thing…”

“Funny,” (Y/N) said. “He birthed the mallet? Here I thought he still had a stick up his—”

“(Y/N)!”

“What? I will not apologize for saying what I was thinking—and if I knew any better, you were too.”

“He’s been… a bit un-agreeable the last few weeks, regarding the whole notion of Miss Sharma and whatnot,” Benedict sighed.

“So you do not disagree.”

“He is my brother,” Benedict stated.

“Indeed,” (Y/N) hummed.

Even having descended these steps only two hours prior to their inevitable engagement, the yard had completely transformed. Shade and snacks had been put up for the spectators, hoops were currently being put in the ground and staff were carrying out the dreaded mallet container.

“What a lovely afternoon for pall-mall,” Lady Mary said.

“And a lovely afternoon to celebrate an engagement,” Lady Bridgerton added, looking directly at the happy couple. 

“Oh yes,” Lady Mary smiled. “Congratulations on the engagement, Lady Bridgerton, Lady Kent.”

“Save your congratulations for the ball in the next few days,” Lady Kent laughed. “I suspect it will be the talk of the ton anyhow.”

The older ladies laughed with one another. The younger adults began their trek to the mallet box, determination in each of their eyes. 

“Eloise, are you sure you do not wish to play?” Colin asked, turning to his younger sister.

“I have other matters to deal with,” she said sitting from the steps, nose in her book. “Besides, someone had to sit out so our guests could play…”

“I could have sat out—” Colin began.

“And the sky is green, Brother,” Benedict said, clapping his younger brother’s back. “Everyone knows you would’ve been a worse spoilsport if you sat out instead.”

“Perhaps Lady (Y/N) could have sat out, then?”

“You’d make my fiancée sit out?” Benedict gasped, clearly jesting. “She is to be your sister soon, Colin. It’s preposterous that you would even suggest such a thing!”

“Ben,” (Y/N) giggled, hand placed gently on his shoulder. “I do not think Colin truly meant it.”

“Congratulations, again,” Colin nodded towards the to-be-Bridgerton. “Why you wish to marry into this family is beyond me.”

“I fear I am still asking myself such a question,” she hummed, plainly ignoring Benedict’s souring expression. “But I am sure I’ll be reminded during our spirited game of pall-mall.”

“Reminded of what?” Daphne asked, walking with the Sharma sisters. She had been explaining the game in earnest to them.

“How much fun our family has playing a rousing game of pall-mall,” Colin said, shit-eating grin on his face. Anthony tried his best to ignore it, taking his attentions to Miss Sharma—the younger, not the elder.

“Shall we begin?” Anthony coughed, clasping his hands behind his back. 

“I shall pick first,” Colin said, reaching for the black mallet.

“No!” Anthony practically yelled, causing a shock to the group. “I-I mean, we pick based on alphabetical order.”

“So, by Bridgerton standards, eldest to youngest?” (Y/N) mused. Benedict huffed a laugh as his brothers began to fight.

“The only fair thing to do,” Daphne spoke up, ever the voice of reason, “is to let our invited guests choose their mallets and strike first.”

“Please, take your pick, Miss Edwina,” Anthony conceded, bowing to the younger Sharma. Edwina looked carefully over the mallets, eyes scanning over every color—almost as if she was afraid to pick the wrong one. She pointed decidedly to the blue one, Anthony grabbing it for her with haste. “An excellent choice.”

Kate wasted no time in choosing her mallet—black and foreboding. The mallet of death. 

“Would you look at that, Brother?” Benedict sniggered, clearly amused by Anthony’s annoyance. 

“Is this yours?” Kate asked. 

“Not at all. You’re welcome to it,” Anthony sighed.

“You near threatened to beat me the last time I touched—”

“You exaggerate,” Anthony fumed, eyes like daggers towards Colin.

“Are you the superstitious sort, Lord Bridgerton?” Kate asked, twirling the mallet like a prized trophy. “I know some men cannot perform without their familiar tools. Like a child with a blanket.”

“Oh I like her,” (Y/N) said softly, her words nearly lost amongst the guffaw of the Bridgerton family.

“I can play perfectly well with any mallet,” Anthony said.

“My sun, I do believe it is your pick,” Benedict said, clearing the laugh from his throat. She nodded, taking her claim on the lavender mallet. It seemed the most appealing and an easy color to spot from the grass. “Lavender is a fine color for you.”

“Shall we dilly dawdle all afternoon?” Colin sighed. “Or shall we…” 

It was like a hunt. Each of the playing Bridgertons tried to stake their claim on a mallet, all avoiding one in particular. Benedict grabbed a golden yellow, Colin choose green, Daphne a nice seafoam color, leaving Anthony with the pastel pink. 

“To the field of combat!” Daphne exclaimed, holding her mallet straight up in the air. 

Combat was an accurate descriptor. While it had been years since she had played pall-mall, even longer since she had played it with the Bridgertons, Lady (Y/N) found it refreshing. It nearly made her wonder if this could have been her life growing up—a lively life with siblings to bicker with and pick on. 

Regardless, it will be her life now, as soon as she marries Benedict. Soon she’d be a Bridgerton. Soon she’d have the family she’d always dreamt of. Siblings, children, the whole lot.

“I say, that was a good shot Lady (Y/N)!” Colin cheered, clapping politely at her latest hit. She had managed to knock Daphne’s ball near a cluster of bushes. “Always a win in my book to best Daph.”

“Oh hush,” Daphne rolled her eyes. “It was a bold move, I will concede to that, well done (Y/N).”

“Dropping her title, are we?” Benedict asked, stepping beside his sister. “You of all people know better etiquette, Your Grace.”

“And what is better etiquette than calling my newest sister by her given name?” Daphne sang, hopping along to her ball. She may be married and a new mother with one on the way, but she still was very much a girl at heart. 

“I truly don’t mind, Benedict,” (Y/N) insisted. “It won’t matter in a few weeks, anyhow.”

“Perhaps you won’t mind this, then?” Colin said. In a blink of an eye, her purple ball went flying towards Daphne’s. 

“Not at all, Colin,” (Y/N) curtsied. “You only made the game more fun, I would have been crestfallen if you were taking it easy on me.”

“Never,” he scoffed. 

“Exactly right,” (Y/N) said, following Daphne over to her ball.

“I’m happy for you. She’s a catch, Ben,” Anthony said, pulling his younger brother out of his love-sick daze. Benedict nodded, not fully listening. “Everyone suspected it to happen, since we were young.”

“I wish someone would have told me sooner,” Benedict jested, “it would have saved us both some time, I manage.”

“I believe Father had made a joke about it once before,” Anthony said. “But, I assume your head was too stuck in the clouds to hear it.”

“Father did, truly?” Benedict’s brow raised. “He was rather observant, I suppose I do not doubt it.”

“You know, I must hand it to you, Brother,” Colin said, cutting in with his brothers. “Courting Lady (Y/N) was a feat I’m surprised you pulled off.”

“Do you not think we are a suited match?” Benedict asked. “Am I not charming enough? Not handsome enough?”

“You are a Bridgerton, of course you are enough,” Colin said.

“I think he means he is just surprised you managed to snag the daughter of an earl,” Anthony said simply. “You are a second son, it is nearly unheard of.”

“She is more than that—”  

“Of course she is,” Anthony said, raising his hand in defense, the other on his pink mallet. “She is your greatest friend and soon to be your wife—of course she is more than just the earl’s daughter.”

“She is my sun,” Benedict said simply. 

Anthony and Colin gave each other a look. “Ever the poet,” Colin chuckled. “You could have stopped at ‘she’s more than that’.”

She had been trying to strategize how best to get her purple ball back to the next wicket. Colin had sent it rather far from the next target, but it was no matter. She was determined to get it back into play—to show the Bridgertons she could roll with the punches. A small wave was sent her direction, one attached to a rather love-sick man, tall and handsome with a wicked grin. 

She waved back, an equally lovesick smile on her lips. 

“How fortunate,” Anthony noted. “Now your son will inherit the earldom, yes?”

“I…” Benedict’s regard turned back to his brother. How easily he was distracted by Lady (Y/N). “Yes, I suppose that is what’s expected of our union, what her parents expect of us.”

“Just think,” Colin said boisterously, “two titles in one family!”

“A viscount and an earl, both Bridgertons,” Anthony cooed, much like a child. “Well done brother! What a success for our family—Father would be proud.”

“I understand the sudden interest in Lady (Y/N) now, Brother,” Colin said, balancing on his mallet. “It rather makes sense, does it not?” 

“I think Father would be more proud that I am marrying for love,” Benedict corrected, growing a bit annoyed at his brothers jesting. 

“Love? Oh yes,” Anthony waved. “Sure, sure. But the earldom? How lucky you’ve bagged her, Brother. Bridgerton, Earl of Kent!”

Benedict forced a laugh. 

“Well, that is not—” 

A purple ball rolled next to his feet, stopping just before his toes. 

She had looked like she had seen a ghost, Lady (Y/N). Her grip tightened on her mallet, white gloves contrast to the purple. “I think I shall cut out for the day.”

The Bridgerton brothers were silent, Benedict inching towards her.

“(Y/N)—”

“I am in need of a respite,” she said, not looking back. “Too much sun.”

Benedict felt his blood run cold, his hand glued to the air. Every sense of his was fleeting, his sight blurring, his mouth running dry. 

“You dolt,” Daphne admonished, smacking her second eldest brother as she came upon them. “You must talk to her.”

“I-I will,” Benedict nodded, not knowing what else to do.

“Well not now,” Daphne sighed. “Give her a moment to collect her thoughts. A conversation now could be… explosive.”

“Is the game finished, my lord?” Edwina pranced over, brows furrowed.

“Ah, yes,” Anthony cleared his throat. “Well, no. Lady (Y/N) and Benedict have cut out, isn’t that right?”

Benedict nodded numbly, dropping his mallet to the grass.

“The game is still set—minus yellow and purple,” Anthony said stoically, rightfully ignoring his brother heading towards the estate. 

Feet like lead, every step he took felt like a death sentence, a man on his way to execution.

Somehow, he much preferred that thought.

__

He knocked at her door, three hours later. 

For two hours he sobbed and for an hour he drank, trying to wrap his head around how he’d approach this, how he’d approach her. He had pressed a wet rag to his face. Helps with the puffiness, a staff member told him. He hoped for it to be true. 

He knocked again.

“Go away.”

Benedict sighed, leaning up against the wood. “I’m afraid that’s unlikely. We must speak.”

“I am not opening the door.”

“And I am not leaving.”

A pause. 

Then, the lock clicked. 

The man took a deep breath, preparing for every possible outcome. He was never much of a planner, but in this very instance? He wish he had clairvoyance, a crystal ball perhaps, to see how this would end. Benedict could only hope it ended with them at the end of the aisle, hand in hand at the altar. 

“You would have stayed out there all night,” she said simply as he entered the room. She had resigned herself to standing in the dead center of the bedchambers, her arms crossed.

“Yes,” Benedict said. “I would have.”

“Stubborn,” she scoffed, turning towards the window. 

He took the moment to shut the door—they were engaged, no need for propriety now. “We are expected at dinner this evening,” Benedict said quietly. “To celebrate the engagement.”

“Naturally.”

“You do not wish to go to dinner,” Benedict surmised.

“Naturally,” she repeated, her shoulders tensing.

“You must eat—” 

“I would rather starve.”

“That is a bit ridiculous,” Benedict scoffed. “Surely you are not that angry.”

“You do not get to tell me how angry I am allowed to be,” (Y/N) said, finally turning around. “If I do not wish to show face at dinner, I will not show face.”

Benedict’s gaze softened on her, finally seeing her face. He would never assume anything about her, it would make for a terrible habit for the years to come, but if he had to make an educated guess, she had been crying just as much as he had.

He wished he had a rag to offer.

“I apologize—”

“For which instance?” (Y/N) asked cooly. “For earlier? For dictating my feelings?”

“The first—both, I suppose,” Benedict ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps he was losing strands from the stress. “Look, (Y/N)—” 

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“What?”

“You have known me for many years,” (Y/N) said. “Do you take me for a fool?”

He had the fleeting thought of mentioning how poorly she played cards, how foolish her tactics were. The only time he’d ever call her a fool. He decided he’d be more the fool if he so much as loosened his lips on that thought. “No.”

“I do not need you to explain yourself, you and your brothers made it quite clear this afternoon,” (Y/N) tightened her arms, nearly folding in on herself. “Quite clear on your true intentions with the earldom.”

“My true intentions? My only intention is and ever was to marry you. Absolutely none of this came from the title.”

“Is that why you suddenly had an interest in me? To secure another title of nobility for your family’s lineage?”

“Of course not! I have loved you since I knew what love truly was, (Y/N). It did not happen overnight.”

Frustrated, she began to pace about the room, fire crackling nearly in time with her beating heart. The air was tense, thick. Shadows begun dancing from the flames, painting themselves onto the bookshelves with ease and without hesitation. Their furrowed brows were prominent against the flickering, set in stone. 

“‘Did not happen overnight’,” (Y/N) scoffed. “You had the opportunity when I debuted seasons ago, why now? Why not then?”

“I was fooling myself,” Benedict pressed a hand against his chest. “I know how this may look, my sun—”

“You,” she cut him off, eyes hardened. “Do not get to call me that. Not right now.”

Benedict took a step back. She was dead serious. He could only recall one other time in their lives that she had such a ferocity to her character—it had involved her father discarding a handful of books from her own personal collection, resulting in her not speaking to him for the better part of a month. If he thought her looks could kill then, Benedict Bridgerton was expecting to have his funeral by the end of the night.

“You misunderstand,” Benedict began carefully, as if to not break any eggshells. “My brothers—you know how they are. Anthony was merely making a joke.”

“It was in poor taste.”

“I agree!” Benedict exclaimed. “My laughter then, it was one of the forced kind, one I save only for the deeply unpleasant conversations I tend to have during the season.”

She stood silent for a moment.

“Yet you laughed."

“I… did. My su—love, I apologize from the deepest parts of me. I wish to marry you, earldom or not. Titles mean nothing, but you? Darling, you mean everything to me."

“So it was just a coincidence that you decided to show up at my door the morning after I shared the truth of my family’s wishes for my future match? Surely you do not take me for a fool.”

Benedict sighed, feeling the anger bubbling in his chest. “While you may have shared that information, the only thing I could even begin to think about since you had left that afternoon was that I had a chance!”

She blinked. 

“Imagine, loving your best friend, watching her and admiring her from afar, knowing she’s destined to be with and marry another. Marry some… some duke or titled man, someone every mama would be floored to have pair with their daughter,” Benedict felt as if he were on stage, his only audience watching him intently. “But to fathom you’d ever marry me? A second son? Surely you could consider me mad for ever entertaining that, for even ever dreaming of it.”

“You have no idea the type of man I wished to have married,” (Y/N) said, her voice cooler than ice. Calculated, perhaps. “Had you been honest from the start—”

“And ruin our friendship?” Benedict laughed, no humor found in his voice. “Lose you? The greatest thing to come of my time on this planet? No. Perish the thought.”

“You’re a fine actor,” (Y/N) said slowly, trying to keep her composure. “Because from the way I see it? You found a way to ensure a new title for the Bridgerton name—woo your ‘greatest friend’ and effectively ruin her by taking her on your brother’s desk!”

“Do not make it seem like you had no say in the matter—”

“I loved you!” (Y/N) screamed, finally reaching her breaking point. “I thought you would be the man I would marry! I wanted you, Benedict, more than I ever wanted anyone.”

“Loved…?” Benedict felt smaller than dirt. “You do not mean—”

“I will still marry you,” (Y/N) continued. “Only because you have effectively trapped me—what if I am to be with child?” She nearly laughed at the absurdity. “Seeing as you had the grace to not only ruin me, but finish in me—”

“Is that what you think?” Benedict broke, his voice quavering. “You think that I tried to trap you into a marriage to ensure my family a new title? That I had the thought—the foresight—to try and make you with child to give you no other options? In no way you could think so little of me—”   

“And yet here we are,” her voice was like venom. "Perhaps you will have your Bridgerton earl after all."

He dared not speak a word.

“I need some time to think. Mother and I are going back to Mayfair—do not follow us.” (Y/N) left the room, slamming the door so hard one might have assumed it cracked. 

Much like his heart.

__

TAGLIST

@nikkisilassheep, @cavghtbythewind, @chaotic-onigiri, @440mxs-wife , @mymyma , @perdynerd , @wotcherboo , @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake , @babyhoneystvles , @korol-lantsov , @riddlerloveb0t 

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Best Intentions - Chapter One

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x femme Warnings: Angst. Smut. Mentions of shell shock and trauma. Word count: ~4.3k

Summary: An overview of how Tom and her came to be friends, and the set up for the story now that he's returned to Longsight. Series masterlist.

Author's note: I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

The imposing red brick building of Plymouth Grove Primary School is gigantic and intimidating to her as she enters through the gates to the playground, the thought of being left here for the entire day makes her clutch at her mum’s hand with tight desperation.

Her first day of school is one she’ll never forget, forever imprinted in her mind, owing to a big pair of blue eyes filled with mischief, and a grin with a pair of front teeth that remind her of a rabbit’s.

It’s morning break as she surveys the playground nervously, trying to decide if she feels brave enough to join in on a nearby game of hopscotch. It’s then that she feels a warm puff of air ruffle the back of her hair, and she spins around to see a sandy haired boy running back towards a group of laughing lads.

“I did it! I gobbed in her hair!” He shouts.

Humiliation warms her skin as tears prickle her eyes, and she hurries inside to the girls’ toilets to unsuccessfully try to locate where the offending spittle has landed, all the while sniffling back sobs.

It’s when dinnertime comes and she sits unhappily sipping her milk that she sees him again. He sidles up to her, alone this time, a sheepish look on his face.

“I didn’t really,” he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, “Gob in your hair, I mean. I was dared to, so I pretended,”

“Oh,” is all she’s able to manage, not sure of what else to say.

“I’m Tom. Mates, yeah?” He says with his bunny toothed grin, and she can’t help but smile back.

He sits himself next to her, opening his own milk and they spend the remainder of the hour getting to know each other.

She’s surprised to learn that it’s his first day too, she had assumed from his confidence that he would be a couple of years above her. He lives with his dad, Douglas, who works as a bus conductor, his mum - Josie, and his sister, Lois, who is a couple of years above them.

He learns all about how she lives with her mum, and it’s just the two of them as her dad had passed away when she was a baby. Her mum runs the shop off of Stamford Road with her uncle, who lives in the flat above it.

Tom’s eyes light up at the mention of this. “The one with the jars of sherbet straws?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, “And treacle toffees!”

By half past three that afternoon, as the children file back out of the school gates, her and Tom are firm friends.

Her mum and Josie stand waiting to collect them, and they discover that they live only a few streets apart, so the four of them and Lois walk home together, chattering excitedly about her and Tom’s first day of school.

From that day forward, the thought of being at school for the entire day fills her with excitement. Tom makes it a less scary place to be, and is quick to defend her if ever anyone tries to give her trouble.

Their friendship remains solid as the years pass, as does Tom’s compulsion for finding trouble. He adores showing off and being the centre of attention, but it’s always her he runs to when it’s time to face the consequences. She is a privy to a side of him that nobody else is, she has seen his fear, his sadness and his doubt.

They sit on the wall adjacent to her mum’s shop, a paper bag rustling between them as they help themselves to sherbet straws. Tom and Lois had walked home with her and her mum. Josie hadn’t been there to pick them up, she hadn’t been for a few days now.

“Should probably go home soon,” she slurs around a mouthful of sweets, “Need to do my homework.”

Tom nods slowly, moving his own sweet around in his mouth. “D’you…d’you think you could help me with mine?”

“Why?” She chides, “‘Cause you spent all lesson mucking about?”

“Come on,” he pleads, “Me mam’s not well, last thing she needs is me getting into trouble because I can’t do sums.”

She clicks her tongue and sighs. “Fine,” she says, jumping down from the wall.

“Smashing,” he grins, following after her.

She smiles over her shoulder at him. “What are mates for?”

Josie’s illness worsens and she passes away around the time that they start secondary school.

Tom’s behaviour becomes more uncontrollabe, exacerbated by his mum’s death, but with her and Lois at the all girls school, and him at the all boys, there is little that can be done to stop him.

Things come to a head one day when Douglas opens the door to an angry neighbour, who berates him for Tom having stolen the milk from their doorstep, running away laughing, before dropping and smashing it when they’d chased after him.

He’d come to her after Douglas had given him a stern telling off, head bowed and looking sorry for himself.

“He hates me,” Tom had said sullenly.

“He doesn’t hate you, Tom, you just need to behave yourself. Why’d you do it?”

“Was dared to,” he says with a shrug.

“Like when you spat in my hair?”

He presses his lips together, lowering his eyes. “I dunno why I do it. It’s just hard since mam’s gone, dad doesn’t understand me like she did.”

It’s then that she notices the tears that rim his eyes, and she pulls him into a hug.

When had he gotten so tall? He feels massive compared to how he used to.

“Thanks,” he whispers, “I’m glad we’re mates.”

The next few years follow a similar pattern; Tom gets into trouble and immediately runs to her each time, basking in the safety of her presence and comforting words.

As they grow older, Tom’s misbevaiour evolves into petty crimes which soon attract the attention of the police.

She also begins to notice the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him each time she pulls him into a hug, a troubling new habit he’s developed, no doubt to impress the older boys. 

He now seems impossibly tall, and with every inch he grows it feels like he pulls a little bit further away from her. It makes her heart ache.

She grows used to seeing him walking home in the mornings looking bedraggled, a cigarette perched between his lips, after having spent the night in the back of a pub to avoid the police, who would no doubt have been knocking at the door of the Bennett household the previous evening.

When news of war having broken out in Europe reaches them and lads Tom’s age begin signing up to the draft, Tom decides he’s having none of it.

“Signing up as a conchie!” He tells her, as they sit on the wall together, waving the green booklet for emphasis.

“Your dad was a conscientious objector,” she says, narrowing her eyes in disbelief, “Your beliefs are suddenly the same as his are they?”

Tom tuts, flicking his lighter absentmindedly. “Just don’t wanna sign my life away for a load of bollocks that’s got naff all to do with me,”

His mind soon changes once the police come knocking again. He enlists in the Navy, action he considers less direct than fighting on the front lines.

The night before he’s due to ship out, he has a rowdy celebration in the local pub, jeering and clinking glasses with those who’ve not yet joined the draft. She watches on with a heavy feeling in her chest, she knows behind all his claims of how many Germans he’s going to kill and how he’ll have a bird in every port that he’s terrified of what’s to come.

That much is proven as he walks her home later that night, unsteady on his feet and reeking of beer. He sways in front of her once they reach her front door, big blue eyes misty and filled with emotion.

“You okay, sailor?” She asks with a soft smile.

“Can I– can I stay the night?” He asks, suddenly seeming like the little boy he was back when they were in primary school and he’d apologised for pretending to spit in her hair. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

She’s never shared a bed with Tom before. They’ve always been just friends. Her throat runs dry at the thought, but in that moment he seems so vulnerable, she can’t deny him anything.

