#this is a sign to listen to witch's mark

[smg4kaizokinnie]

yeahyeah arthur called him good dog but did you know you know, Elijah Strong, the guy who the Butcher did his fake suicide, called him a 'fucking animal' four times in CoC: The Witch's Mark.

[rosedpetal]

Behave

Summary: Bucky shows you what happens when you test him.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: smut.

Minors, do not interact.

Masterlist

You didn't mean to be so overbearing, but you just loved him so much.

"Doll, you have to stop giving the stinky eye to these women. It's getting embarrassing." He whispered on your ear, his grip tightening just a little bit on your arm as he smiled for the people schmoozing at Tony's gala event. "Seriously, when did you get so jealous?"

"Jealous?" You scoff, adjusting the skirt of your long dress, softening the slightly wrinkled fabric. "Barely. I just wish you didn't look so smug with all those single bitches fawning over you."

"In my time, we used to call them spinsters." Bucky raised his eyebrow at you.

"Well, that's just sexist."

"And calling them bitches is not?"

Your glare made him shut his mouth, a little smirk threatening to tug at the corner of his lips.

"I get it, okay? I'm being too much. It's just that I'm so obsessed with you. Why can't I just be one of those wives who barely wait for their husbands to drop dead?" You sighed, adjusting his tie.

He chuckles, a low rumble reverberating through his chest. He trapped your chin between his thumb and index finger, amused at you. "You're crazy, you know that? But it's okay. Your psycho side is almost as cute as your clingy and needy one."

You roll your eyes. "Gotta admit, though. You looked really hot over there talking to them and signing autographs and all. If I didn't want to stab your guts off, I'd be horny... " You paused. "Okay. I'm horny either way."

"Behave." Bucky hissed, looking around to see if anyone was paying attention to the two of you. At the sound of your little crazed giggle, he snapped his head back to you. "How much have you had to drink, by the way?"

"I didn't drink that much. I don't know what's taken over me, okay? You're just... Ugh!" You groaned, and Bucky blinked, a little taken aback. "You're hot. Are you taken?" You playfully bat your eyelashes at him and he chuckles.

"Well, I do have a wife. But she's quite small, so I think you can take me from her if you want to." He smirked, rubbing circles on the small of your back.

"Ugh, you're married? I bet she's a fucking witch."

Bucky shakes his head, getting his lips close to your ear. "Honestly... My wife is quite crazy. Sometimes I'm scared at how unhinged she can be when she's jealous."

"Is she hot, though?"

"Oh... She's so hot. Just thinking of her has me feeling all types of way... But she's also quite needy. It gets on my fucking nerves. I swear, that woman could drop on her knees to beg for my attention."

"Is begging the only good thing she can do on her knees, though?" You purr.

Bucky checks again for any nosy listeners, relaxing a bit as he realizes you're too are safe.

"Well... She also prays really well, just like a good girl should."

Your could feel your gaze becoming a little unfocused, your core warming up. "I wanna choke you so bad."

Bucky's face and neck turn a little red. "Jesus, baby. What has gotten into you tonight? Is it all because I dressed up?"

"Maybe. Do you think it's possible for humans do go into heat?"

"Oh. I don't know, are you?"

"Breed me. Breed me. Breed me." You chanted on his ear, and his grip on your hips tightened almost painfully.

"Stop right this second." He hisses. "I do not need this right now. Are you trying to get me hard in public, you little shit?"

"Is it working?"

"You're going to pay for this."

"Are you gonna give me your belt tonight?"

"Y/N-"

"What? Is this too kinky for you? Is the idea of marking my ass with your leather belt too much for your poor brain to handle right now, baby?"

Bucky closes his eyes, fists clenching on his sides. Then, he grabs you by your waist, pulling you to the nearest room he could find.

He swiftly unlocks the door, assessing the small supply closet you two are in. It's not ideal, but it'll be enough. His hand fly to your throat, pressing on it slightly, eyes darkened with desire, his slacks tight and uncomfortable. "Filthy little tease. You enjoy riling me up, don't you? Do you think you'll get away with this little stunt you just pulled, huh?"

His vibranium hand snakes under your dress through the slit on your thigh, his eyes darkening at how soaked your underwear is. "Tsk. Does being a little slut make you wet, baby?"

You whimper, completely overtaken by lust, his digits teasing your clothed clit. "You can try to give me shit for misbehaving, but you love how obsessed I am with you, isn't that right? You crave my attention. You thrive on how needy I can get for you."

Bucky's eyes darken, the beautiful expansion of his blue irises only getting noticed by you by the moonlight reflecting through the small window.

"You're giving me fucking butterflies, Bucky. What the fuck? Wasn't that supposed to stop after we got married?" Your brows furrow, your indignant tone making a little snicker escape him. He hooks his finger on the waistband of your panties, a sharp tug being enough to rip your underwear.

"I didn't vow to bore you 'til death do us part, doll. I'll never stop making you feel this way." He whispered, gaze softening at you. Time seemed to stop as he inched closer to you, lips brushing against your red painted ones. "I fucking love you, you unhinged little thing."

"Love you too, baby." Your eyes close shut, mouth hanging open as he fingers you in the supply closet, swallowing your moans with his tongue, bucking his hips on your hand as you palm him through the straining fabric.

Reaching down, you swiftly undo his slacks, pulling them low enough just to free his twitching cock, guiding the thick head to your entrance.

With how lubricated you are, he only has to spit on his cock and moisten the length with his hand, a low growl leaving his mouth as he sink on your heat, inch by inch.

There's a moment of silence as you two lock eyes, your weeping pussy welcoming him with a tight grip that he swears it makes him harden, if that's even possible.

Your head falls back with the first shallow thrusts, a small gasp leaving your lips. Bucky's gritting his teeth, pulling you up, your legs wrapping around his middle. Then, he slams into you.

You can't even speak, getting your walls bullied repeatedly by your husband's thick cock. "F-fuck! Bucky, ohmygod, wait!"

He smirks, not slowing down a second. "I told you were gonna pay for being a menace tonight. What's the problem, baby? What happened to the slut who told me to breed her just a few minutes ago? Where is she? Huh?" He circles his hips, buried deep inside you, making you see white. He swats your thigh, his voice rough. "Answer me."

A little, humiliating whine escapes you, and he chuckles again.

"See, baby? How I can fuck the brat out of you? How you should think before riling me up? How you can't back up for your little antics?" His vibranium thumb circles your clit, the coolness of it only serving to make you orgasm quicker.

Bucky moans at your walls clamping violently on him, a grip so deliciously tight it makes him wanna pull his own hair. So he tugs hard at your locks instead, exposing your neck for his greedy lips as he comes inside you.

[elamimax]

What is the Downfall of TGST? You included it in that eggfic meme, but I've searched Scribblehub and Bigcloset and found not a sign of it.

Okay SO

Chapter 1: The Rise of TGStoryTime

In 2011, a man going by the name of Joe Six-Pack launched the TGStorytime website or "archive," with the express idea of creating a repository for fiction focused on forced feminization and similar "TG" fetish content.

Though it took a bit to find its footing, it nonetheless became a place where all kinds of people could share their stories about men becoming women, usually against their will, after which naughty shenanigans would usually occur.

It also became a place where many trans women both read and later on wrote their first piece of trans fiction (yours truly included). Other trans authors that got their start here were QuietValerie, Purplecatgirl and Trismegistus Shandy, each of which would later (or at the same time) make their name on other fiction hosting platforms as well.

As an aside, an interesting feature of TGST is the fact that every single story needs to be vetted by "the moderation team," which has at times included One (1) member: Joe Six-Pack himself. I'm sure that won't be relevant later.

Everything was going reasonably well, until one fateful day.

Chapter 2: The Problem With Joe Six-Pack

In 2020, a new user joined the website. I have no intention of speculating towards intention, but the effect they had was immediate.

They wrote extremely short stories, often between 50 and 100 words, only a few paragraphs, of people who were forcibly turned into women. What made this so egregious was the denigrating way it referred to these "new women," sometimes using slurs and other speech that has been hurled at trans women to dehumanize or simply demean them.

There was an immediate backlash, the now-quite-substantial trans userbase of the website standing up for themselves and asking that Joe Six-Pack, the host and active owner, do something about this new user's low-effort but offensive stories. At the very least, that he please stop personally approving them.

He refused.

He refused on the basis that TGST was never a place for queer people to find each other, nor was it a place for trans stories. As he put it, TGstorytime was repository. It was an archive of TG - not Trans - stories, one that was his sacred duty to maintain. He was not a moderator, he was simply an archivist. He also asserted that transphobia was a somewhat normal response on the internet and that moderating it would lead to a witch-hunt that would see his website shut down eventually. He would not stop vetting - and personally approving - stories that were rife with transphobia.

Chapter 3: The Exodus

In the following months and years, a large part of the trans community moved away from TGST, spreading to the neighboring websites of RoyalRoad, BigCloset and Fictionmania. Some tried to make their own websites like Fluff4Me and Offprint Café.

But the biggest move was to Scribblehub, one of the few websites that not only allowed users to mark their stories with "Transgender" as a built-in tag, but also had moderators that listened to vulnerable minorities when they raised issues. As a result, many trans women moved over to the at-the-time primarily manga-and-light-novel brained site, causing a pretty significant upheaval and forcing the moderation team to make some changes to the way it weighted its "trending" tab, since it quickly became dominated by transfem fiction.

Despite these changes, Scribblehub remains the best place to find new, and importantly, free trans fiction online, written by both established as well as up-and-coming authors.