They creep up the rickety wooden stairs to her bedroom, careful not to wake her mum, and squeeze into the single bed that occupies the space. He clings tightly to her, long limbs wrapped around her, like a drowning man grasping onto a lifesaver.

“I’m so scared,” he whispers into the darkness.

“You’ll come back,” she reassures him, “You have to, who else would be my mate?”

She feels him smile against her shoulder. “Yeah, who else would put up with you?”

They giggle, before shushing each other as she elbows him in the ribs, and they fall asleep curled around each other.

Tom’s gone when wakes up.

They write letters back and forth to each other, but each one feels distant and lifeless. He’s writing with the mask he shows to the rest of the world, giving an emotionless recount of each of his days. She supposes he might be afraid or whose hands his words may end up in, and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself, so she clings to every letter, vapid as they are, grateful to still have a connection to him.

She visits the Bennett household once a week, to share the letters they’ve been exchanging - to her disappointment, the ones she receives are much the same as the ones he sends home to Douglas and Lois.

Over time, her mum and uncle join her on her visits. Her mum brings cakes and her uncle gets into the habit of playing cards with Douglas. She is glad for the closeness between their two families, it makes Tom’s absence seem less daunting.

It’s at the Bennetts’ house where she learns the news of the attack on the HMS Exeter, the Naval ship that Tom is stationed aboard. Her blood runs icy cold at the news, though the Exeter was victorious it is not without deaths and casualties.

The weeks spent waiting for news are agonising, and it’s Tom she’s thinking of as she leans against the shop counter, eyes fixed on the large front window, but too lost in her thoughts to see through it.

“Quarter of sherbet straws when you’re not away with the fairies,”

The familiar voice startles her out of her reverie and she looks up wide eyed at Tom’s smiling face.

God, he’s grown into those bunny teeth. Has his smile always been so handsome?

“Tom!” She squeals, rushing from behind the counter and throwing her arms around his neck. “Do your dad and Lois know you’re back?”

He hugs her warmly before pulling back. “Yeah, popped home first to say hello. Left me new bird there, actually, thought you’d wanna meet her?”

She hates the way her heart sinks at this, but nods regardless, flipping the closed sign on the shop door and locking it behind her.

Tom tells her all about the Battle of the River Plate as they walk back to his house. He grows solemn when he’s finished, glancing sideways at her.

“I saw people die,” he says quietly, “I thought I was gonna die. Can’t believe there’s so much of my life I’ve pissed up the wall.”

It’s then that she notices how much more mature he seems, wise beyond his years. He’s seen things that no man his young age should have seen. She reaches for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, a gesture which he returns.

“So, this is Vera,” he gestures towards the kitchen table as they head inside.

She laughs, relief washing over her, when she sees the little canary sitting in her cage.

For a few days it feels like everything is back to normal, until Tom gets a new posting and has to leave again.

“I’ll come back,” he tells her, taking her hands in his, “who else would be your mate?”

She can’t help but smile. “No one else would put up with me,”

He’s away longer this time, his letters are fewer and the worry gnaws at her with more intensity than ever before.

For the second time in her life she cries over Tom Bennett when she hears that he’s been declared as missing in action on the beaches of Dunkirk, a suspected capture by opposing forces.

Lois falls pregnant, and for a time the advancing stages of her pregnancy and eventual birth are a welcome distraction, a reminder that there is life amongst all the death that surrounds them.

Her grief is amplified when bombs fall over Manchester, a bottomless pit opening in her gut when she finds out that there was a direct hit on the Bennett house. Her uncle and Douglas had been inside playing cards at the time, neither had survived.

Her mum moves Lois and her baby into the flat above the shop, with her uncle gone the space is no longer occupied and it makes sense for them to have it, considering they no longer have a roof over their heads.

It’s comforting to have them so close, a little piece of Tom to hold onto until he comes back, if he comes back. She hates herself for thinking it.

When Tom next steps through the shop door, there’s no trace of his grin from last time. He looks skinny, haunted, he’s aged. There’s an anger within his blue eyes that replaces the mischief that used to sparkle there.

He doesn’t need to ask for her to know what he’s after. There will be no hugs of greeting this time.

“She’s upstairs,” she says softly, her stomach tied into knots.

He simply nods and walks towards the back to go up.

It doesn’t take long for her to be able to hear the muffled sounds of arguing and not five minutes later he storms back downstairs and out into the street. She follows after him, grabbing the quarter of sherbet straws she’d bagged up for him.

He’s sat smoking on their usual spot on the wall, and she hops up beside him, placing the paper bag between them. He doesn’t touch them. She wonders when the last time he ate anything at all was, he looks so thin.

The silence between them feels painful, she doesn’t know what to say, but she can tell from the way his hands shake and the urgency with which he drags on his cigarette that if she doesn’t say something then he certainly won’t.

“You can’t be angry with Lois, y’know,” she says gently, “it’s not her fault,”

“Then whose is it?!” He snaps angrily, eyes narrowing as he looks at her.

He’s never spoken to her like that before and she shrinks away from it. “It’s not my fault either,” she whispers sadly.

His face softens, a look of shame replacing his anger as he averts his gaze, his lips twitching. “Sorry about your uncle,”

“Sorry about your dad,”

His return is brief, only a couple of days this time. Enough time for him to visit Douglas’ grave, but not enough for them to talk, not properly anyway. He reveals that he was taken to an American hospital in Paris, after being shot in Dunkirk. A woman named Henriette had helped him to escape France and he’d made his way home via Spain. It’s all so matter of fact the way that he recounts it, but she only has to look into his eyes to see the turmoil he’s feeling. It crushes her.

He looks fearful and uncertain when they say goodbye, the urge to cling to him and beg him not to go is overwhelming.

“You’ll still be here when I get back, won’t you?” He asks.

“Course I will, I always am,” she replies with a sad smile.

He cups her cheek, his large palm engulfing her face and leans down to press his lips to hers. She startles at first, they have never kissed before, but she quickly reciprocates, moving her mouth against Tom’s. His lips are so soft and there is a tenderness behind the gesture that brings tears to her eyes.

She’s breathless when they part, his forehead resting against hers, his hand still cupping her cheek.

“Mates, yeah?” He whispers.

The word makes her heart twinge. “Yeah, mates.”

Her fingers trace lightly across her mouth as she watches him walk away, kit bag slung over his shoulder.

Tom sends no letters at all the third time he leaves, so eventually she stops writing to him. She figures it can’t be nice for him to hear about how life is carrying on without him, how his niece has started to walk and talk, a new house built in place of his old one with a new family living inside it.

She can’t bear how the world continues, while she feels stuck in place, waiting for his return. It isn’t fair that there are people getting to laugh and love and live their lives, while he’s sacrificing his so that they may have the privilege.

With the exception of the morning paper sort, her mum has taken a step back from the shop, needing more rest than usual, and without her uncle around to help out, she’s taking on more hours in order to keep things ticking over. The sweet jars sit empty, rationing is difficult to get used to. She’ll never be able to come to terms with sending people away without the food they want and need, simply because the shop either doesn’t have enough stock, or they have already used their allotted portion for the week.

Her mind drifts back to how skeletal Tom had looked when she’d seen him last. She hopes he’s managing to eat.

It’s the beginning of September, the dying embers of summer glow dark orange on the horizon, as the evening battles the day for dominance in the increasingly earlier darkening of the sky.

Lois is on an evening shift, so her mum is round at the flat looking after the little one. She has the house to herself, and has lost count of the amount of times she’s read and re-read the same passage in her book, unable to take the words in.

She frowns when she hears the door knock, unsure of whether she should answer it or not, she’s not expecting anyone. Her hesitation provides enough time for a second knock, more urgent this time, so she relents, going to the front door and opening it.

It feels as though time freezes when she sees Tom standing there, gaunt and tired looking.

He doesn’t give her time to react, dropping his kit bag to the floor as he closes the door behind him and presses a bruising kiss to her lips. His hands pull at her clothes as he backs her towards the living room sofa, and she lets him.

She just needs to feel that he’s real, that he’s really back, so she loses herself in the moment, allowing him to climb on top of her, her own hands moving to strip him as he does the same to her.

Her fingertips stroke down his back and she’s shocked to find she can feel every vertebrae in his spine, and all the ribs that protrude through the skin. She’s never touched him in such an intimate manner before, but she knows he’s never been so emaciated. He feels hollow, yet there is strength to how he manhandles her.

Pulling her thighs apart, he settles between them, pushing her open with the thickness of his cock. She gasps, arching against him, clutching tightly to his shoulders as he pistons his hips in quick succession against hers. This is no gentle lovemaking, it is filled with raw animalistic need, a desire to feel something, anything.

His breaths are ragged against her neck and he finds release quickly, spilling inside of her with a grunt before collapsing and pulling her tight to his chest.

They lay quietly on the sofa together, nothing but the sounds of their heavy breathing filling the space. She has a thousand questions she longs to ask him, yet none of them seem appropriate. Despite the fact that Tom has just brutally had his way with her, she’s still in shock that he’s returned.

“I’m sorry I never wrote,” he says eventually, “was tired of never having any good news to tell you,”

“You’re back now,” she says quietly, fingers tracing over the bullet wound scar in his shoulder, “that’s all that matters,”

“Still mates then?” He asks.

Her heart lurches at the word. Is that all they are after what’s just happened?

“Yeah, still mates,”

He drifts to sleep in her arms and she holds him, until his thrashing pushes her from the sofa. She lands with a heavy thud on the living room carpet, watching in horror as Tom’s sweaty body writhes and cries out in terror in his sleep.

She kneels beside the sofa, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder to still him and coax him awake. He startles, wide eyed, before clutching at her, burying his face in her neck and sobbing until he drifts into unconsciousness again.

As Tom settles back into life in Longsight, he goes right back to wearing a mask for everyone.

“Are you a hero?” Children shout as he walks down the street.

“Always have been, always will be,” he says with a lopsided grin.

Yet each day ends with him muffling his cries into her neck after she’s soothed his night terrors, she knows better than the act he puts on for everyone else’s benefit. She suspects that Tom may be suffering from shell shock, but doesn’t dare to bring it up. Knowing his father had the same, it is likely a sore subject for him.

His return sees a new development in their friendship, them sleeping together the night he came back isn’t a one off occurrence, yet each time he still continues to refer to her as a mate. It’s confusing for her, but not an issue she wishes to push, knowing that Tom is struggling with enough already. He’ll figure it out when he’s ready, she just needs to be there for him.

Tom gets a flat nearby, and finds a job at the local garage. Having served in the Navy has imparted mechanical skills to him, and he can easily work his way around an engine.

She sits perched on the workbench of the garage, admiring the view. Tom’s sandy coloured hair is pushed back from his forehead, his navy overalls tied around his waist, leaving him in just the white vest he wears underneath. His first customer of the day has yet to arrive, so he’s clean for now. She bites her lip at the thought of how dirty he’ll be by the end of the day.

It has become routine for her to spend a few mornings a week watching him work - her mum has never gotten out of the habit of insisting she wants to open the shop and sort the morning papers before heading home, so she is left to her own devices most days until the early afternoon. Tom doesn’t seem to mind having her hang around the garage.

When a car pulls in, a portly gentleman stepping out, Tom walks to greet him.

“It keeps overheating, I can’t understand why,” he explains to Tom.

“I’ll take a look for ya, mate. Come back in an hour, yeah?”

The man looks over at her with slight concern. “Will she…uh…be assisting you?”

Tom grins. “Nah, she’s just a mate, won’t let her near your motor, don’t worry.”

Just a mate.

She thinks back to how he’d knelt behind her not long after they’d woken up, just a couple of hours ago, pulling her hips back to meet each of his thrusts.

Just a mate.

Mates don’t do that.

Tom’s voice breaks her out of her thoughts. “Stupid old sod, just needs to put coolant in the engine. Gonna tell him I replaced the fan belt and charge him extra.”

She giggles, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

He gives an easy shrug. “He’s loaded, he can afford it.”

She sighs, looking at her watch. “I’d better push off, mum’ll be expecting me at the shop. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Probably not,” Tom says. “Booked solid tomorrow, but come round to mine after?”

She nods, waving and walking away. She’s used to Tom letting her know when the garage will be busy, so makes a point to stay away so he’s not distracted.

It’s not until the end of the day, when she fishes around in her pocket for the keys to lock up the shop that she realises she has Tom’s lighter. She’s too tired to pop round and drop it off at his, so decides she’ll swing by the garage in the morning to give it back.

Her fingers wrap around it in her pocket, preparing to take it out to hand back as she approaches the garage the next morning.

She stops in her tracks when she sees a sleek black motor car parked in the vehicle bay, a tall, sophisticated, beautiful woman standing beside it. Her perfectly manicured nails stroke down Tom’s bare arm as her ruby red lips pull back into a smile.

Her heart lurches in her chest as she watches him reach out to tuck a strand of the woman’s long, dark hair behind her ear.

Her throat tightens, nausea bubbles in her stomach as she turns and walks away, the lighter long forgotten. It feels as though the bottom of her world has been ripped away. She angrily swipes at the wetness that rims her eyes.

Just mates.

Fine, if that’s what Tom wanted then that’s all they’d ever be.

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 4: Love

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Here be the fourth chapter of the rework - you’ll all recognise this one! There’s some minor changes made to flow on with the previous stuff, but beyond that, it’s the OG third chap. Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs​, my slap daddy lobster Ange, for reading through this chapter for me and making sure I’m not uploading total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, objectification of women, age gap.

Daemon supposes it is true what they say about Targaryens—that they are proud and violent and easy to incite to desire and madness. He lives up to the name, he supposes.

Now that his want has come to light, he cannot erase you from his mind. He withdraws to his chambers for the next few days, making his presence around the keep as scarce as he can so that he might avoid you. The prospect of looking at you—your wide-eyed innocence, trusting open expression, still his littlest girl beneath all that ripening—and recalling the depths of his degeneracy each time he meets your eye seems an insurmountable task.

But a new issue arises. He finds he quite literally cannot rid the image of you from his musings, the enemy that is his own thoughts discovering some new wretched path to you in all he does to seek distraction. His books remind him of your love for old Valyrian histories and poetry, of sitting with him, a great tome spread out further than your little arms could extend and reciting the letters in a halting tongue. Training with the sword strikes memories of how you’d fiddle with the pommel of Dark Sister whenever you stood by him, alerting him to your presence far easier than his own eyes ever could. Attempting to govern a bout of cyvasse is utterly dull with only himself as an opponent, and—blast it all—prompts reminiscence of how you’d choose to sleep soundly in his lap as a tot, wet smacking mouth darkening the front of his doublet as he’d match minds against Viserys with only one hand free, the other keeping you chained to slumber with gentle pats to the bottom.

Resistance is fruitless. And so, he gives into the desire. For the first time in years, he unfastens his breeches and takes his cock out with the intention of spending in his own hand.

How mightily I have fallen, he thinks drolly, spitting in his palm, grasping his shaft and allowing his imagination to conjure the likeness of sweet eyes and full mouth and shapely breasts, a precious little gift just waiting for the right recipient to unwrap and play. He thinks of your soft little hands and soft little voice, how darling you would look with those same hands on his cock and your stare wide and trusting, whispering his name in naïve question as he coaxes you to his completion, gifting you a pretty pearl necklace for a pretty little girl—

“Fuck!” he moans, seed splattering over his fist.

It stains his breeches and drips over his boots, inspiring sudden gladness that he hadn’t thought to revisit Sirille’s whore or seek out another of his old haunts, for not bending some meaningless fuck over and exerting his lusts on a cunt worth mere coppers in coin. The speed of his release would have been thoroughly humiliating. Wiping his hand distastefully upon his shirt, he wonders at how best to resolve his growing problem.

It is a problem. How you have unmanned him! How insipid it is to long for a girl of seventeen as though he is some pockmarked, upstart lad of lesser standing! If he were dull-witted, his ire at himself might very well drive him to rail at you for the manner in which you’ve ensorcelled him. But doing so will not aid his particular malady.

The brothel…Perhaps the answer lies in the past. The instant he thinks it, he wishes he hadn’t.

No. He shouldn’t ruin you. He will not ruin you. Besides, you had been deterred rather than encouraged by even his lightest provocations, his half-hearted flirtation failing utterly. In the face of his veiled innuendos and covetous stares, you had retreated into yourself, pulling away and levelling him with that soft, reproaching little mouse-glare of yours. Any other maiden and he would double down, pursue until he had overrun them and given them little choice but to lift their skirts and let him steal away their virtue. Yet, this brings him distinct discomfort. He cannot abide the notion of despoiling you so ignobly.

Daemon wonders at the hesitation, for it had brought him little pain to do the same to his eldest niece. He considers that because it had always been his intention to shore up his own succession—by either wedding Rhaenyra or destroying her reputation, getting her out of his way—the thought of doing the same to you had never crossed his mind.

Hm. What can he do, then? Wait for this—this feeling—to pass? He is the blood of the dragon, true; and, like the flame from which those winged beasts were born, he burns hot and bright and stinging—until the flame flickers away, doused by the merest brush of air or touch of water. In moments of want, it becomes a need, something he would kill and die to possess, and then another obsession takes hold. Men of passion—men like him—are so rarely faithful to their fancies.

Alas, you are no ordinary woman. It stands to reason that his lust is no ordinary yearning. You are everything he has ever envisioned in an ideal bride. The right bloodline. The right family name. The right temperament. These things alone…

It does not even take into consideration the simplest fact—that, though time and circumstance has changed so much, there is nothing that can destroy his deepest affection for you, his sweet little niece.

    No closer to devising his way forward, Daemon does what he can to evade encountering you. It is hardly an effort, for you seem to perpetually cycle between the same activities and yet, simultaneously, are nowhere to be found. He shuns the obvious places—the library, your Hightower siblings’ rooms, Rhaenyra’s solar, the courtyard, the garden—and even deigns to add the training yard and the kitchen to the list. Luckily, he seems to have either frightened you off or had simply chanced upon a rare occurrence in which you were discoverable.

After four more mornings, he is unsurprised to see you absent once more from your father's table to break your fast. You have missed the previous occasions, too. A sennight and a day had been more than enough time for him to decide that he detested these mealtimes. Quite obviously an attempt on his brother's part to foster unity between the squabbling factions in his family, he is usually faced with the choice of either indulging in the bickering of the children or pretending he gives a fuck about anything the Hightower woman has to say. Not that Her Grace has been particularly interested in engaging him in conversation. Instead, she carefully plays the part of ignorance, watching him from directly across the table with her beady little eyes each time he so much as moves. Loathsome bitch. She must have a magical cunt for Viserys to have managed to pump four of those wretched spawn into her.

This is why he is startled when Rhaenyra and Laenor enter with their two boys, followed swiftly by you and that idiot Cole. You have an air of irritation about you, as though you had been interrupted at your leisures when your elder sister had come to collect you for the first proper meal you would see in days.

The sight of Rhaenyra—as lovely a sight as it is—sends a weak thud of hurt through his chest. But it is the sight of you that inspires a far greater reaction.

You are no less striking in the morning light that streams in from the open balcony. Garbed in a short-sleeved gown of powdered blue and wild hair pulled back in a simple braid, the adjustments only serve to emphasise the parts of you that had changed in the ten years since he had last seen you. Half-convinced that his first meeting with you was an inexplicable fever-dream sent by the gods to taunt him, he is once more besieged by the sight of your rose-bloom lips, your bare throat—why the fuck do you not wear jewels to cover up all that exposed flesh, the sight is positively lewd—and charming little tits peaked in maiden's flirtation. The dress does little to hide your endowments from his rapacious gaze, for all its modest bodice and looser fit.

He does his best not to let his turmoil play out on his face as you move further into the room. Laenor drops into the empty seat beside him, narrowing his eyes in a manner that suggests he’s noticed where Daemon’s attention has been focused. The lad’s fair to suspect him—his exploits in the Stepstones hadn’t been limited to warfare, after all.

“Father, Daemon,” Rhaenyra greets, settling herself down next to her husband.

He finds the noted absence of greeting to the Hightower woman wildly entertaining. While it is not lost on her, the queen has deigned to overlook the arrival of her once-best friend. Instead, she turns to survey her ailing king in an affectation of care. He decides it is only polite to return his eldest niece’s salutation. Rhaenyra smiles in response to his well-wishes, an acknowledgement of his words and nothing more.

“Good morrow, daughter!” Viserys says to his eldest, looking fondly down the table as his grandsons are settled in at their seats. His gaze moves to you. “Ah, child! We haven't seen you in an age!”

He has brightened in excitement at his first glance of you, and you smile sweetly at him as you pass by to press a kiss of greeting to your father's balding head.

“My apologies, Papa,” you say to Viserys warmly. “I have been ever so preoccupied with my studies, you see. I did not wish to fall behind.”

“Studies, my girl? I had rather thought you were avoiding Lord Denys again!”

He has to grit his teeth at the mention of that idiot. What in the seven hells is Viserys thinking, allowing a lackwit like the Rose of Highgarden anywhere near you? To think that he’d be willing to ship you off to so ordinary an existence as the Lady Tyrell.

The blood of the Freehold, forced to mingle with farming stock. What dishonour!

At the mention of the lord, your earnest little stare transforms into a myriad of quick-vanishing demonstrations of your distaste for the man. Daemon is savagely glad to see it.

“That, too.” You beam when your father laughs. It is a most pleasing expression on your features, a guise that erases the lingering pensiveness clinging to you like a second skin—one that you should always bear.

Would that he could replace the gloom that reclaims you so soon after.

“Darling.”

Alicent frowns at him from her position at his brother’s side. She appears to have caught him looking, not that he cares overmuch for her judgement. It intrigues him that she appears to be addressing you. He had thought the family quite divided by old and new—and as Aemma’s last living child, that places you firmly in the former category.

She smiles up at you, gesturing you toward her. “Come sit by me.”

Clearly, his assumption is incorrect. You happily proceed around your father to sit in the empty seat beside the queen, placing you next to the youngest one, Daeron. He can only remember the name due to its similarity to his own. You grin fondly down at the boy, and it is easy to imagine you doing the same one day with his own son. You ruffle his hair when he makes an exclamation of your name, disregarding the snide glances offered to you by the older two. Ah, that is more like it.

“What are you working on currently, sister?” Rhaenyra interrupts his musings from next to Laenor, wordlessly reminding young Lucerys to pause his chatter while eating.

His mouth upturns when he sees you brighten, stopping in the middle of selecting fruits and cheese and pastries to pile on your plate. The shame feels like a distant memory as he watches you, dish aloft in your hand while you enthusiastically turn to engage with your older sister.

“I have been consulting with Ser Lysan on writing a compendium of the Dothraki language,” you say excitedly.

Who the fuck is Ser Lysan? And what in the seven hells is she doing learning Dothraki? Daemon’s brow raises sceptically as he mulls over the fact that you—a sweet little untouched princess—appear to have dealings with horse-fucking, barbarous brutes in the east.

“There is some debate as to how we will proceed,” you add, carefully side-eyeing the oldest of the Hightower boys as he snickers at your pronouncement, “as our letters do not correspond correctly with the phonetics of their speech. We will have to either take creative liberties or devise additional symbols to signify these sounds.”

Perhaps he has woefully underestimated you. You seem to possess an intellect that may well be formidable—at least when it comes to your philosophies and languages. A fascinating paradox of a girl, he thinks, to be so clever and unknowing all at once. For all your book learning, there is much about the world you lack understanding of. It is tempting to remedy this in the most depraved manner possible.