If you like this video please like and subscribe. If you want to support me and other creators you can use the code below to subscribe to Curiositystr

[thisgirlnamedblusy]

hey! i love your donna fics so so much and i adore the way you write donna!! thank you for all the wonderful works you've shared!

do you think you could write one where reader is very insecure and doesn't think she deserves love and donna reassures her? i'm a sucker for hurt/comfort!

Yess!!! Thank you for your request, and for your kind words!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes!!! :))))

To deserve, or not to deserve

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Angst, fluff, insecurities, depression

Word count: 4,485

Summary: You're useless. You don't deserve to be loved... Or so you tought

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!! I love you all!!! Remember to love yourselves!!!! Today I have enough free time, so maybe I'll post another request if you don't mind. I think maybe I'm being annoying :S

“You are a failure, useless!” Your father shouted, cornering you against the old wall.

“No, that's not true! It isn't true!” You shouted back, hands on your head to avoid hearing those accusations. “Now, now I have someone who loves me…”

“Someone who loves you? Don't talk nonsense, no one could ever love you, (Y/N), you don't deserve to be loved...”

You don't deserve to be loved...

“No... It's not... It's not...” You murmured, opening your eyes only to find yourself in absolute darkness.

Your heart was beating fast and your breathing was struggling to control itself. The silence contrasted with the screams your head had imagined. You sighed in relief, but your were hands still shaking.

A nightmare, that was all.

Little by little you get used to the darkness, but the humidity on your forehead betrays the sweat of panic you experienced in your dreams. Your father was not there, he would never be there, you were safe. You were at the Beneviento estate.

Loyal subject of Mother Miranda, villager with a purpose in life, tireless cultivator and worker. That was you, just another villager, a useless one who couldn't even find someone to marry. Or so your family said.

The witch's weekly sermons were a constant plea for your life to change. You put your hands together, praying to the Black Gods to give you the chance to leave that horrible house.

You wouldn't know if they really heard your prayers. What you did know was that one of the Lords, Donna Beneviento, seemed to have some interest in you. Interest, at least you thought so. That mourning figure, along with the irritating doll, looked for you every week, looked for your body kneeling in that old chapel. She just watched you, as if you were a curious specimen, as if your suffering attracted her.

Little by little that was changing. A formal invitation to go to her house gave you enough hope to keep fighting, to want to keep living. A friendship, a silent tea. Not a word, not a sign of danger or threat.

Many times you thought you confused dreams with reality, why had a Lord like her noticed you? You weren't special. You were nobody, just (Y/N), useless, a failure, a mistake.

No matter the circumstances, you would still be the same failure to your father. Donna, for her part, seemed to listen to your empty words, your absurd stories about working. Did she really listen to you? It seemed unlikely.

But the teas were longer, the visits more frequent. Something seemed to really interest her, since one day, the woman in black showed her face to you, along with her feelings.

“I like you, (Y/N), I think I love you,” she said with her soft voice, marked by an unknown accent. You turned around, just when you felt you had to go back to your house. You would never come back, never.

A kiss sealed those words, confirmed Donna's interest in you. You had never kissed anyone, she had never kissed anyone. With no other experience to compare that beautiful feeling to, you began to think that maybe, just maybe, she was telling the truth.

It wasn't long until you started missing your stuff, the stuff that was still in that hell you used to call home.

You remembered your father's screams and his constant mantras that talked about how useless you were. He didn't believe that anyone had paid attention to you. He thought it was impossible for anyone to love you. It wasn't the first time he said it, but it was the last.

If you were to search your mind for something to make you smile, it would be your father's face when Donna appeared at the door, with her stoic pose, the Angie doll in her arms, and that veil that made her look terrifying.

Your father knelt, begging for mercy. Donna should have tortured him, but she didn't. She took your hand, taking you away from that place forever.

And there you were, sleeping with her, living with her. You might think you were in paradise, that your nightmares were over, but that wasn't the case at all. An insecure girl like you was unable to see the sincerity on the face of the lady in black. She wanted something from you, she didn't love you. She couldn't love you.

When you calmed down after your past haunted you in your dreams, you reached out your hand to the warm body lying next to you. Donna groaned and shifted, annoyed with you for interrupting her sleep.

You couldn't help but smile tenderly. You may not have been sure what she felt for you, but you were. You loved her. You loved her with all your soul.

You sighed again, slowly getting out of bed. You needed some water, you needed to reflect.

The cold water cleared your thoughts, and the reflection in the mirror showed your insecurities again. You were nothing special, you were nothing.

Drying yourself with a towel, you thought about everything you had experienced in that house. Smiles, compliments, caresses, large amounts of kisses and words of love. But were they sincere? Did Donna really love you?