Not here. Not now.

“That sounds… interesting.”

Rhaenyra sounds anything but interested. Does anyone take interest in your pursuits? Anyone at all? Looking around the table at the uncertain faces of those you call family, it appears not. No wonder you seem so alone.

“Dothraki, of all the languages to learn?” he asks. “An interesting pursuit for a princess.”

 You make direct eye contact with him, arranging your features into a facade of polite courtesy. It is closed off, withdrawn, and you return your plate to its place upon the table.

“I am learning, yes.” You absent-mindedly reach across the little one beside you to remove a silver-handled knife from the second-eldest boy—Aemon, is it not?—and place it out of his reach. It is a good call. He had been poking the surface before him with the tip, gouging small divots into the wood. You disregard his protestations, continuing your line of thought. “I would not claim to be proficient, however. It is a complex language, and I have not studied it for long enough to consider myself fluent.”

“It is a savage language.” The eldest of the queen’s sons has an expression fixed in what Daemon can only assume is meant to be a look of disdain. As ugly as the boy is, the effect is rather lost on present company. “No wife of mine will occupy herself with such things.”

This one too? Unbelievable. It would make more sense to betroth you to your brother than to the Lord of Highgarden. If only the brother in question wasn’t so… pathetic. Pathetic now—but when he becomes a man, a true peril to any chance she may have at happiness.

He swallows back bile at the thought. However would you survive being bound to a sneering wretch who sought to stifle any joy you might experience, and all for the sake of control? It is too harsh a fate for someone so pure.

You frown softly, shoulders squaring off in your disapproval. “Just because their culture is different, Aegon”—ah, yes! No wonder he is naught but a disappointment with a name such as the Conqueror’s to try and fail to live up to—“does not mean they are savages.” 

His nose flares with the necessity of suppressing his own amusement. Such guilelessness, such gullibility! You really are too sweet.

“They fuck their horses, don’t they?” Aegon asks disparagingly, echoing exactly what he had been thinking only moments prior.

The younger boy titters beside him. You open your mouth to respond, brow wrinkled in affront, when the queen cuts across you.

“Aegon! That’s enough!” she says sharply, and the boy abruptly withdraws, tucking his head down and quietly resuming his meal with a muttered apology.

As a lull falls across the remaining occupants of the room, all that can be heard is the scraping of utensils over dishware and the hissing admonitions of the queen to her eldest, whispered reminders of how princes ought to treat those they are courting. Given that the recipient is three places down from her—and you are, in fact, between them—her words are neither quiet nor tactful. Your head bows, lower lip quivering only once, pretending not to hear as you pick apart the remnants of food on your plate.

“An intellectual, my daughter is.” Viserys breaks the stillness with forced joviality, engaging him in conversation once more.

He had paid little attention to the spat—no doubt avoiding his fatherly responsibilities as he has done since time immemorial, long since used to ignoring the conflict that sparks beneath his very nose. Daemon is simultaneously fond and contemptuous of his brother, the years having done little to change the spinelessness so central to his personality as man and monarch both.

“Always learning something new,” the man says merrily, “always needing books and tutors to satisfy that mind of hers. She would be a maester of the Citadel, methinks, had she been born a man.” 

She would be Prince of Dragonstone if she had been born a man, Daemon snorts to himself, and I’d not need be sitting here with the Hightower bitch and her offspring.

“Papa!” A pretty flush reddens your exposed ears and the apples of your cheeks.

He trails the path of the blush as it spreads to your chest, travelling down to kiss the shy swell of your breasts under that damned raised neckline. He has never hated an item of clothing quite so much as he does your gown.

“That Ser Lysan Marios of hers,” the king explains. “A man from the Free Cities, do you know? She was ever so delighted when I solicited his services.”

A tutor, then. But what is his place in your life? This is what Daemon wishes to know.

“He is a respectable gentleman,” Rhaenyra says, no doubt having witnessed his perplexity. “Though it’s quite amusing, really. For an old man like him, he is rather adept at making his way about the keep unnoticed. You’d think someone with such poorly knees would be easier to find.”

He hadn’t truly believed your tutor to harbour untoward feelings for you, but relief suffuses him, nonetheless. An elderly man with weak joints could hardly muster the energy nor stamina to seduce his young charge—especially a burgeoning little nymphet like you, so reserved and restrained, desperate for release from the bonds of propriety. His gut tightens at the image he has conjured.

“We always leave a note, ’Nyra,” you say, your posy-petal lips frowning.

“And by the time I send someone to find you, you have moved off elsewhere.”

You hum an agreement, picking still at the remainder of your meal. Daemon spies the Hightower woman’s pointed glare over you, the quailing of the eldest boy. The lad clears his throat and turns to you.

“Sister. Would”—he pauses to clear his throat again—“would you… care to take a turn around the garden with me? At, er—the hour of the boar?”

How the fuck has he managed to make it worse?

Daemon almost preferred his snobbish spite over this pitiful attempt at flattery. If he’d been uncertain as to the boy’s success at winning you over, he’s not anymore. There’s scarce to be any maiden who would accept such a snivelling offer.

You appear rather baffled. “Oh. I appreciate the offer, Aegon… but I am afraid I have plans then.” A polite smile of contrition curves your lips.

Your brother does not like this. With a barely restrained sneer, he begins to respond. “But—”

“—I am intending to visit Athfiezar,” you cut across, placid as ever. “You are welcome to accompany me there, if you wish?”

The boy blanches. “No!” He says, shaking his head.

You make a soft noise of acknowledgement, allowing your focus to drift to the small one immediately beside you. And, with that, the conversation ceases entirely.

Rhaenyra was right in asserting her inability to pronounce the name of your feral mount. The guttural inflections in your honey-sweet voice speak to something wild and untamed, a spark of the magic that had brought his line to life so long ago.

“Interesting name.” Daemon is unable to help himself. You blink disconcertedly at him as he speaks. It is the second time in as many occurrences that he has seen your countenance alight with startlement at his address. A nervous little morsel, she is. “A Dothraki word, is it?”

He can only assume this. Based on his few dealings with the horde of savages during his time in Essos, the word sounds similar to the harsh utterings of the khalasar.

“Yes,” you say with a pleased look. “It means ‘love’.”

What a name for such a monstrous creature. A little girl christening her first barn cat, all soft skin and sweet smile and doe-eyed delight. You squint at Rhaenyra when she chuckles softly. It seems he isn’t the only one to have such a thought.

You turn back to him. “He does not take well to others, I fear.”

That is an understatement. From all his existing knowledge of the wild leviathan, from his experiences with the beast growing up, from tales he had gleaned from around the capital, from accounts of old acquaintances and the from gossip of his family, your dragon—the fucking Cannibal, and isn’t that a story he’d like to hear—is an utter lunatic, as unhinged and vicious as he always was. Except, it seems, with you.

“A right bastard, too,” Laenor murmurs under his breath, just within Daemon’s earshot. “Do you know how many keepers we’ve had to replace since that thing came to King’s Landing?”

He can imagine. Dragon, livestock and human alike, the dragon had little care for what it slayed, seemingly fulfilling itself on the blood-and-gore high of butchery. The thought of laying eyes upon such a creature thrills him to the bone.

You levy him with an inquisitive look, head tilted slightly. “Would you like”—you hesitate—“would you like to meet him, Uncle?”

Only a fool could refuse a proposition like that. Not in the least because of the Cannibal—well, so few would ever have the opportunity to come close to the beast and live to tell the tale. Through you, it may well be possible that he would get that chance.

But, moreover, how can he say no to your timid, earnest entreaty, the proverbial hand of offering held out and just waiting for yet another rejection? Hope draws your brows in a pleading arch, lips wet and parted, and it calls to mind a much younger version of you, far freer in begging for his attention. Who could possibly deny you?

His mouth settles the matter before his mind has decided. “I’d be glad to,” he says, warmed by the sunny beam that stretches across your face, bringing bright light to your eyes and a merry flush to your skin.

It occurs to him then that he has just invited himself to an entire span of unaccompanied time alone with you. You—the object of his waking reveries, his darkest deliberations, his filthiest wants.

Perhaps this will be what finally drives him mad.

The wheelhouse ride is a revelation—and not quite for the reason he expected.

You are surprisingly easy to converse with; high praise, coming from him. He is not one to enjoy casual discussion, finding most people utterly insipid, especially those of suitable station. Princes and lords and magisters are always far too concerned with crowing of their riches to be of much interest—and the women are hardly worth engaging with unless it is to persuade them to drop their smallclothes and let him bend them over in some abandoned hall.

It might just be his fixation upon you that makes you so fascinating. He cares not for the reason. Instead, he chooses to enjoy the rarity of the moment, listening to you talk about the weather, the food, the changes made to the city since his departure.

“We have been getting an increase in grain from the Reach, I believe, in return for silks and spices from Driftmark,” you say, filling the transport with the dulcet tones of your pretty little voice.

He wonders at how you have come to know this information.

“Papa allows me to be his cupbearer during small council sometimes.” Pride overtakes your expression. “I am not present often, but it is nice when he asks.”

It is expected of Rhaenyra as the heir to attend in her youth, but no such presumption falls upon you. How interesting that Viserys has chosen to allow his second daughter to be involved in the running of the realm, small a part as that may be! Daemon had not thought his brother observant of you in any capacity whatsoever. In this, he’s happy to be wrong.

When you arrive at the Dragonpit, your faithful guard-dog Cole is waiting for you, having ridden ahead to secure the location for his young charge. Daemon rolls his eyes as the knight offers you his arm, assisting you down the steps and to the ground. You gratefully thank the white cloak—he has to clench his jaw tightly to resist saying something snide at the look of slavish devotion on the whoreson’s face—and take out leather gloves of deep black, a stark contrast to the blood red of your riding habit. You wear the Targaryen colours exceedingly well.

“Now, Uncle,” you say seriously, turning to him. “I do not usually meet Athfiezar at the Pit, so it is imperative that you do as I say.”

It makes sense that the dragon seeks refuge outside of the Dragonpit. The beast did not seem one to willingly enshrine itself in chains. His brow quirks in entertainment at your command, a war general in the shape of a little girl with a woman’s body, but tips his head regardless.

“Of course.” He has no wish to die for the sake of pride.

The dragonkeepers have already begun to shift nervously in the open, unprotected space. What follows illuminates him as to why. He is startled when you stop in the middle of putting your gloves on to place your fingers at your mouth and release a loud whistle. The sound echoes toward the cavernous entrance of the building before you and sets off a cacophony of ringing screeches and roars from within. He cringes as the blast of noise assaults his ears and wonders what in the hells you were intending by doing such a thing.

Suddenly, a low rumble resonates through the air. He casts around for the origin of the din, seeing nothing cresting the horizon. Out of nowhere, there is an unearthly shriek. A hulking black shape tumbles from the cover of cloud, rapidly gaining size as it approaches.

The dragonkeepers bark panicked orders to each other, rushing to clear the space before his little niece. “Inkot selās! Inkot selās!” Move back! Move back!

Daemon wonders through a wave of sheer panic if he ought to follow the keepers’ example and dive for shelter, dragging you with him. The dragon isn’t showing any signs of slowing down. It is now close enough for him to make out the grim scores of scars marking its head, the eerie verdigris orbs glowing ominously within its immense skull, the sheer musculature forming one of the largest specimens of Old Valyria alive today. The dragon is quite dissimilar to the other Targaryen specimens, he notes, stouter and stockier and yet more serpentine than the winged creatures the Conqueror had brought to Westeros some hundred years before. He wonders if it is true that this one is from a different lineage entirely. He had never gotten close enough to survey it before now.

The great lumbering thing alights upon the dome of the Dragonpit, crawling with surprising agility to the edge of the structure and peering down. It sends a clatter of rubble spilling from the sides of the great dome as it crackles under the weight of it. At the sight of the keepers huddled behind dragonglass shields, curled to the ground in vain protection of themselves, the Cannibal opens its mouth and screams. It is a haunting, hair-raising resonation that sends chills down his spine and near freezes the blood in his veins.

“Athfiezar!”

His gaze, having been transfixed upon the most terrifying entity he had witnessed in years, shifts to you. You have stepped forward, seemingly without a care, arm outstretched and calling happily up to the reptilian brute. He is about to pull you back toward him when he observes what might be the most deranged, impossible scenario imaginable.

The dragon stops.

It stops.

“Kesīr māzīs, Athfiezar!” you call again, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet. Come here!

Emitting a deep keening, its eyes split to you, pausing its rampage as it takes in the sight of you below. Daemon huffs an exhilarated laugh as the winged serpent cocks its head, pauses, and then begins scaling its way down the stone formation. It is heedless of the damage it is doing to the establishment as it tears its way through rock like parchment, wiggling down to touch down upon the ground before the mouth of the Pit. The beast is surprisingly light upon its feet for its sheer size, second only to the great she-dragon, Vhagar.

He can only watch on in amazement as you stride forward to meet your mount. The famed Cannibal bends its massive frame down so that you may lay your hand upon its snout and coo something tender and indeterminable from a distance away. The wyrm growls softly, slowly pressing itself against you as you talk. The dragonkeepers have not yet moved from their protective stances, spaced out around the yard and cowering behind obsidian safeguards.

What the fuck.

And then, you are walking back toward him, an air of contentment unlike any he had witnessed about you emanating from your person and echoed in the radiant joy on your face. With your giant beast as a formidable backdrop, you look every inch a Targaryen conqueror. It is a most unexpected evolution in the child that had preferred to entertain herself by reading than by journeying to the Pit to see Syrax or Caraxes. The sight makes him breathless.

You are glorious.

“Kepus,” you say, reaching out to him. He is somewhat amazed to see you are the same person, the same girl with the same charming eyes and delicate features and alluring form, that you have not somehow metamorphosed into a goddess from ancient Valyria. “Would you like to meet him?”

His answer is immediate, wordless. When he grasps onto your hand, he notes that your grip is much firmer, more solid and more real than it had been the week before. You are in your element here, at peace within yourself and with the dragon feared by the entire world. You pull him gently with you towards the creature, unfaltering even in the wake of the chitters and low hisses it emits when it observes a newcomer heading its way.

“He will not hurt you,” you say kindly. “You are with me.”

The affirmation warms him. When you are a small distance away, you release his hand, stepping in front of him to murmur softly to your mount once more.

“Ñuha kepa bisy issa, ñuhus taobus,” you call mellifluously, once more extending your palms to stroke along the dragon’s head. It nudges you lightly, and you laugh in response. “Ziry ōdrikō daor.” This is my uncle, my boy. Do not hurt him.

There is an absurdity in hearing you kindly entreat this monstrosity as though it were a prize hound, born and bred to spend its days on the lap of a noblewoman at high tea. What’s more is that the wyrm appears to enjoy it, nuzzling into your touch like a kitten.

Athfiezar growls in warning as Daemon approaches, soothed only by the quiet humming you are making and the light affirmations of peace you are whispering. Shifting its weight around, it grumbles in irritated obeisance as it allows him near. When he is close enough to hear the beat of its heart, feel the waft of its breath on his skin, smell the typical scent of dragon stink upon the air, he stops and takes in the view. 

From this angle, he cannot see the beast’s hind legs, so vast is the length of its anatomy. The dragon’s powerful front legs and sinuous snake-like neck occupies his vision, the head bowed low to the ground in cooperation with its mistress’s will. Its sable scales ripple like onyx in the sun, flashing shades of coal and silver and gold as the light dapples upon their surfaces. The creature is maimed in several places, no doubt from its long history of aggression against its own kind, but the old injuries serve to heighten its aura of petrifaction.

It is a horrifying representative of its kind. It is everything he had ever adored stories about as a child. And it is yours.

“How is this possible?” he breathes, stepping closer to you. You glance back at him, mouth quirking gently at the expression of wonderment on his face.

You lightly entwine your fingers with his. When his eyes snap to yours, you tug him forward easily, placing his hand upon the Cannibal’s snout with your small hand laid on his own. He laughs quietly at the sensation of dragon-scale under his palm, a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief and sheer childish awe colouring his tone. To lay his hand upon the Cannibal and live… It is the stuff of dreams.

“Raqnon jorrāeltas—hegnīr ūī zijot irughin.” You stare wistfully at your mount. He needed love—so I gave it to him.

Though it is a relief to hear his ancestral tongue spill from your lips once more, a reminder that the years had not washed away all that is familiar, Daemon wonders if there is more to this unlikely pair than anyone had assumed. Both isolated, both starved for affection, both cleaving to each other for warmth and surety. The notion makes him unhappy.

My poor, lonely little girl… You never need be lonely again now that he had returned. 

He looks back up at the beast, Athfiezar the Cannibal, this wretched saviour of desolate maidens and broken dreams. The creature snorts, a puff of smoke jettisoning out of its nostrils in a sneeze. He jumps out of the way, startled. You giggle, laying your head fondly against its snout.

“Kara iksā,” he says. You are magnificent.

You smile as you look up at your dragon, your hand lightly caressing its colossal jaw—but Daemon’s eyes remain firmly affixed on you.

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[the20thangel]

The Dragon and The Raven Chapter 14: Warging Lessons.

Chapter Summary: Benjoct begins his warg lesson, growing frustrated at the slow process when his dragon princess decides to provide stress relief services. A certain person from the past comes to visit in dreams.

Tags: Smut, 18+ NSFW, angstishFluff

Taglist: @poppyflower-22 @alastorhazbin @callsignwidow @whimsicalmystic02 @mercedesdecorazon @rhaenyrathecruelwithteats @ithilwen-blackwood

word count: 2.7K

Masterlist

Ben stared at his aunt and the lord of Winterfell before laughing, his cackles frightening the whole group. The only person who seemed not bothered by the young lord’s outburst was Jaesys, who, in turn, began cooing, looking at his father. Alysanne would have swooned at the scene if she weren’t so worried about her nephew’s reaction to their plan. The Blackwood lady turned to Princess Aemma, who was staring at her husband with slight worry but was trying to hide it. 

After a minute, Benjicot finally calmed down. 

“I’m sorry, but it seems so far-fetched; you want me to try something I have only read in books. We don’t know if I even have enough blood from the First Men…” 

Aemma squeezed his hand, making him pause and face her. 

“It wouldn’t hurt to try, right? Look at my family; we asked Dragonseeds to come and try to claim dragons to support us in the war… If my family can have magic to bond our dragons, why can’t yours have a different magic to warg into animals.” explained Aemma to her husband while caressing his cheek. 

Benjicot smiled, leaning into his wife’s touch. She had a point; he just didn’t want to get his hopes up in trying something that could potentially amount to nothing, but again, just like the Dragon seeds, the outcome would never be certain unless he tried. Nodding, he turned to Cregan, letting him know that he was willing to try to learn how to warg. 

Cregan beamed, “Great! Using a raven or crow from Blackwood Lands would work best because they will sense a familiarity with you.” 

Aemma grew excited as she answered for Ben, “You can use my raven, Ben, the one you gave me when we started courting.” 

Benjicot smiled at her, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek as he stood with Cregan. Both lads eagerly wanted to start the process, Leaving Aly with the princess and little heir. 

After allowing a small moment of solitude to pass, Aly moved to sit next to the princess. As she finally allowed Jaesys to return to his mother’s arms, she asked how the princess was doing. 

Aemma nuzzled her baby, smiling as he cooed. She turned to answer Aly,  “Okay, there are days when I just want to wallow in my grief, but thankfully, Ben and Jaesys are always there to bring me out. Ben has also been amazing in being so hands-on with our son…truthfully it surprised me. As far as I knew, lords tend not to be so hands-on, but then again, many people also expected me just to hand my baby to a nursemaid.” 

She knew the greens were surely like that; she saw how out of touch Alicent was with her children.  Her mother rightfully criticized the green queen for that. 

Aly smiled as she replied, “Ben was always excited to have children; he would always take time to play with the children of the village and our younger cousins; he had more patience than Davos.” 

Bringing up Davos opened a wound in Aly; it had not even been a full year since her brother's and eldest nephew’s death. She knew Davos would have made an amazing uncle, adoring Jaesys with so much attention and gifts. He also would have enjoyed teasing his shy younger twin endlessly for wooing a Targaryen princess, but alas, fate was cruel in the form of Brakens. 

Aemma smiled, knowing the ghosts of their loved ones were close; grabbing her hand, the princess and lady leaned on each other, quietly reminiscing about their families. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the days passed, Benjicot spent many grueling hours reading and practicing the process of warging, but so far, nothing seemed to make process. It was frustrating for him; he wanted to support Aemma but felt like he was failing so far. He was also growing upset, having to place most of his lordly duties on Aly and Aemma while he trained with Cregan. Both women didn’t seem to complain, but Benjicot knew that putting all the engagements to them was unfair, especially since Aemma herself was taking her lessons from her father, preparing for the announcement from the Queen proclaiming Aemma as the new official heir to the Iron Throne. 

Rushing into his tent after another day of failure, he grabbed his cloak and threw it to the ground in frustration. Sighing from mental exhaustion, he sat tiredly on the bed, rubbing his hand up and down his face and trying to cool off. The rustling of the tent’s entrance made him look slightly up as he and his princess walked in wearing mostly red today. Warmth spread in Benji’s stomach; he always felt like this whenever Aemma decided to wear red instead of fully black. She looked gorgeous, and he was greatly considering asking a seamstress to make a dress for the princess that would have ravens and dragons embroidered just like their son. 

As the princess walked in, she noted her husband's mood, quietly sitting beside him and taking his hand into her own. After a moment of the two sitting in quiet peace, Ben raised their intertwined hands and kissed Aemma’s hand. Smiling, Aemma turned to her love, raising her other hand to move some of his hair from his forehead. 

“How was your day today?” asked the dragon princess, frowning slightly as Ben huffed quietly. 

“Frustrating… I just can’t seem to grasp how to warg… all I seem to be doing is growing headaches,” explained Benjicot as he felt his frustration coming back. 

Aemma moved closer to him, knowing he was placing so much pressure on himself. 

“It will come; just don’t push yourself too much. I don’t want this process to hurt you; skin changing can become dangerous.” pleaded Aemma. 

Ben shook his head, “I want to support you, be your eyes in the air; I want to prove to you and everyone how much I can bring into our marriage…” 

Aemma kissed him before she replied, “Yes, but what good will come if my husband ends up injuring himself because he constantly pushed himself beyond his limits? Warging is a skill; you have magic in your blood, as I do, but the magic needs to be trained, just like how I built my dragon riding skills. I was born with the magic to bond with dragons and ride them, but I did not magically wake up with a strong bond between Sliverwing and me. I worked hard for years with her to build our bond; there were days I was too frustrated, but my father and mother both made me realize that forcing skills to appear quickly was not the route to go; it would have only hindered my bond and caused serious repercussions. So be patient, my love; your hard work will come to fruition.” 

Benjicot sighed, knowing his dragon princess’s words to be true. He kissed her back briefly before separating himself from her and asking for Jaesys. 

“Daemon has him, says that the Blackwoods have been hogging him for too long, and the boy also needed to know his Targaryen roots. His words, not mine,” replied Aemma as she stood from the bed, walking behind Benjicot and placing her hands on his shoulder. 