“(Y/N)...” A hoarse and sleepy voice scared you, making you jump on the floor. Donna appeared behind you, out of the darkness, with her black hair down and a face that betrayed that you had woken her up. Apologize, (Y/N), you're useless. “I'm sorry, did I scare you?”

“A bit,” you said, with a half smile, lowering your head. “I didn't mean to wake you up, Donna, I'm so sorry,” you apologized.

She shook her head and smiled.

“Don't worry, it's okay,” she whispered, approaching and surrounding you from behind, planting a soft kiss on your cheek. You were shaking from the nightmare and the sweat on your body was quite evident, which made Lady Beneviento murmur something and slowly turn you around.

“Forgive me,” you repeated, afraid that her reassuring words preceded a punishment. Donna shook her head and frowned, studying your expression.

“(Y/N), are you okay? You're soaked,” she asked, ignoring your repeated apologies, something that was very common for her. Why didn't she give it importance? Your apologies were genuine.

“It's nothing, it's just that... I had a nightmare,” you said, downplaying it and avoiding looking into her bright and suspicious eye.

“A nightmare? What was it about?” Donna asked in a loving voice, gently grabbing your hand, comforting you with her caresses.

“Well, I... It doesn't matter. We, we should go back to bed. I'm stealing hours of sleep from you,” you said, your voice breaking as you remembered that horrible dream. Donna didn't move and stopped you from moving forward, keeping her grip on your hand.

“Come on, (Y/N), you're sweating. I’m going to prepare a bath for you,” she said, walking with you to the bathtub. Her tender smile could mean many things, but all you saw was just interest.

You've woken her up, and that requires paying for it, you supposed with the sight of your naked body. Yes, yes, surely that was what she wanted from you.

As the hot water filled the bathtub, you played with your nightgown. Donna noticed and looked at you with a strange grimace.

“Tesoro, you're shaking...” She said worriedly while she watched you untie the cloth that separated you from nudity.

“I’ve, I've never gotten naked in front of anyone, I'm sorry,” you said apologetically, looking down as the fabric disappeared from your body.

“What? Wait,” the lady in black whispered, grabbing a towel and covering your body with it. “Naked? What are you talking about?” She asked, tying that soft fabric to your body.

At that moment your face went from fear, from sadness, to the most absolute shame.

“Don't you want to see me naked?” You asked scared. Wasn't that what she wanted? What was it then?

Donna's eye widened and she looked away, with a confused grimace and her breathing speeding up little by little.

“No, I mean, yes, but...” She stammered, adjusting your towel tightly so that it wouldn't dare to fall on the floor. “I don't think it's time for that now, (Y/N).”

You nodded even more confused. Her face looked sad and worried. You had done things wrong again. You are useless, no one could love you.

 “I'm sorry,” you whispered, slowly stopping your trembling. Donna nodded with a frown and turned off the faucet, checking the water temperature.

“Don't apologize, you haven't done anything wrong,” she said, now, smiling tenderly.

“I woke you up,” you said hurriedly.

“(Y/N), what's wrong? You're acting...” She asked suspiciously. You took a deep breath and shook your head.

“Weird, yes, I'm sorry,” you said again with a melancholic tone, hoping that this time Donna would accept your apologies.

Donna approached you, gently lifting your chin and kissing you slowly, wanting to comfort your sorrows, something even one of those otherworldly kisses couldn’t do at that moment.

“Stop apologizing, tesoro... Get in the bathtub. You'll see how much better you feel afterwards, mm? Don't worry, I'll go make you a relaxing infusion so you can sleep well,” she said with a smile, but without losing that small distrust that was in her eye.

You nodded, noticing how she walked away from you, closing the door.

The bath felt good to you and the infusion even better, but they did nothing to silence the voices of your conscience. Your father was right, you were worthless. No one could love you.

When you opened your eyes the next day, loneliness invaded you. No one breathed calmly next to you. The warmth of her body had disappeared. Just as you had predicted, she had abandoned you, she didn't love you. You didn't deserve to be loved.

“Donna?” You asked with a sob, silencing the horrible thoughts that plagued your insecure mind. “Donna?!”

You got nervous just at the thought of having to go home, of her throwing you away because you were stupid, useless.

“Don't yell, idiot,” the Angie doll, who was resting curled up next to you, snapped. “Now she comes.”

“I'm sorry,” you apologized, bowing your head. Angie made fun of you with some exaggerated gestures.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” she mocked comically. “You said your name was, (Y/N)? More like you're Lady Apologies.”

“I like to apologize when I think I've done something wrong,” you defended yourself against those taunts. Angie stopped jumping on the bed and sat next to you, studying your gaze.

“So what exactly have you done wrong? Apart from screaming like a crazy girl, of course,” the doll asked, with that irritating tone, one that was not the most appropriate to listen to when you just woke up.

“I've bothered you,” you whispered, feeling pathetic for having to apologize to a porcelain doll.