Mischievous, the princess smirked, pressing her body to her husband. She began messaging his tense shoulders, causing the raven-haired lord to groan. Leaning to his ear, Aemma whispered. 

“Besides, I felt you were going to be tense, so I decided to use this free time to release you from any tension.” 

Benjicot blushed slightly at his wife’s words. Determined not to falter, he decided to play on. “Oh, and what plans do you have, wife? Will you serve me on your knees and-” 

Ben sharply inhaled, seeing Aemma knee before him, and spreading his legs open. Aemma placed her hands on each thigh, squeezing them a little, making sure to keep eye contact as she replied. 

“What a wonderful idea, husband. Let me serve you tonight.” 

With that, she reached forward and grabbed Ben’s clothed cock messaging it and squeezing it for a moment before she freed it from his clothed restraints. She stared at it as it slowly started to harden and rise. Spitting in her hand, she grabbed his rod again, moving her hands in a circular motion and up and down. 

Ben groaned, spreading his legs farther, allowing Aemma to come closer to him as she spat on him, squeezing his cock before continuing with her motion. Once she knew he was fully erect, she leaned her mouth to him, placing a kiss at the tip before dragging her tongue slowly down to his base and enjoying his loud groan from his mouth. 

Benjicot felt like he was in paradise with an angel. As he placed his hand on Aemma’s head, he entangled his fingers in her sliver waves, tugging a bit, which prompted the princess to lick upwards before taking him into her mouth. 

“Fuck Aemma!” exclaimed Ben as he felt her warm mouth around him. 

Aemma smiled. Hearing her name coming out of his mouth in a pleasurable tone, she continued her attention to him, moving her head up and down and swirling her tongue around him like he was a sweet candy. She moaned, feeling his hands grip her hair harder, pushing himself deeper into her mouth. She begins feeling wetness pool under her. 

At hearing her moan, Ben began panting, feeling his release coming fast like a train; as he tried to pull her off, it only caused her to suck harder, which pushed him to the edge. Letting a loud grunt, he released himself in her mouth. Opening his eyes, he moaned loudly, seeing how his beautiful wife swallowed every single drop. She looked so angelic, her purple eyes slightly hooded, staring at him. With a smile, Aemma released him with a loud pop, kissing the tip again before she moved up and sat on his lap. 

“How was that for you, my love.” She whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Ben chuckled as he, too, wrapped his arms around her waist, dragging her body closer to him, causing her to grind on him. Both lord and princess quietly moan at the sensation. 

“Wonderful, you are a divine, sweet girl; now let me return the favor.” He stated as he kissed her hungrily. 

Aemma moaned again, allowing her raven lord to push his tongue into her mouth and explore the inside of her mouth. Still feeling mischievous, she lightly sucked on his tongue, which prompted him to growl in pleasure as he retreated slightly. Before she could tease him, she squealed when she felt him bite her neck. Her squeal quickly turned into moans again at feeling him attack her neck with love bites. 

Gasping, Aemma began to grind herself on him, feeling her husband’s cock awaken again. She moaned, feeling him against her. As much as she wanted him inside of her, she remembered the caution from the midwives: she shouldn’t lay with her husband until 3 moons after giving birth. Jaesys was barely turning two moons. 

“Ben, we can’t; the midwives warned against laying with you until Jaesys is 3 moons,” she whispered, although she didn’t want to stop. 

Ben kissed her again before replying, “I don’t have to be inside you to make you find your release angel. Take off your small clothes; I promise I won’t enter inside you.” 

Aemma, slightly confused, raised herself and did as was told. Once she removed her small clothes, she gasped at Benjicot’s stronghold, roughing, pulling her back onto his lap. She whimpered, feeling his stiffness nestle in between her folds. Ben placed his head on her neck, licking her neck and huffing as he felt her slick wetness coating him. Placing his arms around her waist, Ben began to move his princess, allowing his cock to slide in between her lower lips, savoring her moans and gasps. 

Aemma closed her eyes in pleasure, wrapping her arms around Benjicot’s head as she, too, began to move and grind herself on him, enjoying the feeling of him sliding. 

“Mmmhm, yes, Ben, just like that,” she whispered, for she only wanted him to hear how good she felt. 

Ben, wanting to hear more, began to roughly and faster grind himself to her, grunting at how much wetter she began. She was gorgeous, and she was his, and he was hers. No other man will ever compare to him, and no other woman can hold a candle to her. They were made for each other, and both princess and lord knew that thought to be entirely true. They were always meant to find each other. 

“Please, Ben, please..” Aemma began to plead, moving her hips faster, wanting to bring her release faster. 

“Please, my love, I can’t give you something I don’t know.” Ben taunted, although he, too, was coming close to his second release. 

“Make me undone…I need your release; I need you to bring me to ecstasy,” commanded Aemma, leaning her hips as she felt like she was going to burst. 

“Go ahead, sweetling. I will never deny you,” assured Ben, groaning as he and Aemma simultaneously allowed their release to flow over them. 

Both moaned at the sensation, holding on to each other until their ecstasy soothed over, panting. Both stayed frozen, smiling at each other. 

After a moment, Aemma kissed Ben sweetly, playing with the hairs on the back of his neck. Smiling at the kiss, Ben caressed her face. Allowing each other to feel their love for each other. 

“We should probably bathe before someone comes with Jaesys; I’d rather not see my father with our fluids still on us.” proposed Aemma, rising from his lap. 

Benicot laughed but silently agreeing he did not need to give his good father an excuse to stab him. Taking his wife into his arms, he walked them both to the bathing section of their tent. 

As the night progressed, Daemon finally returned the baby to his parents, wishing them goodnight as the young family prepared for bed. Jaesys snuggled in his bassinet, and the babe cooed in his sleep. Aemma snuggled into her husband, breathing in his scent as she allowed the realm of dreams to welcome her. Lastly, Ben, too, entered the realm of dreams. Two ravens flying around him welcomed him as one landed before him. Benjicot’s eyes widened, seeing the raven transform into his twin. His shock grew as the second raven flew down, Jaesys transforming out and landing in his uncle's arms. Davos smiled at the babe, tickling the baby as he turned to his younger twin. 

“Look at you, snagging a Targaryen princess, aye,” smirked Davos, watching as Benjicot openly gaped at him.

“What, the dragon got your tongue, Ben? Close your mouth before a fly enters; I don’t think my good sister would appreciate that.” Davos laughed as Benjicot glared at him. 

“How…what… how are you here? Where am I?” asked Ben. 

Davos shrugged, placing his nephew back in his father's arms. “Not sure, this could be your dreams or the realm in between; regardless, the old gods have decided to be generous with me and allow me to meet my nephew; he's a handsome bugger, isn’t he��a proud Blackwood, he will grow into.” 

Benjicot smiled, slightly agreeing with his twin: “He has Targaryen qualities, too; he has his mother’s eyes.” 

Davos nodded; the Blackwood genes were beautifully enhanced thanks to the Targaryen's otherworldly beauty in his nephew. 

As the twin brothers continued making small takes, Davos felt his time was coming to a close. As he expressed his thoughts, Benjicot frowned. He was not ready to let go of his twin. 

Davos chuckled, walking to his twin and hugging him. Benjicot was always the sweeter of the two. 

“We are proud of you, Ben; Mother, Father, and I are all proud. You will lead our house to glory. You will be the first in generations to warg, allowing our allies and enemies alike to see the true power of having the blood of the first men. Continue on your path, brother; you will be successful. 

Sniffing, Benjicot smiled tearily at his twin, knowing their time was up. Walking away from the young father and son, Davos smiled. 

“Tell your princess I thank her for honoring our customs and that her brothers are safe with their families.” 

Ben gaped at the words. Nodding, he stared in awe as his brother transformed into a raven again, taking flight and flying away from father and son, with sweet little Jaesys cooing, his purple eyes following as the blackbird became smaller and smaller in the distance.

[calmlb]

one of my favorite headcanons is that Dazai defected right around Chuuya’s birthday

we don’t know exactly when he left, but we do know it was after october 26 & before june 19, & according to clues in dark era it sounded like it was around springtime in yokohama

idk enough about yokohama weather to know exactly what month it was but imagine…

Chuuya had been sent on a mission in the west for 6 weeks. he returned late in the afternoon on April 28th– just in time to ring in his 19th birthday with his shitty partner.

because why not? he’s got nothing better to do.

he’s even got a bottle of 1989 Petrus waiting to be popped open.

he reports to Mori for debriefing & all he can think about is how beating the mackerel in that racing game they’ve been playing while he was away would be the perfect way to start off his 19th year.

but when he turns to leave, the Boss stops him, telling him there’s something that he should know…

Dazai disappeared 2 weeks ago, & has now been declared a traitor to the mafia.

Chuuya’s blood runs cold. he doesn’t know how he made it back to his apartment— head muddled by hurt. shock. confusion. exhaustion.

he tosses his coat on the back of the couch & the first thing he sees is the bottle of vintage Petrus— still waiting for the celebration.

and celebrate he did.

Chuuya celebrated his liberation from that waste of bandages he called a partner.

he celebrated the success of the solo mission he’d just returned from.

he celebrated the end of the reign of the infamous double black.

he celebrated the fact that he’d survived 4 years of partnership with that shitty Dazai.

he celebrated Dazai’s freedom, which would likely save his life… the freedom Chuuya hadn’t been able to attain. he’d been left behind in the darkness by the one person who got it.

the one who believed in & fought for Chuuya’s humanity when no one else did.

Chuuya celebrated his 19th birthday. alone. again.

(he hadn’t even said goodbye— hadn’t asked Chuuya to come with hi-)

no.

Chuuya shook away those thoughts. he needed to clear his head. he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes & stumbled drunkenly across the room to grab his keys.

he made his way to the garage where his car was parked, clicking the button to unlock it as he approac-

BOOM!

Chuuya was thrown backwards onto his ass, barely able to catch himself in his drunken stupor. he blinked through bleary vision at the flames that were engulfing his car.

and wasn’t that just par for the course? the icing on his nonexistent birthday cake.

so much for that drive.

Chuuya watched the flames burn, & maybe it was the alcohol talking, but it felt almost symbolic— like closing this chapter of his life. all he could do now was move forward. just like he always did.

but not tonight.

tonight he would stumble back to his apartment & collapse into bed.

(in his inebriation, he hadn’t even noticed the black fabric burning up right along with his car)

he woke up the next morning, freshly 19 with a killer hangover, a smoldering car, & a missing ex-partner.

when he found the nearly empty wine bottle, he was kind of glad he hadn’t taken that drive…though his memory from last night was a bit fuzzy— what the hell had happened to his car?

his phone chimed with a text from Kouyou.

happy birthday, lad. don’t do anything stupid.

Chuuya couldn’t help the twitch of his lips. there were still people here who cared about him.

not long after this, he would be promoted to executive & decide that the Port Mafia was his family.

but for today, he would nurse his hangover & curse a certain mackerel’s name as he beat every high score between them in that stupid racing game.

happy freaking birthday to him.

the car bombing was inspired by this post bc it’s canon to me <3

[pricegouge]

Fatted Rabbit, Part Fourteen on AO3

Content

Bearshifter!Price x reader | explicit

Simon brings in John's clothes because he's a good lad despite being a pain in the ass. He's also been busy cleaning up the blood John tracked in while they've been busy cleaning each other. John helps with the last of it, tries to scrub the place of Graves' every last discarded skin cell to get the stench out of his nose but it's no use. Irony of all ironies that his senses should return to him just in time to have the scent of another man on his mate lodged into his craw.

Smut in this chapter. If that's not for you go ahead and skip from one '---' to the next.

Simon brings in John's clothes because he's a good lad despite being a pain in the ass. He's also been busy cleaning up the blood John tracked in while they've been busy cleaning each other. John helps with the last of it, tries to scrub the place of Graves' every last discarded skin cell to get the stench out of his nose but it's no use. Irony of all ironies that his senses should return to him just in time to have the scent of another man on his mate lodged into his craw.

She snoozes on the couch unaware, wakes up occasionally with stifled gasps and peers around cautiously until she spots either himself or Simon. It makes John's teeth ache, relief coming only when he sucks the last of Grave's taste from his teeth.

He trusts Simon when the man declares Grave's phone no threat. They crush it under heel and bury it with what remains of him in the shallow hole John dug while still in his other form. It had been instinct, then - borne of a need to come back and finish the job later, to not let wolves or other large game happen upon him. Now, it serves as both a convenient grave and great evidence of what had happened here. He'll be found eventually, probably. From what Simon could gather, Grave's friend Shepherd had given him free reign of the place for as long as he needed, but people tended to ask after their friends and investments, and no doubt eventually Shepherd would come calling; but all he'd find would be a corpse with a cranial bite fracture large enough to make him believe in cryptids, likely. 

And if he knew to expect bunny, he knew enough to see why she'd run after her captor had been killed as well.

Simon brings the Suburban around and John's exhaustion catches up with him so he sleeps in the backseat with his rabbit snuggled to his chest while they make their way back down to the Jeep. She lights up like a firecracker when she spots it, and John tries not to let himself get too bent out of shape about her still considering it to be her home. They have time now, no looming threat to chase her away from him. He'd get her settled into his den soon enough, turn her Jeep back into a proper car.

One with a real backseat too, hopefully.

"You'll be okay back here, bunny?" John asks once he gets her tucked into the bed she'd installed. There's nothing to hold her in place and he worries her leg will get too jostled, but she's refusing to ride in the Suburban because she doesn't want to be separated from her precious home again. John can't really fault her for that. Uses it as an excuse to dismiss Simon back to Glacier while they head for the nearest hospital. 

"I'll be fine, quit your worrying. Bye, Simon. Thanks again for everything!"

It's possible the big man actually smiles at her, eyes crinkling slightly above his mask as he pats her on her good foot. "See you at home, pet."

Bunny bites back a small smile of her own as she considers his wording. She seems to steel herself for a moment, then tells Simon to say hi to Soap for her. Riley pauses, narrows his eyes at her in every way but physically, then nods exactly once and drives away in John's car.

John stares after him, stunned.

"I think you're being dramatic about him -."

"Do you think they got married when I wasn't looking?" John asks, still staring confusedly after his friend.

"What?"

"Just admitted he was on his way to see Soap." 

"Yeah, because they work together." 

"He knew how you meant it."

"Doesn't mean they -."

"Simon won't admit what he had for breakfast unless it's a matter of public record and there's no use denying."

"Tells me plenty," she shrugs, prods him with her toe. "Ever think he just likes fucking with you?" 

"He told you they're together, then?"

"So was that not an admission?" she counters.

John sighs, goes to shut the hatch. "Pair'a you are impossible."

Her voice is muffled when it calls through the glass, "Us!? You turned into a bear!"

***

The receptionist at the hospital takes one look at the rabbit and notes she's not about to keel over, then hands off a clipboard of paperwork which makes bunny grimace. She admits she doesn't have insurance and John bodily wheels her closer to himself so he can check over the questionnaire with her. He'd gone in ahead of her to get a chair when they'd first arrived and he's been taking advantage of just how easy she is to maneuver ever since.

"Bloody Americans," he grumbles. "That sales gig doesn't offer benefits?" 

She pales, visibly braces herself. "About that… I don't actually have a job." John frowns at her and she rambles, "I only lied cause no one wants to be unemployed and homeless. I had to quit when I left, obviously, and I didn't want to be applying for jobs when Phil always got his sticky little fingers in everything. And I had enough in savings anyway, it's just -."

"Bunny, 'm'not mad," John reassures her, palm heavy on her back as he rubs soothing circles there. "At least, not at you. I'm sorry you didn't think you could tell me."

Her breath puffs out of her as she tries to center herself. "It's nothing you did, was just really self-conscious about my situation, and didn't wanna unload everything   on you in order to explain."

"Mm. I wish you had told me. So much we could've done different to keep you safe."

She cringes. "I know, but it's -. Well it's not that I'm ashamed of myself or anything stupid like that, it's just also not something I want clouding everyone's perception of me, you know? Also, none of that 'keeping me safe' stuff was your responsibility anyway."

John huffs to show what he thinks of that, checks over the fine print on her clip board about charges and billing nightmares. "I'll help, of course."

Her poor battered head whips around so fast he's surprised her eyes don't cross. " Not going to let you take the bill."

John shrugs, grins. "Well you'll have to put someone's address down, and you're not the one who checks my mail." She sputters but John's already moved on, leaning back in his chair and settling in for a long haul.

It is indeed hours of waiting. John zonks out a few times, wakes up with a cough when bunny prods him for snoring too loud. 

"Fed the bear, eh?" cheeky shit.

"Fat and happy," he agrees. He folds himself over the arm of her chair so he can use her shoulder as a pillow, rubs his beard there, where she still smells like another man, marks his territory.

She's none the wiser. "If you snore in my ear, I'm leaving you here."

"Can't drive in a cast, rabbit."

"Don't need to drive, it's a house on wheels. Just gotta lock you out."

He chuckles, kisses her temple as he leans in close to her ear. "I'd tear the top off it like a sardine can to get to you."

She stills, but not the same way she used to. When he checks, her eyes are wide, sure, but she's peering back at him now instead of focusing middle distance. He grins at her knowingly but she scoffs, waves him off. "Not that impressive. Even I can take the top off a Wrangler."

When they do come for her, the nurse takes one look at the state of her, spares John a quick, guarded glance, then rather pointedly asks the rabbit if she'd like to be brought back on her own.

"Never thought I'd get to say no to this question!" bunny chirps, and it's not funny but she's grinning like an idiot so he gives her a wincing sort of smirk. "Oh, you're no fun." She turns back to the nurse with a genuine smile. "This one's alright, promise."

The nurse nods sympathetically and even lets John wheel his girl around as she guides them back to radiology. She does need a reset unfortunately, through which he holds her hand and whispers sweet words into her scalp, but things move right along after that. They put her on concussion protocol and send her packing; turns out underpaid hospital workers ask disconcertingly few questions and they'd worried for nothing. Although he does fish a brochure for a battered women's helpline from her cast when the itchiness gets so bad she nearly buffs off the plaster with her nails in the car after.

She insists upon a hotel for the night so he can sleep off the rest of his meal, and then gets him to begrudgingly agree to let her pay for it by pointing out that if anything does come up down the road, legally speaking, it would be best not to have bank records stating he'd been in the area. 

"I travel a lot, clearly. Mine could be explained away as coincidence. Or maybe I'd been meeting him to pick up some of my old stuff. You know, normal break up things."

It makes his mustache twitch, but she's right is the hell of it. "Simon was getting petrol along the way because I was too antsy…"

"Right. Simon's nosey," she shrugs. "He followed me."

John feels his eyebrows shoot to his hairline, nods. "True enough… What about Graves having been in Glacier?"

Her nose scrunches in thought. Cute. "You know what? News to me. Who knows what that slimy bastard was up to?"

She's leaned over the center console to speak with him, soft lit by the dim stadium lighting of the parking lot. The neon sign by the entrance displays approximately three quarters of the name 'Maken Motel' while the vacancy sign sputters so erratically he's not entirely sure if they have it. He hasn't gone in yet, was making a last ditch effort to convince her to let him pay. She's smart, though. Better at this plotting stuff than he is, at least. He supposes one would have to be to orchestrate an escape from a man like Graves. 

Finally, he huffs in defeat, leans over to brush a kiss on her bruised forehead. "Clever rabbit," he admits, then takes her card and heads inside.

***

The room is nicer than expected. Queen bed, clean shower, basic cable. Smells chemically clean. The rabbit's smart enough to inspect for bed bugs before allowing John to go grab some bedclothes for her, but when he comes back he's only carrying the trunks and socks she'd requested. She huffs when he slips his own shirt over her head but he's not having it.

"Please, bunny. You still stink like him."

"Oh," she frowns. She tucks her nose into the collar of his shirt, tries to sniff herself. "I smell like old man body wash," she counters.

He shakes his head, sticks his nose rather pointedly into the tender spot behind her ear. "Under that. It clings to you."

"It does?" she asks, voice breathy in concern, or embarrassment, or something else.

John kisses her there; licks, just because she knows now and he can do these things with some semblance of reasoning. "Mmhmm. You two smelled…" he drags his lips across her pulse point, supports her under the arms as he walks her back to the bed. "Upsettingly alike." He's very serious when he meets her eye, cradles her face. "We're gonna have to change that, bunny."

"O-okay." She sounds like she doesn't quite know what that means, but that's okay. He'll show her 

He goes back to kissing down her throat, slips his fingers into the waist of her sweats and slides them along with her knickers down past her full hips before lowering her gently onto the edge of the bed. He gets her bottoms off her good leg, but struggles with the cast. She told him she'd been in sleepwear when she'd been abducted, so the sweats must've been Graves' doing. He'd taken no small amount of pleasure when the nurses had to cut her pant leg off to make the cast work, but he takes even more pleasure in ripping them up the seam now, growling as if he'd been severely inconvenienced by their very existence. 

"Okay, tiger," she laughs. She goes to strip his shirt back off herself but he stills her hand with his own.

"That stays on."

She frowns in confusion, then smirks and cocks a brow as she tucks her nose into her own armpit and sniffs. John nods, eyes nearly boring a hole into her chest where her heavy tits stretch the material enticingly. "Alright, you weirdo," she laughs, but her hands abandon her own hem in favor of bending over him and tugging at his jeans. "Your turn, then."

John smiles indulgently up at her, accepts the kiss she plants on him with a happy hum. His hands are gentle but insistent, however, when he pushes her back onto the bed, laying her out. He shuffles closer, pushes her plush thighs apart with his broad shoulders. "Not yet, sweetheart. Wanna make it up to you first."

"Make what up to me?" John's hands have snaked up under her thighs, hoisting them onto his shoulders so he can lay his palms flat on her belly. Her hands find his and he gives her one, holding a spread palm out to her so she can thread her pudgy fingers through his own.

"Not telling you, of course." He only realizes he's got his snout buried in her curls when his voice comes out muffled. She doesn't smell like him here and John breathes deep, closing his eyes blissfully in a way that makes his rabbit squirm uncomfortably. "You gonna let me take care of you?"

She snorts, cute thing. "So what's all this been, then?"

"Got a lot to make up for."

The rabbit frowns, letting the silence draw out until John feels compelled to fill it. This time when John breathes deep and shakes his head against her, it's borne of frustration "Let you get poached right out from under me."

Bunny sighs, runs her fingers through his hair as she chews on some words. "Not how I remember it."

John can't help but laugh bitterly. "No?"

" No. " She uses her grip on his hair to push him back up on his haunches, slips her legs off his shoulders and struggles to sit up. "John, I ran the fuck away from you. I said my goodbyes. The only reason we're here is because you didn't give up when I fully fucking did."

"You didn't give up, sweetheart, you panicked. And you wouldn't have had to, had I been paying closer attention."

"John, that's -." She huffs, tries again. "A full blown military operation would struggle to account for Phil. You not noticing him skulking around town in a car I didn't even recognize doesn't mean you weren't paying attention. It's also, like, a big ask to expect you to pay attention to stuff like that in the first place."

"I knew it was a possibility and I -."

"So did I. Listen, we're not playing this game. If there's one thing I've gotten good at over the years, it's recognizing that Phil's shortcomings as a decent human being do not reflect negatively on me. Us. We shouldn't and can't be expected to plan for someone like him."