“I don't know how Donna can stand you, you're so annoying,” the doll hissed, pointing an accusing finger at you.

“I know,” you murmured, tears in your eyes.

“You know?” The puppet asked, surprised by your answer.

“You're right, Angie, I don't know how she puts up with me,” you said sobbing, raising your knees to your chest, burying your soft cry in the sheets.

“Oh, no, no, no,” the doll said climbing up your body and trying to separate its hands from your face. “Don't cry, or Donna will be angry with me... Come on, stop crying. Do you want to hear a joke? What does the stick of a campfire say to another? Your caresses make me burn...”

You raised your head and smiled involuntarily, lowering your legs slightly.

“Do you get it? Campfire, burn...” Angie repeated, amused. You nodded, laughing sheepishly. “I won, you laughed…”

“Good morning, tesoro,” a soft voice interrupted that awkward but funny moment. Donna, already wearing her dress and her hair tied up, entered the room, carrying what looked like a tray with breakfast in her arms.

“Donna...” You sighed when you saw her, with a smile of relief.

“I bring you breakfast,” she said happily, leaving the tray on your lap and sitting next to you. “Look, I made you coffee, with milk and sugar, just the way you like it. You also have toast, some pieces of fruit…”

“What’s that?” You asked, amazed but incredulous at the same time, admiring this display of delicious morning delicacies. Donna shrugged, taking one of the toasts with an amused smile.

“I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed. I think it's very romantic, don't you?” She said, biting into a bit of that lightly toasted bread.

Her words seemed sincere, but you still didn't believe her. No one would do something like that for someone like you. No matter how many times you thought about it, it didn't seem remotely possible.

“Romantic...” You sighed with the same sad tone, earning that suspicious look again.

No, no. She didn't want to be romantic with you. No one could be romantic with you.

Donna looked at you curiously. You couldn't fool her any longer. She knew perfectly well that something was happening to you, what would be your punishment for that?

“I'm so worried about you, (Y/N),” Donna murmured, taking your hand and squeezing it tightly in hers.

“About me? Oh, don't worry, Donna,” you said, apologizing with your gestures, and pretending to take a sip of that hot coffee.

“Have I done something wrong?” She asked again, getting a little closer to you. You shook your head and faked a smile. No, you didn't want to, you didn't want to lose her.

“No, I... Everything you do or say is perfect,” you said firmly, making the lady and her doll look curious at each other.

“That sounds like a reproach to me,” Donna murmured, now with a colder expression.

“No, it is not. I didn't mean for it to sound like that, I'm so sorry,” you said to try to calm that cold look. There would be consequences, for sure. The lady in black moved away, she was getting nervous, because of you, always because of you.

“Okay, well... I... I'll leave you alone, I don't want to annoy you,” she said, caressing your cheek and leaving the room, giving you one last sad look.

You couldn't help but cry after that. Your doubts, your insecurities were too strong, too intense to bear. If only you had the courage to ask her, the courage to know why she was attracted to you, or rather to ask what she wanted from you.

The love you felt was strong, but you wanted to stop, you wanted to find out what kind of evil plans the lady in black had for you. No, love was definitely not a feeling she could have for you. Nobody will ever love you.

The day passed slowly, sad, dull.

Donna worked in her workshop as always, but even then you couldn't be with her, she told you that she wanted to be alone, she needed to concentrate.

Your insecurity after those words only grew. You always accompanied her in her work, with her dolls. Donna said that she felt comfortable in your company, but she didn't like it lately. Obvious. She was sick of you. You were a scumbag, a loser. You knew nothing about love, you didn't know how to please her. You didn't know if it was time to take the next step or not.

You didn't know anything. You didn't know what she felt. Every I love you that came out of her mouth sounded like the biggest of lies. For you, that sudden isolation only confirmed your suspicions. The day when you would be left alone would soon come, she would torture you. She would confess you were not good enough for her.

Depressed, you lay on the couch, the sound of the waterfall dramatizing your horrible thoughts. You were nothing, you deserved nothing. Those words you yourself repeated over and over again accompanied your tiredness, your apathy, until your eyes closed, until your eyelids were too heavy...

“I don't love you, (Y/N)” Donna hissed, in the middle of a dark, empty room, where only you and her were.

Kneeling, you cried intensely, inconsolably, clinging pathetically to the black fabric of her dress.

“Don't say that, Donna, I know it's not true,” you sobbed when she pushed you away unpleasantly, making you fall to the ground.

“You are a worthless girl!” The lady screamed, with her fists clenched on either side of her hips. “You are useless!”

“No, no, it's not you, Donna, I know it's not you...” You said nervously, getting up from the floor and cupping her face in your hands.

“Stupid,” she hissed, pushing you away. “I just wanted to have a fun time with you, but you don't even deserve to be my toy. You're not even good enough to get fucked, you're useless.”

You shook your head, while more voices and evil laughter filled that empty room.

“Useless, useless, useless,” voices like your father's began to insult you at the same time that ghostly arms cornered you against a wall.

“No, no, stop it!” You shrieked, doubling over yourself, not wanting to look at the lady in black's expression of contempt, not wanting to hear those words anymore.

“(Y/N), (Y/N)...” Donna murmured, with that devilish smile on her face.

“No... No...” You murmured, writhing on the couch until with a dull thud, you fell to the wooden floor, realizing the brightness of the place. Another dream, another nightmare.

“(Y/N), are you okay?” The lady in black asked, leaning down to help you up. You were no longer in an empty room. You were at home, in her house...

“Yes, I... I think I fell asleep,” you whispered, sitting up with his help. She joined you, but she avoided looking into your eyes. “I'm sorry I scared you.”

“No, tesoro... Don't apologize...” She whispered, running a hand over your sweaty forehead. “I heard you scream. Don't tell me you've had another...”

“No, it doesn't matter, really, I'm better now,” you interrupted, perhaps with a slightly abrupt tone. Donna shook her head as she tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You hadn't realized, but she was carrying something in her hand, it looked like a small box.

“Right,” she whispered, suspicious. Soon that distrust changed to an expression of shyness, as she extended that small box towards you. “I… I… I have, I have something for you.”

You pointed to yourself, confused, and picked up that small box, opening it slowly, hoping to find a note inside that surely said: I don't love you, out of my sight.

But there was none of that inside. In its place, there was a small bracelet decorated with porcelain animals, with the symbol of the Beneviento House. The golden glow hit your eyes and your nervousness only increased.

“It's, it's a bracelet,” Donna said, noticing your confused look, taking the object and tying it to your wrist with trembling hands. “I’ve made it for you, (Y/N)”

“For me...” You repeated nervously, looking at that bracelet again and again, not understanding. Not understanding anything.

“Yes, of course,” Donna said, amused, but also upset, nervous about your reaction. “It was a surprise, that's why I didn't want you to go down to the workshop,” she explained, breathing heavily.

Surely she should expect a smile, a thank you, but all you could do was to keep your gaze on that golden bracelet as your eyes filled with tears.

You shook your head, all your feelings screaming to come out of you. It didn't take long for the sobs to appear.

Why would someone who didn't love you do something like that? Why would Donna give you something so nice? Why would she bother doing it if she didn't love you? You don't deserve that gift. You don't deserve to be loved.

“Why are you crying?” Donna asked, scared, placing her hands on your shoulders. “You don't like it?”

You looked at her and nodded profusely.

“Yes, I really like it, Donna, it’s amazing,” you said with a broken voice, playing with those little porcelain animals. She nodded too, looking for the answer to your attitude in your teary eyes.

“I don't understand why...” She murmured, wiping several tears from your cheeks. You pushed her hand away unpleasantly and growled, wanting to get out everything you had inside you for a long time.

“Why, Donna?” You said with a pitiful cry, making her retreat.

“Why what? What's going on, tesoro?” She asked scared, controlling her breathing so as not to get nervous, even more so.

“Don't call me that...” You hissed, clenching your teeth tightly. “Do not call me that way!” You screeched, pushing her shoulders.

“But, but, it's an affectionate nickname... No, it's not bad at all. It means honey, sweetheart... Or...” Donna said, completely scared, with her eye open in surprise and fear.

“I know what it means!” You screamed again, letting more tears travel down your face. “How long are you going to continue like this?”

“Like this? I don't understand you… (Y/N),” she muttered confusedly, blinking erratically. Great, useless girl, you're going to cause her a terrible crisis.

“Stop pretending you love me, Donna. I'm fed up,” you said furiously, avoiding her gaze, avoiding listening to the intense beating of your heart.

“What are you talking about? Pretend?” She asked again, trying to grab your hand, a gesture that you rejected again.

“Yes, yes...” You responded, now, looking at her, with your vision blurred due to the crying. “You're pretending. You're just pretending so I don't run away, right? So you can get what you want from me.”

“I don't understand you, really... I don't, I don't know what...”

“You really know!” You responded to her babbling. “I'm nothing but a useless idiot. I'm no good for anything. You can't have any other intentions, Donna. You want something from me.”

“You're talking nonsense, (Y/N), come on, you have to calm down,” she said, smiling nervously, not knowing how to act in such a horrible situation.

“I don't want to calm down!”

Donna, looked at you in horror, completely lost, about to burst into a nervous breakdown that you caused.

“I love you, you know?” You said in a calmer tone, almost like a whisper. “I love you with all my soul. And I know, I know that you don't feel the same.”

“I don't I feel the same? But, but why do you think so?” Donna said, still bewildered, lost in your tears and overcome by your own emotions.