John narrows his eyes up at her. "And yet, you did plan on him."

"Yeah, and not well enough, clearly. I'm not denying either of those things. But taking this as a learning opportunity for some vague next time does not equal beating myself up about not having learned this same lesson magically in the past." She deflates a little, scritches his scalp. "Not being able to comprehend what people like Phil are capable of doesn't make us naive, or stupid. It just means those things don't come naturally to us. We have to be taught, essentially."

"Hard lesson," John grumbles, and she nods sadly.

"You don't have to make anything up to me, John. You saved my life back there. Metaphorically at least, if not literally."

"Not funny," John grumbles, but he presses a kiss to her inner knee all the same. "And if I just wanted to eat your pussy, no ulterior motive?"

The look she gives him as she draws him back into her lap is somehow both teasing and teased. "Well, you could've just said that."

---

She sighs contentedly when he gets his mouth on her - as if she's sinking into a warm bath after a hard day. As if he's bringing about the first wave of undiluted relief she's felt in weeks. He breathes with her, keeps the hand still threaded with hers exactly where she's placed it on her belly. He gets her bad leg back up over his shoulder, though, uses the space it creates to nudge in closer. She's not quite wet yet, the brief discussion about his insecurities probably having undone any progress he might've made before. It's no matter. John's just as happy to nuzzle into the core of her, lick at her hinges where her sweat collects heady and pure. He's babbling, only realizes it when she starts answering, petting at his head and telling him she missed him too and would he please get on with it.

Too happy to oblige, John laps at her cunt where her slick has begun to collect and spreads it around with lips and tongue. She may as well be made of honey for how sweet she tastes to him. He tells her that, though he's not sure she's actually understood, what with how thoroughly he's smothered himself. She laughs anyway, light and easy, belly jiggling. He's a goner.

He gets her to cum on his tongue and then his fingers, curled up around her on the bed while her good leg drapes over his hip. She's on her back - so open like this, letting him touch her however he wants. He's got an arm tucked under her shoulders, petting at her hair, her cheeks, the column of her throat. She sinks her fingers into the pelt of his chest and hangs on for dear life once he gets his palm flush with her clit.

"Shit, John."

"That it, baby? Right there?" He can't imagine it's not - he's fairly certain he's touching every inch of her, three fingers buried deep and flexing into that spot that makes her back arch and her breath stutter.

"Yeah - fuck -. I can't -."

"You will," he promises. They're so close he can sense her exhaustion on every pant as it fans across his face. Poor bunny, she's in for a long night.

She shakes her head adamantly. "T-too soon." Her legs are shaking enough to lift her cast off the mattress and he knows he should take pity soon.

He takes one finger from her, shushes her pathetic whine with a filthy kiss and by showing her how much deeper he can get with only two fingers. There's a spot at the very end of her that makes her hiccup, sweet thing, so he stays right there, bullies it until she's got tears in her eyes, shaking her head again. 

"Too soon, John. John - fuckfuckfuck - too soon -!"

"Apparently not, love," he laughs, maybe a little cruelly, and that's it, as if all she needed was to hear him. She shakes and shakes and cries and John keeps his fingers in her, soft little pulsing movements that let her trip and fall her way back down to earth while he licks her tears up in between kisses. 

When she's able to kiss him back he lets her take control, fully expecting her to put his hands above his head or something after pressing his luck like that, but she just dives into his mouth like she's found a salt lick, hands clingy and desperate until he gets the message and smothers her, shields her body with his. 

She's still clingy and crying after a few minutes, enough so that John pulls away to look at her, stroking a hand over her face as he collects her tears on his thumb to feed them to her. 

"You okay bunny? How's your head?"

She nods, mouth bobbing on his thumb suggestively.

"You need to be done?"

"Mmphnn."

John removes his appendage, loath as he is to do so. "Need real words, sweetheart."

"No. Need to feel you."

"Feel me where, rabbit?"

In response she hikes her good leg higher up his hip, pulls him impossibly further into her by a belt loop. "John, please."

"Okay, love -." She starts crying more and he ducks down to nuzzle kisses into her temple while he shucks his pants. "- Alright. I'm here. You need me, sweet girl, I'm here."

"Yes," she chokes, and any other night he might chuckle at that but tonight he just nods, presses into her in one long thrust that has her mouth falling open, her eyes glazing over with more than just tears.

"'m'ere, love. Right here." She tightens around him like a vice and he grunts, grinds his hips into hers until she's pliant again. "Yeah, pussy missed me just as much as you did, hm?"

"Yeah," she breathes. "Didn't think - didn't think -."

"Didn't think you'd ever get this cock again, huh baby?"

She shakes her head again, rocks up to meet his thrust as best she can. All a little too coherent, considering how quickly he's falling apart for her. He gets a hand in between them, works her clit with his thumb while she babbles and clings to him, cunt twitching each time his callouses catch too aggressively.

"Wasn't gonna let that happen, you know?" His voice is a low growl, almost surprising even himself.

"Hmmng?"

"Let you run away like that. As long as I know you still want me, love, you're -."

It's like he's found a live wire, her body arching under him as she scrambles at his chest and suddenly it clicks, nearly knocking the breath out of him in the process. He can't help but collapse onto her, lips right at her ear as he fucks into her hard enough to get her whole body bouncing against his. He keeps her in place with an elbow over her shoulder, hand sweet and stroking in her hair to keep her from turning away.

"That it, bunny? You wanna hear how I love you?"

He's ready for it this time, sushing her sweetly as he fucks her through another teary orgasm while she babbles incoherently about losing him. He tumbles over after her when she sniffles and wipes her face with the back of a clenched fist, looks him dead in the eye and says she loves him too.

---

They're lazy after, trading the slow kinds of kisses they haven't really had time for since being reunited. Every cell in his body wants to bundle her up in every blanket this motel has to offer and sleep for at least eighteen hours, but more than that he wants the smell of Graves gone so he forces himself to get up and wrap her cast in a garbage bag so they can take a shower. He resolutely behaves himself, content to just bite playfully into her shoulder, protect her poor head from the harsh water pressure, and tell her loves her a million times more. If she cries again, it gets swallowed up with all that remains of her fears and washed down the drain.

***

She's not in bed when he wakes up the next morning because she's a pesky little creature, but he's willing to forgive her when he smells fresh toast with peanut butter and honey, instant oatmeal, apple slices and hot tea waiting for him. 

"It's no full English, but the cooler went off. So no meat, sorry." She's embarrassed, silly thing. He licks some stray honey from her chin to show her what he thinks of that, and then absolutely makes a fool of himself for how much oatmeal he ingests.

next>>

[arcadia-of-pluto]

Twist of Fate; Eighteen

Pairings; LADS OT4 x reader

Word count; 2,239

Themes; isekai, slow burn (eventual smut), canon divergence

Rating; 18+ for swearing and mature themes

Notes; Finally it's Friday! I swear, all of my notes for ToF practically look the same, at this point. Anyway, this is Rafayel's last chapter, I swear! His myth ends next chappy, we get some real world time with Sylus, and then we're onto the next myth– which is Zayne.

Also, if Sylus's myth set comes out soon, you best believe I will write it here if it fits the story! Annnnd also, the main story branches. To add on to that, Zayne's up-coming free 5 star on the 30th of this month will possibly be added if I can work it into the story. I know I definitely want to add a tiny sprinkle of Dawnbreaker to this story– and make him happy. Everyone gets a happy ending in this story!!

prev || next

Masterlist

Also, make sure you check out the summary (and poll) for a new series called Divisa! I'm excited with what I've got so far and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it.

“Are you upset I was distracted?”

A small laugh slips from your lips as you head back over to Rafayel, who had his arms crossed over his chest and a small pout on his pretty lips. “Don’t be angry! I returned, didn’t I? I even brought back some pomegranate wine. We can take it back for Algie and Konche–”

“I’m not upset, but…” Though Rafayel is cut off by the sound of arguing behind us.

“Someone stole the pearl eyes from the Sea God statue in the temple. You must be the thief!” You hear a guard say to the storyteller.

“You must be mistaken. The person who gave these to me is…over there! I would never dare to touch the Sea God’s treasures,” The storyteller yells and points at…you and Rafayel.

 That mother fu—

“There! Seize them!” The guard yells and you groan, clearly annoyed. “Will they imprison us?” Rafayel asks, nonchalantly before adding,“Ah, well...We should start running.”

“We were careless,” You sigh, running a hand through your hair, “Commoners would use coins to pay. Not pearls from the deep sea!” 

“I just found them in the sand before we– ouch!” You grab Rafayel’s hand in a panic, probably too tightly, as you both take off. You drag him into a deserted alleyway. “We’re no longer safe here. We need to find a way back,” You sigh, peering around the corner. 

“Don’t you want to stay?” Rafayel asks, almost sounding a bit melancholic.

“Huh?”

 “If that’s your wish, I can distract them for you,” He says as he rolls his shoulder, getting ready for a fight. “In the Tome of the Sea God, it states I must never go against your wishes. If I did, it would mean we cannot be bound.” He looks down and lightly kicks a pebble.

“I need only one follower, it doesn’t have to be you.”

Ouch...That somehow didn’t feel right to you. The thought of someone else being by his side, romantically or not, didn’t sit well with you. 

“Aren’t…you afraid of me telling others about Lemuria?” You ask, softly as you wrap your arms around yourself and look down at the ground.

“...but you always wanted to live on the surface world, right?” He talks with his hands and you can’t help but sigh.

You shake your head and grab his hand since he seemed a bit confused. “I don’t have a wish…besides this celebration isn’t about me.”

 Rafayel is startled for a moment but then, under the realistic statues of the sea god, he smiles, “This event has nothing to do with me either.”

“The thieves are over here! Capture them!”  You both can hear the guards moving closer, the sound of boots thumping against the pavement. “Damn it– They found us—”

 As you panic on what your next move is, Rafayel pushes you into the shadows and walks out into the street. “Do you all want eyes from the God of the Sea?” He asks, his voice filled with authority. “I have tons. Have at it.” With a flick of his wrist, countless pearls of various sizes soar through the air and cascade onto the ground. The surrounding merchants are stunned before they start to fight one another, picking up as many pearls as they can.

Then the guards start yelling at the pearls are for the emissaries.

“Sir…I don’t want the Sea God’s eyes, but can I have the Sea God puppet instead?” The little girl from earlier is back once more as she looks up at Rafayel who chuckles, “Sure but make sure you keep them together.” He hands her the two puppets before he takes your hand and pulls you into the night.

After this, the guards start closing off the city. You and Rafayel make it out, but now you stand at a cliff side, the ocean churning down below.

“Jump.”

Huh– What?

Sharp, jagged coral and rock lie at the bottom. A single mistake would be disastrous.

“Surely…You jest, right? If we jump, we’ll di— Ah!” You let out a shout as Rafayel kicked you off the cliff. 

“Not with me here.” He chuckles to himself and you hit the water with a loud splash. Rushing water separates you from Rafayel and the horror of drowning washes over you once more. You flail your arms, helpless, desperate to reach the surface. “Rafayel..!”

Beneath the surging waves, you can barely see. In your mind, you had returned to that fateful day when you were tossed overboard. Maybe you had trauma that you didn’t even know you had. Either way, you were full on floundering– almost to the point of having a panic attack.

Maybe your destiny is to die in the ocean and Lemuria was but a mirage– a dream made to cope in your final moments because you still clung to a sliver of hope that you’d make it out alive. 

Frigid, briny water floods your throat, the salt burning your lungs. No matter how many gods are in this world, whether legendary or figments of imagination, you couldn’t place your faith in them.

Even if they are real, why have your prayers gone unanswered? 

Even now, as you edge closer and closer to death’s door…You are alone.

“Breathe and hold on tight.” A voice speaks beside your ear. You open your firmly shut eyes and see a familiar, yet blurry figure. He tightly holds your hand and uses all of his strength. “Rafayel..” You murmur. 

Now, you remember.

Although you hoped for gods to exist, someone has already answered you. Though, he says nothing. His warm hands cup your cheeks as his head moves closer. His lips gently press against yours, a clear contrast to the way you kissed him on the first day you both met.

 “You..! I..!”

“You… you should’ve at least said something before that..!” You hold a hand over your mouth as your whole face turns blood red, your heart beating faster than it was in your earlier panic. 

“If I did…Your last kiss would’ve been given to this generation’s Sea God...Also, watch what your arms and legs are doing.” Only then did you notice that you were in Rafayel’s embrace, like a hermit crab who’s found a new shell. Your legs around his waist and your arms on his shoulder to stay afloat in the water. 

You notice a few scratches on his shoulder and you sigh, “I’m sorry..I left marks on your arms again.”

“I don’t mind,” He says as you unwrap your legs from his waist, “Give me your hand.” He tosses your mask into the ocean, takes your hand, and helps you stand. Your body suddenly felt light, your feet landing on the water’s rippling surface.

You were…standing on the ocean, as steady as you would on land!

As you make your way further out to sea and over the horizon, Rafayel makes a motion with his hand. Waves bloom under your feet, sea foam appearing with your every step. Countless species of fish swim by and seagulls circle overhead and sing as they land on your shoulder.

You’re in awe, your hand being gently held by Rafayel as you can’t even begin to say anything. You couldn’t say anything– or else you’d probably cry.

“We went through a lot of effort to see the sunrise. Why are you so quiet?” He asks, glancing toward you as you turn your head to look up at him.

“No…It’s– I’ve never seen anything this beautiful in my life,” You say, almost breathlessly. You motion for Rafayel to sit down next to you on the ocean’s surface, your feet touching the lapping waves as fish circle around under you both curiously. He raises an eyebrow and pokes a fish that leapt out of the water.

“As a young boy, my life was no different from yours.” Rafayel says and you can’t help but turn to look at him, surprised he’s willing to talk about his past with you. “The prophecy stated that Lemuria was to only have one God of the Sea left. My predecessor passed away and they found me years later, bathed in the flames under the union of dusk and dawn. The deep sea is dangerous…Only the strong survive. ‘Tis why I can only go as far as the surface of the sea.”

“Were you…happy? Have you ever thought about traveling to another place?” You ask, keeping your voice soft to match his low timbre. Your fingers lightly brush against one another as your gaze meets his.

“Who do you think made that hole you swam through in the past?” Rafayel crosses his arms over his chest with a raised eyebrow and a small chuckle.

“Oh– The sun’s rising!” The sun breaks through layers and layers of clouds and Rafayel looks up, observing the glittering sea under its rays. “So it is.”

And like that, many moons have passed since your last rendezvous on the surface. You honestly almost forgot you were in a memory since you could act more freely than in the past. You couldn’t say anything too detrimental, but you could at least change the phrasing of your words.

But with the reminder that you were in a memory in your dreams, you realize the ending has to be coming eventually. Whether it was a good or a bad ending, you can’t tell just yet.

On the night before the Sea God’s ceremony with everyone else asleep, Rafayel takes you to the temple. Pulsating in a steady rhythm behind you, the flame on the pedestal burns.

“When the fire goes out tomorrow, a new lemurian prophecy will appear in the Tome of the Sea God,” Rafayel says as he looks off to the side, turning his body to rest his arms on the stone railing on the second floor. “And when the fire is reignited, the ceremony will end.” 

You tap his shoulder to get his attention and he looks at you out of the corner of his eye. “Hey, describe to me what’s done in the real Sea God’s ceremony.” You prop your elbow up on the railing and rest your cheek on your hand as you look at him. 

Rafayel sets his chin on his hand as he thinks of what to say before he speaks, “We sit on my divine throne adorned with shells and pearls. A hundred golden crab will carry us on a journey to every part of the deep sea.” As he finishes his sentence, he stands up straight to look over at you with a smile.

“That sounds lovely, but wouldn’t everyone be annoyed?” You ask, your head cocking to the side and the purple-haired Lemurian nods his head, “Indeed. I’ll skip the first part of the ceremony. ‘Twas only make-believe nonsense.” 

You go silent for a moment, looking around at the scenery of the temple before Rafayel lifts his hand up and runs it down your hair, fingers lightly gliding down your cheek.

“I don’t know the details of the ceremony,” He says as his hand cups your cheek, “but it won’t be anything like the celebration on the surface world. Every participant will be blessed by the ocean.”

“Will...I receive your blessing?” You ask, meeting his gaze as you lean your face against his palm– almost nuzzling into it. Rafayel pauses, moving his hand as if to grab something from behind your ear. 

When he pulls his hand back, the familiar blue fish swirls around in his palm. 

“Tomorrow’s blessing will be for everyone but ‘tis only yours at this moment.” He closes his hand around the fish and when he reopens it, the same scale you saw before hovers in his palm. “‘Tis a true emissary of the god of the sea. With it in your company, you need not be afraid of the danger that lies ahead.” 

As he says this, he flips his hand over and suddenly the scale is now a necklace. He dangles it in-between his fingers for a moment, before he moves closer to clasp the necklace behind your neck.

He smiles down at you, fingertips dancing along the skin of your neck before he tilts his chin up, “I also have a question. ‘Tis a very, very important one.” He leans his face closer and keeps eye contact with you as he asks, “Are you willing to be my follower?” 

“Hmm...Desiring the sincerest worship of mortals…Thou must offer an irreplaceable object,” You tease, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Rafayel pouts for a moment before he grabs your hand to rest your palm flat against his chest. You feel the warmth of his bare skin beneath your hand, the beats coming from his heart.

“The Sea God’s heart, my heart. Dost thou want it?” His hand slightly squeezes around yours. 

Without another word, you both lean closer to each other, the flame flickers behind you and seemingly startles awake as your lips connect. 

Shadows on the wall tremble and shudder as you wrap your arms around his neck. Your head tilting to the side as the kiss deepens, the both of you seemingly unwilling to pull away. The flame on the pedestal burns brighter the longer the kiss goes on.

Sparkles flying both metaphorically and physically in the dimly lit room. 

Only when you felt Rafayel’s fingers brush against your chin and his tongue touch your lips, did you pull away and the flame returned back to normal.

In case you guys didn't see it on my last post, I wanted to thank you all for enjoying my writing! I'm not going anywhere, I just sincerely wanted to thank you all 🩷 especially with my drabbles, I really didn't think they'd kick off the way that they did, but I'm happy regardless!

I'm glad that something I decided to write in-between my ToF schedule is being enjoyed, and I'll continue to write them until I run out of ideas!

Also I haven't forgotten about the one-shot teasers I posted a little while ago! Last week I felt really out of it and didn't want to write anything, so I'm going to try to write in them a bit more this weekend alongside writing for my newer ideas.

let me add, HAVE YALL SEEN THE NEW FIVE STAR SERIES COMING OUT ON THE 23RD??? Rafayel's card has me in a chokehold AND new outfits for the male leads and MC?? I'm 14 away from a guaranteed 5 star, so you best hope I get rafayel because if I don't— I will cry. It was 100% expecting Sylus's myths to drop, but I don't mind because we're getting a spicy rafayel card! 🥺

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 🩷

Taglist; @orphicmeliora , @yoongi-tunes , @mitzkooni , @hiqhkey, @tanspostsblog

[labyrinthiancrossroads]

I Know I'm Just a Phase Chapter One: The Deal

Fandom: House of The Dragon

Pairing: Davos Blackwood x Aeron Bracken

Rating: Mature+

Tags/Tropes: Fake/Pretend Dating, Modern Setting, College/University, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Pining, Angst, Vaction, Frat Boy Davos, Teasing, Banter, The Lads (Fire & Blood), Meeting the Parents

Summary: “What would I be getting out of it?” “Ah, yeah, that…well, I figured you might have fun wreaking havoc on the Bracken family and, uh, I honestly couldn’t think of something else you’d need from me so I thought you could tell me what you want in return?” “Like an ‘I owe you’ situation.” “Yeah, next time you need a favor you know I’ll get you, no matter what.” Davos hummed thoughtfully, “How about we go over the terms of this little arrangement and then I’ll tell you if I’m signing up for this nonsense."

---

or Aeron wants to get back at his family for not accepting him being gay so he decides to date someone who would piss them off for more than just being a boy - Davos Blackwood.

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia - Chapter 2: A Mere Lady (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 2: A Mere Lady

Daemon has returned to King’s Landing. Yet it is not in his nature to sit idle.

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | 

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist | 

Warnings: That extreme slow burn once more lmao, Daemon being an idiot, Westerosi sexism, mention of violence, Daemon and Y/N bickering like children again

Word Count: 2.9k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!

A/N: Thank you for all the support for the first chapter of Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia! It really warms my heart to see all your reblogs and likes 💗 this chapter is a bit of a filler one, but something big will happen next chapter (can you guess what it is? 👀) I hope you enjoy reading!

wonderful dividers courtesy of @firefly-graphics​  !  

The shadows darkened and the bustle of noise in the Red Keep slowly faded into a faint hum as night enveloped the castle. I had just finished drawing up and helping Aemma into a bath when a maid announced the presence of King Viserys. I hurriedly rose from where I was preparing the Queen’s nightclothes and curtsied. “Your Grace.” Viserys merely waved away my greeting, putting a hand on my shoulder. “At ease, Y/N. We are not in the presence of other courtiers, you need not refer to me by my title.” I smiled fondly at Viserys. “Well, if my king commands it. Are you here to see Aemma? She is in the midst of her nightly soak” Viserys’ brows furrowed, “Of course. How has she been? Are the baths of any help?”

“Aemma says it is effective to a degree, but the moment she steps out of the bath, the aches return.” Viserys hummed in acknowledgement; “Looks like our son is taking quite the toll on my beloved. He must be an active lad.” My smile widened at that: Viserys’ pride in his unborn son was clearly strong. But my smile dropped when I heard Viserys’ next words, “Have you had a chance to run into Daemon by any chance, Y/N?” I chewed hard on my lip at his question, making Viserys raise his eyebrows and laugh at my obvious distaste for his younger brother. “I will take that as a yes. Are the both of you still having trouble getting along?”

“We get along about as well as fire and oil, I’m afraid.” Viserys let out a huge belly laugh at that, “And who is the oil in this situation, you or Daemon?” “Daemon,” I answered without hesitation. “Seven hells, I have no doubt his love for provoking me is fueled by the gods themselves.” Viserys looked amused, “Well, as your king, I am pleased to inform you that I have listened to your petitions and assigned him back to his old post at the City’s Watch. Mayhaps he will cease annoying you with this new responsibility.”

“I thank you for your graciousness, Your Grace,” I curtsied slightly. “Your justice is indeed swift and efficient.” “Well, a king must care for his subjects above all else. And you are like a sister to me.” Viserys patted me on the shoulder, “I must go and check on my beloved now. A King must not keep his Queen waiting after all.” I nodded and turned back to my duties as he ambled away.

The morning sun lazily clambered up the sky, causing the Red Keep to begin to bustle about with noise once more. A servant helped me lace up my new Tyrell green gown, with small gold rocaille prints dotting the bodice and gold roses stitched throughout. Autumn had fallen upon King’s Landing, and the air was beginning to fill with a biting chill, hence my father had ordered the dressmakers to design the dress with fitted long sleeves. I was a little uncomfortable, since I was unused to dresses with fitted sleeves, but it did make it easier for me to tend to Aemma.