“Because no one can love me,” you said in a dark voice, clenching your fists tightly, wanting to scream, break things, wanting Donna to be honest with you. “I know that I’m a failure, useless. I don't deserve anyone to love me, no one can love me.”

The lady in black just shook her head, stunned by your somber response.

“This is all because of your father, right?” Donna said, calmer, with a soft tone, with that tone that you adored. You shook your head, this time, letting her hand grab yours.

“He was right,” you said quietly, letting the touch of her hand on your skin calm your demons.

“No, he’s not,” she said, approaching cautiously. “Your father is an idiot, (Y/N)...”

“Me too,” you whispered, looking away from her again.

“No, no, darling...” She murmured, bringing a hand to your face, forcing you to look at her beauty, an irresistible beauty for you. “Hey, come on… What nonsense is you don't deserve to be loved?”

You didn't know how to respond, you simply shrugged, resigned.

“Listen, I... I understand your thoughts,” she told you, coming a little closer, grabbing your hands tightly in hers. “I know what it's like to feel useless, a failure... But, I also know that I look at you and my whole body shakes, that I couldn't live without your smile. I'm in love with you, (Y/N). You're a wonderful girl.”

“Why? Come on, tell me why you think I'm wonderful,” you said, annoyed by those, in your opinion, empty words.

“Just look at you, mm? You're beautiful...” Donna said with a tender smile, lifting your chin slightly. “You are a nice person, funny, happy… You are not useless.”

“I'm not funny, nor happy,” you responded, ignoring her words. Donna sighed, finding frustration in your depressed attitude. But she wasn't going to give up.

“Of course you are,” she said, insisting, insisting so much that little by little, you began to believe her words. “You are when you are with me.”

“Because I love you, I've already told you,” you said, avoiding smiling when remembering those pleasant talks with the sound of the waterfall in the background, or those anecdotes about your boring life in the village.

“Love makes you happy then,” she said, amused but with her eye shining, revealing that some tears were about to come out. “That's very nice, you know?”

“But you don't... You can't feel the same. I'm just a stupid villager, you are a Lord. You deserve someone to give you everything you need. You don't need a self-indulgent stupid (Y/N) who apologizes all the time.”

“No, my love... No one can give me what you give me,” she whispered, very close to your lips, kissing them carefully, afraid that you would reject them. You didn't, at least at that very moment.

“So what do I give you?” You asked, closing your eyes, enjoying the contact, her soft skin against yours. A feeling that you had never valued as much as in that moment.

“You make me to live, (Y/N), want to love...” Donna whispered, kissing you romantically once again.

“I’m giving you that?” You asked, sobbing again, but this time, from happiness. No one had ever said anything like that about you, ever, not even your family. You had never thought that you could be so important to someone.

“You give me the love that I’m missing in my lonely life. You are everything to me, (Y/N). I don't expect you to believe me... But I love you, I really love you.”

“Do you really love me?” You asked again, clinging to the black fabric of her dress.

“I would give everything for you...”

After those words, you were the one who threw yourself into her arms, kissing her with passion, with joy dispelling your doubts, with love ending your insecurities. No, you weren't useless, she needed you, she needed your love. She needed you to be with her. You would never be useless again.

You were her love, she was yours. You deserved to be loved. You deserved all the happiness that Donna gave you. You weren't a stupid villager, you were her stupid villager, and you always would be.

[smolsleepyfox]

hello! I've been listening to Wake Up the Wicked on loop pretty much constantly for the past couple days and keep finding new things to love about it! in particular I have many Thoughts about the way Powerwolf's songs with women as the focus have shifted over the years. unfortunately when I try to articulate those thoughts they mostly just come out as "AAAAAAAA Vargamor and Kyrie Klitorem and Joan of Arc just FEEL like such an important thing! I've been a fan for so long but something about these songs makes me (as a fem-adjacent person) feel like I can actually be part of the group!" in one of your posts about your thesis, you note how there's never been a Powerwolf song with a woman werewolf — I'd never noticed that until now, tho Vargamor and Dancing with the Dead feel close. examining that distinction is fascinating!

considering you've got a whole thesis on it and so will likely be able to go deeper than me, I'd love to hear any thoughts you have on how gender is handled in this album as compared to others, and in general, who "gets" to be a monster!

Okay this is a great question and also funnily enough something I've spoken about with another friend recently.