I cast a glance at the fireplace. The flames had long died out, but in the midst of the charred black wood, I could see the remnants of parchment. The new dress from Father had not arrived without condition. I had not bothered to read the letter - knowing it would be full of eligible lord names and pleading from my father to just pick one and put him out of his misery - instead chucking it into the fire without a second thought.

“My lady?” Blinking, I looked up at the servant girl. “I am finished with your hair. Are you in need of anything else?” I studied my reflection in the vanity, patting a stray strand of hair down gently. “No, everything is fine. You’ve done a wonderful job. Thank you, Rebecca.” She smiled and curtsied before scurrying off. I put on my favourite pair of gold earrings, checking my reflection one last time before striding out of my chambers.

Aemma was never an early riser, and pregnancy fatigue had only served to prolong her hours spent in bed, hence I always took this opportunity to wander around the Red Keep while undertaking any errands assigned to me at the same time. After making an errand run to the washerwomen to pick up Aemma’s clothes, I bustled over to the Grand Maester’s quarters to request for the Queen’s medicinal teas. I also paid a visit to the seamstress to get a few garments of Aemma’s altered, as she had complained about them being too tight around her bump.

With my list of tasks fulfilled, I breathed out a sigh of relief. Aemma had yet to rise, hence I was wandering aimlessly around the hallways. It was then that I heard a few lads whispering as they passed me. “Did you hear about Prince Daemon’s latest exploits?” “Aye, I heard the smallfolk’s cries all the way from Flea Bottom in my quarters last night. The king has summoned him to the Small Council meeting this morning to demand answers, I’ve heard.” “The prince truly cannot go a day without causing trouble…”

Curiosity piqued, I listened thoughtfully to their conversation until their voices faded away. Daemon? Causing trouble? There was nothing novel of the matter. Yet, the lads had whispered about hearing the cries of the smallfolk. And from what I heard, it did not seem like the cries that Daemon was fond of eliciting.

My nosiness getting the better of me, I turned on my heel, my green skirts swishing behind me. Arriving at the base of the White Knights Tower, I slipped inside a room before anyone could notice and question my presence. The room in question was a secondary armoury, but it was rarely used as the weapons stored here were either blunted after years of use or outright broken. I pushed aside a false pillar made of highly porous stone, revealing a narrow gap which I squeezed through with ease.

Pulling back the pillar to cover the gap once more, my eyes trailed around the expanse of the space as I found myself in a familiar winding hallway. Sunlight poured in through numerous crumbling holes in the ceiling, and the air was filled with a dank smell. Sneezing slightly, I gathered my skirts and quickly made my way through the familiar maze of passageways. I nearly forgot to take a left, almost ending up in the secret halls in the Tower of the Hand, but I retraced my paths and breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the Hand’s disdainful voice. Here, the passageways were much more spacious and bright, being situated on the upper floors of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Peeking through one of the spaces in the walls, I caught sight of the Small Council seated around the table. Daemon was sitting near the head of the table still clad in his armour, his face streaked with dirt. Unfortunately, his back was turned to me, so I couldn’t glimpse his expression. However, I noticed most of the lords were looking noticeably on edge, especially the Hand. Otto’s face was even more unpleasant than usual, and that was saying something.

By the Gods, what had Daemon done now?

“You might not know this unless you left the safety of the Red Keep, but much of the city is seen by the smallfolk as lawless, and terrifying.” Daemon’s smooth voice echoed throughout the room. Otto’s face turned as sour as spoiled milk. I had to restrain a snort, he was not incorrect, the residents of the Red Keep, particularly those of noble blood, were very far removed from the lives of the smallfolk. I had once ridden with Rhaenyra and Alicent to the Dragonpit, passing by the streets of Flea Bottom, and safe to say, I was very glad for my life of luxury in the Red Keep, although I did feel sorry for them.

“...I just hope you don’t have to maim half of my city to achieve this.” “Time will tell,” came Daemon’s response. Even with my view of his facial expressions obstructed, I could nearly picture the smirk on his face, clear as day. I rolled my eyes. It seems that Daemon’s first night returning to his duties as commander of the City Watch had been bloody, to say the least.

“If only the prince would show the same devotion to his lady wife as he does to his work, your Grace.” I snapped to attention once more, eyes keenly observing the proceedings through the space. Gods be good, the Hand cannot give it a rest, can he? I suppose he could not: his distaste for Daemon clouded him from better judgement. But he should know better, I bit my lip to restrain the laugh I know would follow. Daemon always knew how to find someone’s sore spots, and Otto Hightower was as prickly as those strange Dornish desert dwelling plants.

“I’d gladly give Lady Rhea to you, Lord Hightower, if you are in want of a woman to warm your bed,” Otto’s face lost its previous smugness as his eyes grew wide in anger and he stiffened at Daemon’s remarks. “Your own lady wife passed recently-” There was a scraping of a chair on the floor as the Hand towered over the table. I recognised the expression on his face, it was one I had worn many times in my life.

The visceral urge to punch Daemon Targaryen in the face.

I clapped my hand over my mouth, trying to fight the battle to keep my laughter at bay

“Did she not?” I lost the battle as a small wheeze erupted from my covered mouth. My eyes widening, I watched as the men at the Small Council table stiffen, particularly Daemon - his stance suddenly became more pronounced and alert. I know it would be hard to discover me unless the men had knowledge of the secret passages, yet I felt my heart thundering in my chest.

But the gods were good, and the men soon dismissed the sound as Viserys attempted to soothe Otto’s anger. Finally, after Viserys admonished Daemon for his actions- albeit not as fiercely as the Hand would have hoped for, judging by how his sharp glare had not subsided in the least after the king’s judgement - Daemon got up to leave, the doors shutting behind him with a definitive thunk. I dusted off my skirts and readied myself to leave as well. The excitement was over, and I had gotten the information I wanted to know anyway. Walking through the hallways again, I debated on which path I should take to ensure my exit would not be noticed by anyone. The nearest exit I knew was immediately out of the question, and I could not sneak out through the exits in any of the royal apartments, because there was an ever-present risk of being discovered by a nosy servant. Sighing, I continued walking, lost in thought, until a figure pushed me against a wall.

I opened my mouth to scream but a hand that smelt of sweat and something coppery covered my mouth, putting a finger to his lips. My eyes narrowed as he released his hand from my mouth. “What in the Seven Hells do you think you’re doing?” I spouted out angrily as those godsforsaken pair of lilac eyes stared down at me with amusement. “I think I should be asking you that, byka zaldrīzes,” Daemon raised an eyebrow.

“I asked first. How did you even know I was here?” I grumbled, dusting off my dress. The pounding in my chest was so loud I was certain the whole of the Red Keep could hear how much of a terrified wreck I was.

Instead of answering, Daemon reached his hand out to brush at my hair, as I observed him with wary eyes. Then, he flicked my forehead. “Ow! What was that for?” He smirked, “I see you took the armoury entrance, judging from the grime on your face and in your hair.” “And? It was one of the only ways I could get into the passageways without being seen.”

The prince hummed infuriatingly under his breath. “Has anyone ever told you how fond you are of making your life more difficult, byka zaldrīzes?” “Well forgive me, your Grace, but I do not wish to be caught in your apartments trying to sneak into a secret passage. The Red Keep is akin to a vicious beast when it comes to gossip.” The prince let out a triumphant “ha!” as I looked quizzically at him. Had he finally lost his mind?

“Formalities again,” he said, delighted, “I was hoping that yesterday’s episode in the throne room was not the last I would hear of you addressing me formally.” I sighed and rolled my eyes. “My question remains unanswered. How did you know I was in here?” The prince snorted. “I think every one of those lickspittles in the small council heard your laugh. I was the only one to recognise it however.”

I huffed. “Well thank the gods it was just you. Had it been the Hand-”

“That cunt is too busy licking my brother’s boots to seek you out, byka zaldrīzes,” Daemon teased, beginning to walk away. Rolling my eyes once again, I followed closely after. “I’m surprised you still remember the entrances. I was of the impression you would get lost if you ever came here again..” “From how many times you dragged me through these hallways to go catch a peak of King Jaehaerys and Prince Baelon in council sessions, it would take me a century to forget these halls.” I japed, as we rounded a corner that took us straight into an old closet in Daemon’s chambers. As we stumbled out, he settled down on his bed with a sigh of relief, and began to remove his armour. I crossed my arms as I leaned against the window, “There is still a lady here, your Grace.” “I don’t see any ladies, only a nosy bird.” “Hilarious.”

I averted my eyes as Daemon began to remove the gold cloak slung behind his shoulders. “I heard you crippled half the smallfolk.” “An exaggeration,” Daemon waved his hand dismissively. “And if so, they were criminals. Looters. Rapers. Petty thieves.” “And yet, you killed numerous innocents in your path to slaughter those criminals.” I said quietly.

Daemon was silent for a while, and I thought he had left to take a bath. But I was startled yet again when I felt a finger softly tilting my chin upward. Lilac eyes swirling with mild annoyance and mirth met my pensive (Y/E/C) ones. “Spare me the reprimand, Y/N. My brother and Lord Cunttower have already said more than enough.” He handed me a wet cloth, and I sighed before brushing it across his face, getting rid of the grime. Our dynamic has not changed since childhood, I mused internally. I walked away to dump the grime covered cloth in a basket for the servants to collect later.

“Do you not agree with my actions?” He motioned me to sit next to him on his bed. Wordlessly, I sat. Our eyes met, his searching mine for my reaction. “The violence was unwarranted,” I began delicately, watching Daemon’s eyes narrow. “However, I’d like to think the ends justify the means. I share Lord Corlys’ view on this matter.”

Daemon leaned back on his bedpost with a smile. “As I thought, you were more sensible than you looked.” His voice rose in volume as he ran a hand through his white blonde locks in frustration. “Pray tell, I just do not understand why my brother only sees the bad, and not the good. Even a mere lady like you could understand. Has that cunt of a Hand pulled the wool over my brother’s eyes so far that he is blind to the welfare of his city?”

Not receiving a response, he looked over at the Lady Tyrell. She sat there, eyes fixed to the ground, her mouth set in a thin line, her hands clasped in her lap. “Y/N?” “And begging your pardon, what exactly does ‘being a mere lady’ supposed to entail?”

Daemon had a slight hunch he might have made a mistake. “I was not implying anyth-” “Really?” Y/N interrupted sharply. “Or did you just consider my wits inferior to yours simply because I am a woman?”    

She stood abruptly, curtsying as she did. “Forgive me, my prince, I have other matters to attend to. If you have had enough of this mere lady’s presence, I shall be off lest a servant discovers us and sets tongues wagging.” She walked briskly out of the room, before Daemon could even formulate a response. Daemon stared at her retreating figure, and he groaned in frustration as he removed the last of his armour. His words had come out unintentionally, and he had not intended to insult her. Why was she so offended by them?

He huffed as soon as he had the thought. Why was it of any concern? He cared not for what that annoying brat thought of him. Sighing, he got up to ready himself for another visit to Flea’s Bottom. He had not seen Mysaria for a time.

translation: byka zaldrīzes: little dragon 

And that’s chapter 2! Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated :)) Since chapter 2 was a little bit of a filler chap, chapter 3 should hopefully be released in about three days (as soon as I get that presentation that has been the source of my torment over the past few days on Tuesday done lol)  Let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist in the comments or through this form! 💗

Taglist: @drwho-ess @graniairish​ 

[hopefulromances]

Long Time Coming I Chapter Six I More Than A Crush

Summary: Being hired as the first female assistant coach in the league was a challenge of it itself. Being a football protigy and University Football Legend was easy enough. Coaching Jamie Tartt was a challenge all on its own.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warning: Drinking/getting drunk, a little bit of angst?

A/N: Thanks for 100 Followers yall! Tell me what you love most about this series so far!

Prologue One Two Three Four Five

A week passed and the team seemed to move on from Man City. Back to normal practices and games. Everyone moved on. But not me. I was still sat on the bus next to Jamie, who had requested me to sit next to him, feeling my head lull as I started to fall asleep. I was still laying my head on his shoulder at some point and his head laying on mine. I could still feel our legs tangled in the seat and our hands almost intertwining between us. I couldn’t have imagined all of that. Could I?

            “(Y/N)!”

Oh, right. I’m standing on the pitch passing the ball back and forth between Jamie and myself. I blinked myself back to the present and saw that Jamie was waiting for me to pass him the ball.

            “Got your head in the clouds today, ain’t ya,” he jabbed, his cocky smirk adorning his face.

I tried to force out a laugh kicking the ball back his way. “’Spose I do.”

Jamie seemed to notice my vacant mood and took the ball, kicking it around in a few tricks before responding.

            “How as your date with that bantr bloke? Ryan or whatever?”

Oh, right. That too. It was Keely’s idea, of course. After returning from Man City, you had told her everything and how you were hopelessly, horribly, terribly infatuated with Jamie. And while she maintained that you should tell him, she also offered the idea of going on bantr dates to get him off my mind. What’s where Brian had come in.

            “Brian? Oh yeah, he was great!” That was a lie. Brian was dull. Barely asking me a question the entire night and when he found out I worked for Richmond, he suddenly needed perked up and told me all about his long history with football. Suddenly, he thought that coming to a game would be a great second date. Suddenly, he was wondering if I could get him in for free. So no, Brian was not great. “I’m going out with this other guy… Ethan, tonight though.”

Jamie raised his eyebrows at me before shooting the ball back towards me. “Ethan, huh?”

            “Yeah… Ethan.” I kicked the ball back towards him, chewing on my cheek. “He’s an accountant, I think.”

            “An accountant,” Jamie cringed. “What the fuck are you doing goin’ out with an accountant?”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “He seems nice! That’s all!”

Jamie kicked the ball up in his hands, starting to walk over to me. “Nice? That’s all?”

            “Look, Jamie, I don’t exactly have a lot of choices.,” I pointed out, yanking the ball out of his hands.

“I just thought you could do better than ‘nice’ is all.” He held up his hands in submission. As we started out walk back inside, Jamie stared at the ground, his feet kicking the dirt as we went. “Where are you goin’?”

“Color Factor? It’s a dancing club not too far from here,” I told him. I wasn’t usually one to go dancing on a first date, but I thought it would be better to not actually be able to hear him talk. Afraid of a repeat from the night before.

“An accountant is taking you to a dance club?!” Jamie asked, stopping outside the door.

We finally made it into the locker room as the other lads were beginning to show up. I headed to my desk in the corner of the coach’s room. Ted and Beard were having an intense staring contest when I entered. I snapped my fingers, in front of Beard’s face causing him to blink.

            “DAMMIT! (Y/N)!” He shouted, smacking his desk.

            “I could see the dust settling on your pupils,” I told him, slouching down into my chair.

Ted checked his watch with a large smile. “That was a new record for me! Thank you for the assist, (Y/N).”

It was nice having Ted and Beard as friends. It was different from my relationship with the boys or even with Roy. Sure, they were older, but they respected me in a way I hadn’t experienced before. They didn’t care that I was younger or that I was a girl, to them I was just their equal.

            “So! Tell us about Brian,” Ted asked, putting his head in his hands and blinking cutely.

 “He was fine, the conversation was a bit one sided,” I admitted, shrugging. “When I mentioned I worked here he started asking for tickets.” Beard blew a raspberry and gave me a big thumbs down. “My thoughts exactly.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Ted sympathized, giving me his best frowny face.

I gave him a flat smile in return. Training went well. It was good to be back in our routine, prepping for our normal competitors. Now that we had broken our tie streak, we had been doing pretty well. With Roy on our staff, it really felt like we had our groove going.

What wasn’t grooving though, was Nate’s sudden confidence boost. If confidence was what you could call it. Some might call it arrogance, but I was not one to judge. Ted paired us together today to work with the lads. The starting mids and forwards. So, Jamie, Danny, Colin, and Richard to name a few.

We set up a few drills for them to preform to strengthen their endurance as well as their aim while moving. It was a maneuver where they had to move to the left while shooting to the right. Nothing too terribly difficult but it required a good amount of coordination and precision. After another stumble by Richard, I blew my whistle signaling them to stop. I was about to turn to Nate to say something, but he stepped forward before we could confer.

            “Richard! Have you lost your ability to run at high speeds?” He shouted, approaching the boys. “Has your right leg fallen off and grown back as a second left food?”

            “No, my legs are gorgeous, as always,” Richard retorted, kicking his foot in the grass.

            “Well, you could have had me fooled,” Nate spat back. “This is simple football, next time I see you stumble you’ll be running laps for the rest of practice.”

Richard frowned, his face darkening in disappointment. The rest of the boys looked uncomfortable as well. None of them were achieving well in the practice and the thought of being bereted for learning a new skill is never good. I knew I had to step in.

            “Alright, Nate.” I placed my hand on his shoulder and pulled him back lightly. “Richard, you’re second guessing yourself before you make the pass. It’s causing your footing to be misplaced.” I began to show him the footing myself, step, cross, step, kick. Richard watched intently. “You need to really land that step before the kick, that’s where the power comes from.”

I looked over the group of boys, looking for any signs of questioning among them. They all stared unwavering at me, really listening to what I was saying. My eyes eventually landed on Jamie. He, of course, was having no issue with the exercise. Though, that may be, in part, due to me showing it to him during one of our early morning practices together. But, in this instance, I helped for a teaching moment.

            “Jamie!” I called out to him. “Why don’t you show them your technique.”

            “I think you should do it,” He responded quickly, quirking his eyebrow at me. “You’re the expert.”

I opened my mouth to shoot back a quick response but quickly closed my mouth into a straight line. He knew I was dying to show off my football abilities. He knew I was capable. He knew I was the best one to show them. I heard a scoff to my left and knew it was the unbelieving thoughts of Nate coming out. Jamie shot him a quick glance before locking his eyes with me again, and quirking his slitted eyebrow at me, challenging.

            “Okay.”

I stepped forward and took control of the ball in my dribble. Passed the ball over to Jamie to assist and started to jog right before quickly changing direction and heading left. Jamie passed the ball heading towards the right of the field. As it came towards me, I focused on my footing. Step, Step, Cross, step and… kick! I sent the ball through the air without missing a step, sending it flying towards the right side of the goal and landing with a swish. The boys behind me rushed me with cries of celebration. As if I had just scored the winning goal of a match. I couldn’t help the giddy laugh that left me as they jumped on me.

Through the celebration huddle, however, I saw Nate, unmoving from his spot near the sidelines of the field. The scathing look of underlying anger was enough to send anyone running. I started to frown but then Jamie’s face filled my view. His smiled was so blinding I almost had to look away. But I couldn’t. ‘I told you so’ was written all over his smug face as he clapped along with the lads. Man, I loved it here.

…

I felt good going into my date. I was riding the confidence wave from the day into the club. I was early, of course, as I always am, and I went up to the bar to wait for him to arrive. It was still pretty early in the night so not many people were there yet. I sent a quick text to Keely letting her know I had arrived and was okay. She sent me a quick reply letting me know she knew I looked gorgeous and that it was going to be great!

            “Can I get you something?” The bartend behind me asked, washing a cup.

            “Oh! No thank you, I’m waiting on someone!” I explained to him taking a seat on one of the stools. He nodded and walked off.

But then 8 o’clock came around and he didn’t show. Then 8:10, and 8:30 and no word. I refreshed my messages on the app, looking for any sign of why he wasn’t here yet but there was nothing. Every now and then the bartend would come back to ask me if I wanted to order anything, but I insisted on waiting.

Eventually I sent him a message asking him if everything was alright. Read, no reply. Fuck.

Around 9, the bartender placed a drink in front of me.

            “What is this?” I pulled the drink towards me, not really waiting for an answer.

            “It’s on the house,” he told me, a sympathetic look on his face. “Sorry about your dude.”

Ah! Love a good sympathy drink. But at this point, I was too frustrated to care and took a long sip of the drink. The club was becoming more packed with people and the music was turning up. I took one last look at my phone, begging for him to say something, but nothing ever came so I decided it was time to go.

I downed the rest of my drink, thanked the bartender, and hopped off my stool. I had almost made it out when I heard a voice call my name from behind me. It was so loud so I couldn’t quite make out the owner of the voice, so I looked around trying to see where it was coming from.

Out of crowd, Jamie fucking Tartt appeared. He had his hair down and was wearing a Hawaiian shirt on that was open to about halfway down his chest and God did he look amazing. I hate to fight to make sure my eyes didn’t roam down his body as he approached me.

            “Jamie? What are you doing here?”

 “You mentioned it earlier, so I wanted to check it out.” He shrugged, bringing his beer bottle to his lip. “You look fit, where’s the bloke you’re with?”

            “Oh!” I looked around like I was trying to find him. “He’s… uh, oh right! He didn’t show up so I- “

            “He what?” Jamie practically spit out his drink at me. “He didn’t come?”

I tried to play it off like I was cool, but I could feel the embarrassment heating up in my cheeks. Jamie was the one person I didn’t want to see right now. He looked so fucking good, and it was making it very hard for me to focus on anything except his gorgeous face.

            “Yeah, uh… it’s been like… an hour,” I told him, trying to sound unbothered. “So, I was just heading out.

            “Well, that’s stupid of him,” Jamie snorted.

I waved him off. “No! It’s fine! I’m fine. It’s all fine! I’m just gonna go home. I need to get rest anyways… got training tomorrow, ya know? Shouldn’t have even come in the first place. I mean like! Ahh! It’s so crazy, are you hot, it’s really hot in here?”

Jamie stared at me while I rambled until I eventually tapered off into an uncomfortable silence.

            “You should come with us,” Jamie finally said.

            “Us?”

            “Yeah, I’m here with Isaac, Colin… uh, I think Dani is here as well.” He turned and pointed into the dance floor where, somewhere, the rest of the lads were. “They’d love to have you join us.”

            “I don’t know, Jamie… I’m not… I’m not sure if I’m feeling up to it,” I admitted, looking towards the door.

            “Please.” He reached out to turn me back to face him. “You look fit as fuck and you deserve to come have some fun with us.” Now my face was flush for sure. If it wasn’t the heat, it was the fact that Jamie was touching me and calling me fit. I bit my lip as I weighed my options.

His hand slide down to my hand as he started to pull me into the crowd.  “Look, if you stay and, somehow, you don’t have fun, you can blame me later, alright?”

I let him pull me, finding a smile coming back over my face. He looked so excited as his hand gripped mine, pulling me through the throngs of people. I felt myself getting swept away in him and for a second I let myself. I squeezed his hand.

            “Fine, fine, let’s do it.”

He cheered and turned around, not letting go of my hand and started leading me through the crowd. Eventually, we came into a smaller opening where Isaac and Colin were dancing. Dani wasn’t too far away, two women dancing quite close to him.

            “Lads!” He called out, pull me up to stand next to him. “Look who I found!”

The boys cheered when they saw me. Raising their beers and various other drinks towards me.

            “(Y/N)!” Colin cried, coming forward to hug me. Jamie finally let go of my hand to let me go to him and suddenly, I felt very cold. “So, glad to see you here!”

Luckily, they didn’t ask too many questions about what I was doing there, and Jamie didn’t give anything away. In face Jamie stayed by my side practically the whole night. Just for tonight, I decided to let him be mine. All his attention was on me as we dance with each other. Finding myself getting pressed closer and closer to him as more people entered the dance floor.

Throughout the night, the boys made sure I had a good time, suppling me with drinks and not allowing me to pay. But Jamie kept special attention to me. He constantly was making sure I was okay and warded off anyone who tried to approach me.

His eyes being on me felt so surreal. Like somehow, all those emotions that had bubbled over last week were being cleared up in his gaze. At some point, someone bumped me into him, I found myself falling into him.

            “Woah!” He helped me steady myself, his hands falling on my waist mine on his chest. I looked up at him, my mouth suddenly going dry. “You alright?”

I couldn’t speak so I just nodded and pulled my hands from his chest. But his lingered on my waist as he started to sway to the music. My eyes were big as I looked up at him and he looked down at me. He was so close to me; it would be so easy for me to lean up and kiss him. The liquor in my system definitely was egging me on as my hands landed on his biceps, God had they always been so solid? My eyes darted down to his lips and a smirk came over his face. For an instant we were leaning into each other, and the music was fading away.

When suddenly, a hand was on my shoulder yanking me away from Jamie.

            “(Y/N)! I love this song!”

I was going to kill Colin. But he didn’t seem to notice my glare as he started dancing to the song that was playing. I looked back at Jamie, who wouldn’t look anywhere near me, and felt my heart sink.

Maybe we really weren’t meant to be.

…

The night was pretty much over after that. Jamie ended up driving all of us home and we piled into his car. I ended up in the back with Colin’s head on my shoulder as he took us throughout the city dropping us off.

Finally, though it was just the two of us.

            “I’m sorry, by the way, about Ethan.”

Oh, that! I had forgotten about that.

            “It’s whatever.” I shrugged, slumping down in my seat, suddenly very intrigued with the window buttons. “Nothing I’m not used to.”

Jamie chewed on his thumb as he considered my words. “What’s that mean?”

            “I mean,” I let out a long breath. “I’m just like that, I guess. Not people’s type?” When Jamie didn’t say anything, I continued. “Brian just liked me for my job, Ethan probably showed up got one look at me and left and you-" I caught myself, almost saying too much to the wrong person. I was surprised at my own candor, chalking it up to the alcohol in my system. “I’m just saying people don’t like me like that. That’s how it’s always been.”

It was silent for a while after that, and I felt myself falling asleep to the steady rumble of the road. Eventually we pulled up outside my apartment building.  I sat up in my chair, rubbing my eyes.

            “I think that’s stupid,” Jamie finally spoke.

            “Huh?”

            “I think that’s stupid,” he repeated, looking over at me. “That you think that.”

I frowned. I hadn’t meant to upset him. I had just learned to lower my expectations when it came to romance to save myself a lot of pain.

            “Jamie, it’s nothing personal.” I found myself unable to meet his eyes. “I just know what to expect now.”

            “Well, I think you deserve fucking lightening.”

I snapped my head back over to him. He was looking at me earnestly, a soft frown lining his cheeks. Suddenly, I was much more sober and knew that if I didn’t leave now I wouldn’t be leaving the car at all.

            “Thank you, Jamie,” I decided on, speaking softly. “Thank you for everything… tonight.” I let myself sit in his car for a moment longer before tearing my face away from him. “I’ll um… I’ll see you tomorrow morning, right?”

That made Jamie smile. “I’d like to see you try and beat me hung over.”

            “I’ve done it before,” I laughed, opening the car door. “Don’t count me out!”

            “I never do,” he replied, sincerely.

That dumb butterfly began fluttering up in my stomach again.

            “Goodnight, Jamie.”

            “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

And with that, I closed the door and watched as he drove off down the street.

Taglist: @heletsmelovehim @higherthanheroes @ajax-petropolus-wife @oxxolovemelikeyoudooxxo @optimisticsandwichgladiator @kno-way-home @sleepy-time

as always, send me an ask, leave a comment, let me know what you think!

[uniquevoidflowers]

Chapter 4 is finished now! It's short but ehehe I have plans. The perspective might change next chapter.

In the treehouse, was a figure covered head to toe in armour and sitting on a chair. Legend approached the figure cautiously. “Zuko, I thought I told you to leave me alone for now,” An old, raspy voice came.

“I-I’m not Zuko,” The prince stammered.

The figure spun around and Legend was met with a skeleton, one red eye glowing, hiding behind thick golden armour. “And who are you to barge in uninvited?”

“I need your help, if you’re the Hero of Time,” Legend started. “Because—“

“Bah! Unless it’s really important, get out of here,” The skeletal figure interrupted.

“I’m Prince Legend of Hyrule, and I need you to train me!”

“...Why have you come for my help, and not those tutors at the castle? Train you for what?”

“I found out I’m a-a chosen hero, or that I’m supposed to become one because I drew a sword from a pedestal,” Legend started again.

“Cliché,” The Hero of Time scoffed.

“What?”

“What?”

“Nevermind,” Legend muttered. “And this voice told me to seek you out for training so I can become the hero and save my mother—the Queen—from the Servants of Demise.”

“Training to become a chosen hero...Give me a day to think about it.”

“What? A day? We don’t have that kind of time, my mother could be out there dying—“

“Time is a fickle thing, lad. I’ve been told that we don’t have time, I procrastinated a little bit, and still ended up saving the world. Becoming a chosen hero takes patience, I’ll tell you that.”

Legend continued to sputter but the Hero of Time forced a cup into his hands and then leaned back in his chair. “I’m serious. Patience with the world. Every dungeon I had to go through, sometimes I needed to have a bit of patience to let myself figure out the puzzle and get to the end, and lemme tell ya, being a nine-year old in an adult body during all those difficult puzzles took most of my patience.”

“What?”

“Anyway, if you leave me to think, I might have an answer sooner.”

“...Fine. Just...Even with patience, we have the need for haste. Demise is foretold to reappear along with his followers, and Demise is a god of evil and hatred. And if I cannot find training with you anytime soon, then so be it. Let the world be filled with destruction. This place will burn if Demise’s return eventuates without heroes to stop him. Your Kokiri siblings will face horrible deaths at Demise’s hand. You, even for an immortal soul, will live forever in suffering. Procrastination, as you call it, is not an option now,” Legend spoke, and it felt like these weren’t his own words but he just shook his head and started to climb out.

“Wait,” The Hero of Time called and the prince momentarily paused, looking back.

There was a beat of silence before the Hero of Time took off his helmet. “I’ll train you. I...cannot let my siblings suffer death. This place, though changed over the years, was where I grew up...The need to keep my home alive is greater than my own will.”

Legend smiled. “Thank you.”

“Now, if we’re going to train, I need to gear up. Meet me at the grounds near the shop, there’s a nice open spot there.”

“Okay.”

Sure enough, the Hero of Time arrived with a sword and shield in hand in that spot, and Legend readied his legendary blade, as the hero taught him better sword-fighting skills then he knew and then once that was finished, said, “We will start with the Ending Blow, a hidden skill I’ve taught before,” The shade hummed. “Some enemies may jump up after being knocked to the ground. The Ending Blow serves as a technique to make sure the enemy does not get up. To do such a skill, you must jump forward, landing a downward strike on your opponent while they’re still on the ground. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Now, attempt at one, by knocking me to the ground first and then landing an Ending Blow. If you have any questions, ask but do not stop moving.”

Legend swung his sword and fought until the Hero of Time lost a bit of balance and he knocked the skeletal figure into the ground. He jumped forward like he was told and swung and missed. He landed on the ground instead, his sword in the dirt.

“Try again,” He was told.

He tried again and again, getting a few tidbits of information from his—mentor?—teacher? And eventually he performed an Ending Blow. He grew worried that he was hurting the Shade but he merely reassembled himself. “Well done. Next hidden skill I shall teaching you is the Shield Attack. You have a legendary sword, but it won’t be able to get through an enemy that is covered in armour and has a sturdy shield. This hidden skill is to help you overcome that obstacle by forcing vulnerability. You must ram them with a shield, until they are stunned, and then you may attack them better.”

“I...don’t have a shield...”

“Of course. Alright, I’ll give you an extra,” The Hero of Time sighed and tossed a shield over.

They sparred once more until Legend came in and as forcefully as he could, rammed his shield into the Hero of Time. It failed the first time, but when the prince tried again, he succeeded, and hit the vulnerable spot left open. “Hm, not bad kid, not bad,” The Hero of Time chuckled, the noise raspy and rattling. “Next hidden skill...Back Slice. That Shield Attack won’t do you much good when your opponent is clad in armour as well as a shield. But, with the Back Slice, you may be able to attack at the rear instead of the front where these enemies are mainly focused on guarding. This can be used both as defence and offence, depending on the situation. To perform a Back Slice, dodge my attack and roll around me, so that you may strike from behind. A jumping spin attack is used when you strike, but I shall teach you that a bit later.”

This went on for hours, training as hard and as quickly as needed, until eventually Legend had learned and performed all of the Hidden Skills, and had better fighting technique. Then, they slept there for the next day because The Hero of Time insisted that Warrior may also need to learn the Hidden Skills, though it would probably take less time because of the knight’s skill. Lots of time was also taken to learn those, and then they were resting back at a treehouse that was apparently empty. It had seemed like forever since Legend had worked up a sweat like that, but he was glad he did because he felt way better about having to be a hero.

Master. Now that you have been properly trained, I suggest making your way back to Hyrule Castle. Even though it may be too difficult to find all heroes on your own, perhaps there may be a way you can help.

And what is that way supposed to be?

The voice didn’t respond so Legend just grumbled and followed its advice. As they took a ride back to Hyrule, the prince fingered the soft mask in his hands, and made a vow to himself to get Sky to meet the old man Deku someday. “Hey, Legend?” Warrior murmured.

“Yeah?”

“...How do you feel about this hero business?”

The prince gave him an odd look but answered anyway, “I...don’t really know. On one hand, it’s overwhelming, I don’t feel like I can do it...but on the other hand I need to. And I’ll do anything to keep my title as a hero if it means protecting my kingdom...and rescuing my mom.”

“Okay...” Warrior muttered and that was the end of it.

But Legend couldn’t help but wonder what he was feeling, or why he asked. Was the knight having doubts?

He hummed, narrowing his eyes. How difficult will it be to get all these heroes up to speed? Do they need training too? Will they have similar doubts? If so...this will take time we don’t have.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re back,” Fi acknowledged.

“Yes...Any news of new heroes?” Legend inclined his head to the side.

“No. His Majesty has been working nonstop, yet records indicate almost everyone in this town has no history that can lead us to a hero. Have you received the training?”

“Yes. You say almost everyone? Who is the exception?”

Fi showed a moment of hesitance that brought suspicion to swell in his mind, even though his family had trusted her for years. “Well, there is a man that bears the name Time Lon Lon, here in Castletown. His records are scarce, but Termina has vouched of past incidents following heroic deeds performed from him. He fits the resemblance of a hero, but it is unknown where he is and what he does. It brings skepticism to one, does it not?”

“If it’s our only lead, shouldn’t we check it out?”

“That is risky. If we lead ourselves to the wrong place, there is no telling what will happen. I must remind you that anything could have happened to this Time Lon Lon character over these years. The incidents that he solved were nearly 29 years ago. People change over time.”

“Yes, but if this is our only lead we should follow it. I’m afraid we don’t have much time left...If you have any more arguments save them. I will talk to my father.”

The words came out needlessly cold, though that wasn’t his intentions. Sky seemed to take his words into account. “I see. Legend, I want you to investigate, but take as many guards with you as you think you will need. There is still risk for your life with the Servants of Demise amuck, and with such a scarce record, it might all be a ploy.”

Is this how I help, O Mysterious Voice?

Master, the advice I can give you is to advise caution when searching for this man. I am not all-knowing.

Sheesh, okay.

“Alright, I will. And...I did get some teaching so I can defend myself.”

If it were any other time Sky would have smiled slightly and expressed pride for the prince, but all he did was nod tiredly. “Thank you. I know this has been sprung upon you, and I promise I will do all I can.”

Legend gave a nod and hurried to tell Warrior the plan, and gather a few knights. He was about to step out when he realized something. “With all the knightly gear and such, you’ll all draw more attention to me.”

“Disguises?” Warrior murmured.

“That may be our best solution. Or at least just change? I know you all have armour for a reason, but...”

“Yes, Highness,” The soldiers loyally complied, sliding off shining gear and placing it somewhere safe.

His own knight did so as well, shedding the armour with a bit of reluctance. They set forward and Legend looked at the paper he had been given, the one record of Time Lon Lon. He studied the picture and looked forward, scanning faces. It took awhile, as his patience left him and irritation took place but he saw a younger looking man, face baring some resemblance to Time. His hair was brown-ish unlike the blonde figure but there was no mistaking it. Coincidence? He approached the man. “Hello? Sir?”

The man startled and looked back at him. “What do you want, kid?”

“Do you know this man? Time Lon Lon?”

He held up the paper and didn’t miss the man’s subtle flinch. “If I do?”

“We want to know where he is, so we can talk to him,” Legend explained.

“About what?”

“Look, if you haven’t noticed, there are enemies of our kingdom here and we need to stop them. We believe Time is a key to achieving this goal.”

“I can’t just give his whereabouts away to a stranger, with all due respect.”

“Perhaps you’d be comforted if you knew I’m not a mere stranger,” Legend said in a low voice. “I work with the Royal Family.”

It was too dangerous to give away his identity but he needed to get to Time. The man sighed. “Follow me.”

He didn’t lead them to the one-eyed man he’d expected to see, but to a shop. The man glanced at the group nervously. “Can I ask you to stay here?”

“Why?” Legend pressed.

“Well, I just need to speak to the lady in there.”

“...Fine.”

The prince could see through the window if anything suspicious happened. He leaned back and waited, peering inside through the window. The man approached the lady at the counter, and he could see their mouths moving but couldn’t hear them no matter how much he strained himself. He would not usually be this wary, but even that mystery voice told him to advise caution. The lady’s eyes widened minutely and she glanced at the window, seeing them. She then ducked her head, said something, and the man hurried out. “Time works at the local tavern,” The man informed them. “You’ll probably find him there...if you’re old enough.”

Legend was 17. The drinking age was 19. He hesitated. “Can you bring him out then?”

“I’ll see,” The man hummed but gave him a mildly concerned look.

After approaching a tavern, that reeked of alcohol and vomit, the man, among Warrior went inside and after a few long minutes, came back out with what was most definitely Time. “I heard I was needed,” Time narrowed his one eye and Legend hated how the old man terrified him.

“Yes. You’ve saved Termina before, right?”

Time sighed. “Yes. Please just get onto the point.”

“I’m sure you know of the Queen’s situation. We’re looking for heroes to save her, and stop a group called the Servants of Demise. We believe you may be one of them.”

Time gave a half-hearted sounding chuckle. “As much as I’d love to, I have a family here. I can’t just leave them.”

“We’ll ensure their safety. Anyone’s at danger with the Servants of Demise around, not just the Royal Family, so—“

He was interrupted by a scream and he shared a look with Warrior before they rushed to the sound. He looked back to see Time and the other man following them and noted that. The red-haired lady from earlier in that shop was bleeding from her side and had a sword at her throat. A man clad in red held the blade firmly and only pressed tighter when they walked closer. Time paled and the other man placed his hands over his mouth. “Distract the guy,” Legend mouthed to his knight.

Warrior looked hesitant but obliged anyway. “Let the innocent civilian go.”

The red clad guy just cocked his head. “You think it’s gonna be so easy to just command me around? All you good folk are all so ridiculous.”

“I don’t know who you think you are, but you have no right to take someone’s life without reason,” Time growled. “You’ll find that malicious deeds only lead to death.”

The prince snuck around behind the dude, as he saw grey eyes peering through the mask, straight ahead. He raised his weapon.

“Don’t make me laugh. Now, witness the result of—“

Legend had pushed the sword through the guy as one of the soldiers rushed in to tear the sword away from the poor woman. The guy grunted and looked back at him, through the inverted-eye on his mask and swung his fist. The prince ducked and flew at the man, pinning him down before landing an Ending Blow, one of the hidden skills he had been taught. The man gave a faint choking sound before he went still and Legend pulled his sword out. Bile rose up his throat at seeing the most definitely human blood on his sword but he just let Time rush to the woman. “Malon, dear, please say something.”

“Fairy boy,” Malon, apparently, breathed. “Is he gone?”

“Yes, you’re safe. We need to take you to a medic though.”

“Oh...okay.”

“You’re welcome to receive service at the infirmary at our castle if you so wish,” Legend informed them.

Time looked like he wanted to object but sighed and nodded. “Twi, I want you to go close the tavern for me okay? Then stay back at our house.”

“But—“

“No,” Time interrupted the other man. (Twi?) “I will remind you it’s not safe. I know you are capable, but please, just stay home.”

“Fine,” Twi grumbled and left reluctantly.

They headed back to the castle and quickly to the infirmary, where Legend ordered the nurses take good care of Malon. The old man wouldn’t budge from his side so the prince ordered one of the knights he had taken to inform Sky of what just occurred. After a bit Time suddenly spoke up. “I see what you mean now. My family is more in danger if I just sit around and let these people wreak havoc. So, I will join your cause.”

The prince smiled, despite everything. “Thank you. Would you mind joining me somewhere, just to make sure you’re a chosen one.”

Time looked very reluctant, squeezing Malon’s hand before nodding. So, they walked into the Room of Swords, and waited until the old man walked towards one of the bigger swords and grasped the hilt. Time pulled the sword and raised it skyward with both his hands.

He does not need any training, Master. He already bears enough skill to be named a hero.

Well wasn’t that convenient. Time sheathed the sword with a heavy sigh and started to walk away. “Wait. Before you go, you should know my true identity. I’m Prince Legend, a hero as well now, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Time stared, eye widened in surprise before he bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Your Highness.”

“Rise, you have no need to treat me as such. If we’re going to save Hyrule together, then for now, treat me as a friend.”

“Alright.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Malon recovered, and Legend asked Fi if there were any more records. There wasn’t. Which meant they had to figure out how they were going to find the other heroes. In retrospect, they still had a lot more to find considering there were only three of them so far, and they were supposed to have nine heroes in total. This voice was incredibly vague, he didn’t think he’d get any help from it. He didn’t know what to do now.

“Are you sure we need all the heroes?” Legend asked Fi. “My mom still needs rescuing. It’s been too long.”

“Yes, Highness. I believe even now you are woefully unprepared to fight off the Servants of Demise. Though I have not the exact number, they have many powerful fighters.” “But if the goddesses are on our side—“

“The goddesses are the ones who sent us the prophecy. What happens if we do not heed it?”

Legend sighed. She had a point, and maybe he was just getting impatient. “Apologies, I’m just stressed right now.”

“I understand, Your Highness. I will leave you to cool off.”

Cool off? Sheesh.

After a bit he heard footsteps and wondered if Fi had already come back, but no, it was Time. He looked like he had something to say and Legend’s heart swelled with hope. “Yes?”

“I remembered something that may be of use. Back a long time ago, there was a war of sorts, and I never was told who the opposing side was, though that’s because I rarely paid attention. But they might have had the Servants of Demise you speak of. There was a boy, who was caught in the middle of it and he defended this other little girl before he collapsed, sustaining fatal wounds. Though I had enemies to fight, I took the two to one of the medics. The little girl was sent somewhere far off, supposed to find a safer place, and the boy was in a coma for years.”

Legend listened but he was wondering where this was going.

“I saw one of the knights near his Majesty on my walk outside the castle and recognized him. I think he may be that boy. You see, I saw incredible skill when he was defending that little girl, and he was handling them with a soup ladle.”

Wild? The knight defending the King? Could be possible...

“So, I think it would be wise to see if he is one of us,” Time finished and then the tips of his ears turned red. “I apologize for bursting in so suddenly, Highness.”

“Don’t apologize,” Legend said with a smile. “I think you might be right.”

When they went to explain to Sky and Wild, the knight looked shaken. “A little girl...?”

“Yes. Is everything okay?” The prince asked.

But suddenly the knight’s eyes were distant and he was unresponsive to any calls. Sky looked confused. Clearly this hadn’t happened in front of him before. “Can we get a medic, then?” Legend asked, a little frantically.

Some of the servants went off and all Legend could do was wait for results. The medic looked thoughtful after running tests on him and coming back. “He’s not injured, or sick. I can’t see anything physically wrong with him, so all we can do is wait this out.”

Sky looked perturbed. They did wait until Wild eventually came back to and rubbed tears from his eyes, explaining it was a memory because he had amnesia. He remembered his little sister, defending her, and agreed, saying it was because he didn’t know what happened to his family but he would protect them if they were still alive. They assigned a new knight to the King and headed to the Room of Swords. Wild admitted that he wasn’t hearing a voice and Legend worried that he wasn’t actually a hero until he wandered up to a sword hanging up on the wall and pulled it off. It looked covered in ancient, ancient technology and when he raised it, it made a noise and glowed. Not with magical light but perhaps it was endowed with sacred magic that they couldn’t see. The knight still told them that he couldn’t hear a voice but he could wield the sword. The prince decided it was okay. They needed all the help they could get.

Then evening came and the prince lay awake, wondering if he’d get all the heroes. How he’d get them. In fact, how would they even know where his mother was? How could they save her when she could’ve already died from that stab wound?

@layraket, @candy8448, @luna-lovegreat, @thekingbiscuit

[cassandrva]

let's talk about the fish/water/christ symbolism in the game of kings. with spoilers

fish (as ιχθυς) is an acronym for christ, and it's the first food jesus eats after being resurrected, right? it symbolizes rebirth, life, and christ himself. i personally think fish are slippery and cold-blooded too, but that's neither here nor there.

now look at how the game of kings starts: "lymond is back". we immediately know this book is about returning, it's about rebirth. in fact, the first thing we see is the man himself submerged in a body of water and coming out on the other side, after a baptism of sorts, as the character he will play for most of the book: lymond the outlaw, lymond the traitor.

the first words out of his mouth are "i am a narwhal": he identifies himself as a fish right away, and not just any fish but the unicorn fish; the unicorn of course being scotland's national animal. in perspective, he tells us everything we need to know about him: his status as a christ figure, his destiny to be reborn, his complicated relationship with his country.

the next time he's in a body of water, it's the second chapter and he's dying from a head injury in a bog. he's washed clean, this time, too: from his own identity. he's free to inhabit another character from the lymond constellation. it's also pretty funny that he's found by sym while he's going fishing ("you’ve hooked a twenty-pounder this time, my lad"), and he's nursed back to health by someone named Christian. not subtle.

lymond seems to be pretty into this whole fish and rebirth thing, does he not? he wouldn't lie to us. he wouldn't pretend to embrace life while actively seeking death, right? anyway, no relation at all, when the baby queen mary tries feeding him a fish he pretends to eat it and secretly throws it away. the fish is described as struggling and barely alive, which again i am sure is a coincidence.

then some stuff happens, and the next time lymond is offered fish he doesn't have it in him to keep pretending. he doesn't want the damn fish. newsflash, asshole (richard): he really, really wants to die. this is my favorite scene for many reasons, and one of them is the perfect juxtaposition of its literal and symbolic meanings: richard says he wants to see lymond hanged, but what he does is to drag him away from the tomb-like dovecote and towards running water, makes him eat the damn fish again and again until the miracle is complete. he's holding on to his brother with both hands and teeth before he even realizes he's doing it.

when it comes to an end the fish is off the hook, christ is off the cross and for once he's not sacrificed for the sins of others, and we close on him in his mother's arms in a beautiful literary pietà.

there's so much stuff i purposefully didn't mention and probably didn't notice, this is just a tiny example of the gorgeous figurative and thematic cohesion in this novel. i love it. thank you dorothy dunnett.

[pastelspoon31]

Chapter 1: Bitter Sweetness ♡ (Contract Killer!Soap x Baker!Reader) - NSFW

tw: age gap (Reader being 20, Soap being 31), manipulation, dacryphilia, noncon to dubcon, dead dove!!, big pp in small cunny :(

A/N: Wrote this a loooooooong time ago. Started off pretty cute until I let my period hormones finish the rest of the fic, sigh… Rip reader’s cunny.. AGAIN. (PS: I’m truly sorry for botching the Scottish slangs used.)

It wasn't unusual for people to not understand John 'Soap' MacTavish's Scottish slang. It also wasn't unusual for people to not even try and understand the Scottish lad. Unless it was crucial info to the mission on hand, most jokes and smartass remarks from Soap wasn't really worth repeating after the awkward silence or straight up laughter from his teammates.

He appreciated his team, he really does. There are times his jokes were reciprocated well, especially with his close friend- Ghost, but it's not often so he tries not to mind.

Well, until today at least.

Your soft giggles and laughs were like music to Soap's ears as you looked up to the man through your eyelashes. The bread on the counter was long forgotten as he watched you take humour to his passing joke.

"Sorry- I really do love your accent! It's scottish, right?" You tilted your head in a manner so cute, Soap's brain momentarily shut off.

"Yeah.." He answered slowly, almost shyly as he tried not to get distracted by how pretty you looked. "I'm Johnny,"

"I'm (Y/N)! I haven't seen you here at our bakery for a long while!" Your voice was cheerful and warm as you introduced yourself.

"Aye, been on a.. trip.." Soap mumbled, "Just got back this mornin’..”

"That's wonderful! Is there anything specific that you'd like to add on, Mr. Johnny? We recently hired a sandwich maker, so if you'd like-" You rambled a little about the menu and Soap nodded along, watching you carefully with a small smile.

"D'ye have any of yer pies?"

Your eyes twinkled at his question, "We sure do! We've got the classic chicken pot pie and vegetable pies for the savoury pies, aaaand we've got a blueberry pie, apple pie and lemon meringue pie for the sweet pies today!"

"I'll take a chicken pot pie, and a slice of yer blueberry pie." Soap watched your fingers press the buttons on the cash register before turning around to get the pastries.

He felt a little giddy and warm as he waited for his food, watching you interact with a customer on the other side.

"For here or to go, Mr. Johnny?" You asked as you turned back to him with the order and the bread he picked out earlierin a paper bag.

"To go, lassie."

"Here's your food then, sir." You said with a wide smile as Soap handed you the cash. You took the $100 bill and gave back his $83 dollar change. "Have a good day!"

He returned your smile, "Keep the change, lassie." 

"W-What? It's more than 80 dollars! This is too much!"

"Aye, but ye are too sweet for yer own good, love. Ye deserve it." Soap winked, walking towards the exit of the shop as he watched you sputter out thanks and goodbyes.

♡ ______ ♡

"Mr. Johnny! You're back!" You put down the tray of cookies onto the table next to the cash register, quickly walking over to the scottish man who stood at the entrance. "Haven't seen you in a few days! Where were you?"

“S’just Johnny fer ye, lassie,” He smiled warmly as he walked closer to meet you, "Had some work."

"You must be very busy with work, huh?" Your smile as sweet as ever as you looked up at him.

"Aye."

"Well, good thing I have something new just for you!" You pulled him towards the freshly baked cookies on the counter. "Are you a fan of cookies?"

"Oh? Are ye offering, lass?" Soap teased.

You nodded in excitement, "Yep! You're the first one to try the new recipes out! You wanna try one?" You handed him the warm heart shaped cookie.

Soap looked at you before looking back down at the cookie. He broke a piece off and popped it into his mouth. The buttery dough and sugar melted in his mouth, with the slight chocolate flavour from the chips.

Your much shorter stature made it hard to see you in the line of the large man, but that didn't stop you from standing on your toes and trying to look at his expression.

"How is it? Was it too dry? I saw the recipe on instagram a couple days ago and tweaked it a bit, I hope I didn't mess it up!-"

"It's delicious, lass."

You stopped and looked at his smiling Soap. "Really?"

"Mhm." Soap hummed and ate another piece.

You laughed in joy, clapping your hands together, "I'm glad! I'll let you take the rest of the batch home!"

"Ah- no need. Keep them, lass."

You looked at Soap with a questioning look, "Why? They're yours! It's a gift!"

Soap shook his head, "I'll take a couple, but the rest should go to yer customers."

"Well, I kinda made them for you specifically, so.." You blushed. "It'd make me happy if you could take all of it, Johnny."

"Aren't ye too young to be giving a lad like me a gift, lassie?"

"I'm twenty this year," Your lips formed a small pout, "I'm not a child."

"Still younger than me, aye?"

"...How old are you?"

"Thirty-one."

"So what's eleven years?-"

"A big gap." He curtly replied with a teasing smile.

You stared at Soap for a moment before you sighed, "Please? I made them for you.." You handed him the cookies in a box, neatly tied into a bow now. You don't seem to be hiding your advances either with how persistent you were.

What a naive young woman.

"Fine, if it's yer wish, lassie. But I will pay."

"It's a gift, Johnny. Free of charge."

"Nae, I'll pay, lassie."

You pouted again.

Soap sighed and reached out to you. Your breath hitched when his rough and calloused hand cupped your cheek, his thumb rubbing circles into the soft flesh.

"It's one dollar," You feigned annoyance.

"Is it really?"

A defiant nod was his only reply, "It's only a dollar."

"Well, then," Soap's fingers tilted your chin up, making you meet his gaze. "That's a steal, isnae?"

"Ye take tips, lassie?" His thumb gently traced your lips as he watched your eyelids flutter lightly at his touch.

"Maybe.." Your voice barely above a whisper.

"Then, this is my tip, aye?" Soap leaned down and captured your lips into a gentle kiss.

Your eyes fluttered close as you felt his lips on yours, soft and chaste. The scent of the bakery around you and the taste of the man before you was overwhelmingly sweet.

When he pulled away, you could only stare at him.

"Yer too pretty for yer own good, bonnie," He smirked, squeezing your cheeks playfully. "Yer shouldn't be giving kisses to strangers."

You blushed hard, feeling the heat from your ears, cheeks and neck.

"I really like the way you speak… And the way you treat me," You muttered shyly. "And you're not a stranger,"

"Am I not?" Soap raised a brow, "We barely know each other, lassie. For all ye know, I could've been a serial killer."

"You wouldn't." You replied immediately. "You're not a bad person... I think," Your lips quirked into a smirk, "You're a softie."

"Oh, ye think so?"

"Mmhm. You're not mean to the staff, and you always give nice compliments,"

"Do I now?" He tilted his head with a smirk, "And how did ye come to that conclusion?"

"I’m secretly super smart," You smiled mischievously.

"Yer a sneaky little lassie," Soap pinched your cheek.

"You have to come back here everyday now, by the way," You puffed your cheeks, "It's not free to kiss the owner's daughter,"

Soap snorted, "Aye, I'll have to come back here every day, then. What a pain."

You giggled and pushed the box of cookies into his arms.

♡ ______ ♡

It's pretty much common sense to get to know someone before dating them but you just can't help it can you? 

"Shite! I've got a fuckin' date, tonight!" Soap cursed as he swung the metal bat one last time into the captive's head, knocking them dead before inspecting the blood splatter on his shirt.

It's good to get to know someone in case they're a serial killer.. Like John 'Soap' McTavish.

Well, contract killer would be a more appropriate term. Assassin even, if you're into technicalities.

"Which poor girl did you force into a date with you?" Ghost snickered as he lazily flipped his dagger as he watched the Scottish man tried to clean his shirt; only to smear the blood more.

"I didnae force anyone! I've been talking to the baker's daughter. She asked me out!"

Ghost scoffed, "The young one? Barely out of school? What is she, 16?"

"She's twenty," Soap glared.

"Jesus Christ," Ghost rolled his eyes, "That's still a kid."

"Fuck off, ye git." Soap muttered before looking for a spare shirt to change into.

Ghost tossed him the packet of wet wipes, "Don't worry, I won't tell Price you're taking advantage of a poor girl."

"I'm not fucking taking advantage of her!"

"You're 11 years older than her, mate." Ghost patted his shoulder and left the warehouse.

Soap grumbled a string of curses and finished cleaning himself up.

♡______ ♡

"Tomato soup?" The way you tilted your head was still as cute as the first time he saw you.

"Aye. The bastard tipped it all over my favourite shirt." Soap said, leaning against the counter.

"Aww," You pouted, "And you didn't get his number? At least make him pay for dry cleaning?"

"Nae, I didnae." Soap's lips twitched upwards, "Didn't get a chance to ask."

"Here lemme look," Your innocent eyes flickered to his shirt, a little blood stained where the button down met the fabric of his pants. You didn't seem to mind as you looked him up and down.

Soap chuckled, "Are ye checking me out, bonnie?"

You blushed and giggled softly.

"M’looking at your shirt, silly! You got some on your pants too.." You lightly scratched at the fabric. "Must've been some thick tomato soup! If I didn't know any better i'd have guessed that it was blood.." You teased.

Soap smirked, "Yer a curious little kitten, aren't ye?"

"Maybe~”

Soap leaned forward and gently grasped your chin, his thumb rubbing over the plump skin of your lips. If only you knewwhat his hands were capable of doing.

What the stains really were...

Would you still have that bright, curious glint in your eyes?

"You're staring, Johnny~"

Soap was shaken out of his thoughts. He was so caught up with his thoughts he didn't realise that he had been staring at your face, his eyes tracing the features that were becoming oh so familiar.

"Yer a beauty, lass." He whispered, voice low and almost gruff.

"You should take a picture, it'll last longer," You joked.

Soap shook his head, "Where would the fun be in that, lassie?"

"Well," You wrapped your arms around his waist and hugged him, burying your face into his chest. "You could also let me stay the night?" Your voice was shy and muffled.

Soap smiled, "Aye, I'd love to have ye in my bed, bonnie."

"Johnny!"

"What? I wasnae lying when I said ye were too pretty fer yer own good,"

"You're being lewd." You poked his chest.

"And ye aren't, aye? Askin' a lad like me to share a bed with ye."

"Shut up, Johnny. You know what I mean,"

"Aye,"

"Johnnyyyyyy!"

"I like yer laugh, bonnie," Soap mumbled into your hair, his lips brushing over the soft strands. "Wanna hear more of it,"

"You'll see me tomorrow."

"Aye, and the day after that,"

"And the day after that, and the day after that,"

Soap hummed, "Yer really going to have to stay the night with me." He tightened his hold on you.

You giggled, "Only if you want to.."

"I do. I do."

"Okay, then,"

Soap leaned down to peck your forehead before scooping you into his arms. You squealed and laughed, hugging his neck.

"Let's go, then, bonnie."

♡ ______ ♡

"W-wait! It's.. It's too big!-" Your eyes were tearing up from the intense pleasure, your voice hoarse and scratchy.

"Come on, bonnie. Ye can take it." Soap panted, his voice gravelly and gruff. "Relax for me, love."

You whimpered as he tried to fit his bulbous cock into your virgin hole. Your tiny cunt was trying to squeeze and suck him in, the wet squelching of your arousal not doing anything to help.

"J-Johnny, it's not gonna fit," You cried, tears streaming down your cheeks.

The older man reached down and rubbed tight circles into your clit, making your whole body twitch in sensitivity.

"O-oh, f-fuck.." You whined, toes curling and fingers grasping at the sheets.

"Language, bonnie,"

"S-Sorry," You mumbled, your pussy clenching and releasing around the head of his cock.

"That's it, bonnie, nice and easy.." Soap pushed further and you cried, a mix of pleasure and pain.

"Johnny, pull out! Pull out!-" You pushed against his chest as he smiled sadistically, forcing his cock into you.

"Relax, lass," He purred, "Ye can take it."

"N-No!-" You screamed. "I c-can't! It's too much! Ah-" His lips latched onto your tender nipple, sucking and nibbling.

"Just a bit more, bonnie," He mumbled. "Almost in.."

"P-please, no! I c-can't!" You sobbed, feeling his large hand on your abdomen, pressing down on your belly.

"Johnnyyyy~" You cried.

"Hush, love," He soothed, his lips latching onto yours.

You whined and moaned as he slowly inched himself into your small body, his hips flush against yours.

"There yer go, bonnie. All of me in yer little cunt," Soap praised, his rough palm cupping your cheek. "Good girl, taking all of me like that,"

You sniffled and nodded, a few stray tears falling. "S'hurts.. You gotta pull out, Johnny.. M'can't take it.."

God, the sight of you spread open under him, your eyes teary and cheeks pink, the way your walls fluttered and gripped his cock, the feeling of you around him, soft and pliant.

It was driving him mad. The feeling of ruining your innocence, the pleasure and satisfaction from taking your first time and the lust from fucking a young and naive girl was overwhelming.

He wanted more.

He wanted to see you break and shatter.

"I will, i will... Gonna pull out just for ye," Soap cooed, pulling out until only the tip remained.

You breathed a sigh of relief.

Soap slammed his hips back into yours, a loud scream and a sob ripped from your throat.

"Aww, poor bonnie.." He cooed, "Didnae mean to hurt ye,"

You couldn't form any coherent sentences as he rutted into you, your body rocking back and forth with the power of his thrusts.

His fingers were tormenting your poor clit, pinching and pulling at the sensitive nub as he smiled with a crazedexpression.

"I-It hurts! S-stop- N-no more!"

"Yer too fuckin' tight, love. So fuckin' good around me,"

"J-Johnny, please.. Help! H-help someone- Mmpff!-"

Soap captured your lips into a messy kiss, his tongue exploring every crevice and cavity. He sucked and licked at the roof of your mouth, his teeth biting at your bottom lip.

"Now, now, bonnie. Yer wouldn't want the neighbours to hear, would ye?" He covered your mouth with his hand and you sobbed, your eyes squeezing shut as he abused your cunt.

"That's it, lassie. Just let me fuck ye, nice and easy,"

Your body was wracked with sobs, torn between pain and pleasure. Your walls were clamping and fluttering around his cock, trying to milk him.

"Such a good girl," Soap moaned, "So good for me, aren't ye?"

"C-Can't breathe.." You whimpered in between sobs.

"But if I lift my hand, yer gonna start screaming and crying again, aren't ye?"

"N-No.."

"Don't lie, love," Soap smirked, "Yer such a naughty girl."

"I p-promise! Please- Need to breathe-" Your face was red from the lack of air and Soap chuckled.

"If ye say so, love," He slowly lifted his hand and you gasped, gulping in the air.

"P-Please! S-slow d-down- Ah!" You threw your head back, nails scratching at his arms.

"Beg fer it, bonnie. Beg fer it,"

"Please, slow down.. I-It's too much- J-Johnny please!" You whimpered.

"Alright, love. I'll give ye a break," Soap smirked, his hips slowing down. "See, I'm not that bad, am I?"

"N-No.." You whimpered softly as he petted your hair

"But I think ye need to thank me fer taking care of yer, hm?"

"T-Thank you," You mumbled, feeling his cock pull out, only the tip remaining.

"Ye think ye can take it a little more, lassie?" Soap grinned, "Ye want more, aye?"

"N-no! P-pull out, please!"

"Come on, love. We've come this far," Soap's voice was low and husky, sending shivers down your spine. "You love me, right? Ye wouldn't leave me hanging like this."

"I-I can't-"

"Oh, but ye can,"

"Please! I can't-"

"Say ye don't love me,"

"..."

"See? Come on.. Yer not a kid, bonnie. Ye can do it,"

"...O-okay, Johnny.."

"That's my good girl.." Soap cooed, pulling out slightly and slamming back into your abused cunt.

You muffled your screams into his shoulder and cried as he continued his ruthless pace. Your pussy was leaking and throbbing, the pleasure of his cock hitting all the right places.

"That's it, bonnie. Take all of me. Such a good girl for me, aren't ye? Ye take all my cock so well," He started playing with your clit and you thrashed, the stimulation becoming too much.

"Ahh-! S-Stop- I-It's too- Too m-much!"

"Yer close, aren't ye, love?"

You nodded frantically, tears streaming down your cheeks. "C-can't- P-pull out- N-Not ins-side-!"

"I'm sorry, bonnie. Can't do that,"

"N-No- Please, p-pull out-!" You sobbed.

"I'm afraid that's not gonna happen, lassie."

"No- N-No- I-It's coming-! P-pull out! N-not inside!" He cut you off with a deep kiss and you moaned, the pressure in your belly reaching its limit.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your orgasm washing over you. You screamed and thrashed, your back arching.

"There we go, love," Soap growled. "Take my load, love. I'm going to breed ye. Knock ye up, bonnie. Gonna fill ye with my seed," He grunted and came, his warm cum filling your womb and spilling out from the sides.

There was so much of it.

"N-no.. Don't like this.." You whined.

"Shhh," Soap kissed you again, "It's alright, love. Ye did so good,"

"Johnny..." You started crying again and he wrapped his arms around you.

"Shhh, it's okay. I'm here, bonnie. I've got ye," You pushed him away weakly.

"Now, don't be like that, bonnie. I just wanna hold ye." Soap pouted and you shook your head.

"Don't want you.. N-no.."

"But why, love? I thought ye loved me?" He smirked, knowing how you'd react.

"Y-you.. You didn't stop-" You weakly tried to get out of bed, but ended up on the floor.

"Aww, did ye hurt yerself, bonnie?"

"L-Leave me alone!"

Soap frowned, "Now that's not nice, lassie. Watch yer tone with me,"

"N-no! Stay away!"

Soap sighed and walked over to you. He picked you up and laid you back on the bed, your face red and blotchy. You kept on trying to push him away, but you were too weak.

"I'm going to have to clean ye up, aye? Ye wouldn't want to wake up all sticky, would ye?"

"L-Let me go!" You were struggling to push him back.

"Ye have no right to refuse me, bonnie." He said, "If ye keep pushing me, i might have to teach ye a lesson."

You didn't care and kept on trying to get away from him. In the midst of your struggle, you slipped your hands out of his hold and slapped him, hard.

His face turned red and his eyes were wide, a shocked expression on his face. He touched the spot where you hit him and chuckled, his laughter turning into a full blown fit.

"Getting feisty, are we, lassie? Yer a brave one, aren't ye?"

You gulped, afraid. You realised your mistake and quickly scrambled off the bed, stumbling to the other side of the room.

Soap was much faster, his large hands grabbing your waist and throwing you back on the bed. You screamed and tried to hit him, but he was faster.

"What did I tell ye, bonnie?"

"Y-You said n-nothing about this! I thought you were different!-" 

"Aye, ye liked my accent, didn't ye?"

"W-what-?"

"And ye thought I was a good guy, didn't ye? Aye, ye did,"

"I thought-"

"Ye young lassies are the same. So gullible," Soap smirked, his lips hovering near yours.

"Let me go!"

"Now why would I do that? Yer mine and I'm yers. Isn't that right, bonnie?"

You shook your head, tears running down your cheeks.

"That's right. Yer my sweet little girl, and I'm yer Johnny." He pulled you into his chest, a hand threateningly wrapped around your throat from behind. "And that means, yer gonna be nice and all cute with me, and we're gonna get along, aye?"

You sobbed and nodded, not wanting to make him angrier.

"Good, good. I'm glad yer smart, love,"

"L-Let me go, please.. I w-won't tell a-anyone.."

"Now, now. I'll let ye go once we're done here but it doesn't mean you get to go, if you know what I mean," He chuckled.

"D-don't touch me," You tried to sound intimidating but he only found it cute.

"I can't do that, lass. I already told ye. Yer my lassie, and I'm yer man." He kissed your forehead affectionately. "S'okay, yer gonna love it sooner or later, aye?"

"I-I'm scared.."

"No, don't be, love. M'still yer Johnny." He pressed a gentle kiss on the corner of your lips.

You sniffled and relaxed a little.

"Yer still so tense, love. How about we get ye cleaned up, aye?" His deceptively sweet voice contradicting the horror he had put you through.

"Now don't go anywhere.. Or i'll kill ye," He kissed the tip of your nose.

You nodded.

He left the room and went into the bathroom. He brought out a small basin and a washcloth. He soaked the washcloth in the basin and squeezed the excess water out.

"Spread yer legs for me, love. Nice and easy," You obeyed him, not wanting to make him mad.

He gently rubbed the warm cloth between your thighs, cleaning the dried cum and juices. 

"There ye go... Nice and easy.." He cooed as he softly cleaned you up as you whimpered softly.

"There's a good girl, ye did so well.."

You were still sobbing and hiccupping as he placed the washcloth back in the basin.

"Hurts.." You whined.

"What hurts, baby girl?"

"Down there.. Hurts.." Tears fell from your eyes as you complained.

"Aww, ye poor thing.. S'okay, I'll help ye..." He set the basin aside and pulled you into his chest.

You were still sobbing, trying to pull away from him, but his arms held you in place.

"Shhh.. It's okay, love... Ye did so good... Yer my good girl. Did so well for me..."

He gently stroked your hair and soothed you, whispering comforting words in your ear.

"I-It hurts so much.."

"I know.. M'sorry, bonnie.. Ye felt too good, m'couldn't help it.." He cooed, his voice gentle and warm.

"Why'd you have to be so rough? Why'd you have to hurt me like that?"

"S'because, love... Yer such a good girl, m'just wanted to show ye how much I love ye..." He smirked to himself as he watched you slowly relax in his arms.

"But it still hurts.."

"I promise I won't hurt ye like that again.."

"Please don't ever do this to me again.."

"I'm sorry, bonnie.." He cooed as he softly petted your hair.

You were silent except for the soft whimpering and sobbing.

"Are ye mad at me, love?"

"..."

"Ye can say yes, love... M'not mad at ye..."

You shook your head, not sure if you could answer him.

"I dunno.." You were confused, unsure how to feel.

"I'll be a better man, bonnie. I promise, I won't ever hurt ye again. Ye don't deserve to be treated this way."

"P-promise..?" Your tearful doe eyes met his icy blue ones.

"Aye, bonnie. I promise."

"Then I forgive you." You murmured as he hugged you tightly.

"Yer such a kind soul, lassie." He smirked to himself, his fingers gently rubbing the small of your back.

"Thank you.."

"Yer welcome, love."

"Can we get some sleep?" You asked, your voice hoarse. "M'so tired.."

"Aye, we can." He gently laid you down on the bed, kissing your forehead.

"Can you cuddle with me?" Soap’s cock jolted a bit in excitement from how pathetic you sounded.

"Sure, bonnie."

"Thank you..." You sniffled softly into his chest, desperately snuggling the warm skin for comfort.

"There, there.. I'm here, love.."

"I love you, Johnny.."

"M'love ye too, bonnie."