So the thing about monstrosity is that it is very heavily gendered. This doesn't start but is reflected in the Middle Ages where monstrosity is physical (since the distincion body/mind didn't really exist) BUT directly related to gender roles. The example most scholars go with are the Amazons, the mythical warrior women. They are monstrous because they only have one breast AND because they take on both gender roles, making clothing (female) and hunting (male). If you behaved weird people would assume you had a physical abnormality and a physical abnormality could be a sign of somethig wrong (e.g. witch marks). Note that "monstrous" isn't technically synonymous with "bad/evil". From what I gather, bestiaries and collections of monsters from far away lands were a curiosity with no inherent moral dimension, although it obviously held implications for the treatment of queer and disabled people, foreigners etc. Dana Oswald splits monstrosity into hypermasculine, hypersexual (feminine) and hybrid. Hypermasculine is exactly what you think it is, werewolves, giants, anything that is large and hairy and ravenous. The theme here is Taking. Wealth, sex, someone's life. Interestingly, exaggerated sexuality in the middle ages was culturally feminine, so centaurs are monstrously feminine due to their exagerrated sexuality. Another example are sirens. Hypersexual/feminine monsters seduce instead of take by brute force.

About werewolves specifically, let me open with Willem de Blecourt's opening line in a book about werewolf history: There is no werewolf history. What we today see as a werewolf (and Powerwolf uses as a mascot) is a modern cultural concept that is only an approximate to other times and cultures. Let's take the Varcolac, a creature from Slavic mythology (spelled differently in different languages). The Varcolac is often translated as werewolf, but if you look at the mythology it is - simplified - a reanimated corpse that drinks blood. Usually it's a person who was evil/frivolous/was excommunicated in life that rises again. So for all intents and purposes it's a vampire. Powerwolf does have some werewolf/vampire hybrids in their music and on tshirts, but since werewolves and vampires are both hypermasculine monsters that's only a side note.

To talk about as actual a werewolf as possible, you know 1589, you know the story of Peter Stubbe. Peter Stubbe was a highly publicized case that influenced later ones. Elements of his case reappear in trials in the low countries, Germany and England, but not in France because the pamphlets telling his story were not translated into French afawk. Some details also bear striking resemblances to earlier French cases, so it's very difficult to know what actually happened. Peter Stubbe single-handedly (heh) cemented the image of the cannibal werewolf for the early modern public BUT he's an outlier. Werewolf Georg if you will. Cannibalism is definitely a defining trait of many werewolves but almost everything else is different from our modern understanding. The persecution of werewolves in central Europe was almost completely tied to witchcraft allegations. Without getting into historical witchcraft as a whole, there was a concept of male and female witchcraft in line with the gender roles of agrarian society. A werewolf was related to violence against people and livestock as well as sexual threats. Just like witches, werewolves were assumed to transform with an ointment or belt given to them by the devil. The transformation is not physical, just like witches can't actually fly but fall into a trance (induced by the devil). [Note that the idea of physical transformation has been a MASSIVE point of debate for church scholars for as long as said church existed. Go take a look if you're curious.] More modern werewolf lore (1960s) from the B/NL/DE border region shows werewolves to be a shorthand for unacceptable liaisons and sexual assault, possibly homosexuality and bestiality, but usually just people dressed in a wolf pelt taking the piss. The modern idea of the werewolf, specifically the bipedal form and painful transformation is a Hollywood product. We can quite easily pin the origin on one specific film: The Wolf Man from 1941. The transformation and visual presentation was driven by the improved special effects of the film industry and their desire to give people a spectacle. This is also a central trait of monstrosity: It is physical because people want to see it.

SO! If we're being pedantic, no, werewolves are not inherently male. A handful of women were prosecuted as werewolves, though they were the minority within the already minor number of werewolf trials. But it is a fact that the majority of werewolves are male throughout history and werewolf characteristics are - as Dana Oswald puts it - hypermasculine, meaning they exaggerate and therefore threaten the dominant concept of masculinity in a given societal context. That's the baseline of monstrosity- it breaks boundaries and threatens the system it inhabits while reinforcing a rule for the listener.

It's notable that female werewolves in modern film are almost never seen transforming, including in staple films like Underworld. You have those beefy werewolf guys and the women just. Stand there. An outlier that gets quoted in almost every paper I've ever read is Ginger Snaps, which directly deals with the way Ginger's lycanthropy makes her monstrous both in breaking the boundaries of human/animal but also what is acceptable behavior for a girl. I don't have the sources to back this up yet but I see a strong parallel in this to women in Metal in general. Think about it, Metal music is counterculture and is almost defined by depicting monstrosity (satanism, violence, etc) and breaking the boundaries of what is music. Women in Metal are "monstrous" by associating with the transgressive scene the same as men - except they get held to a completely different standard. Metal is so male-dominated the ideal (visual, behavioral) gender presentation cannot include femininity or at least makes two clearly gendered molds. Women in metal, then, have to balance being "Metal" and being sufficiently feminine to be accepted. The male ideal I like to call the 'Metal warrior', because he's so often inspired by historical warrior culture but primarily defines himself by being large, strong, possibly aggressive and definitely drinking a lot. Everything that is masculine but juuuuust over the line of polite society. Which is what Powerwolf sings about as well, they just made it a furry.

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ANYWAY sorry for the long-ass background info, I got carried away lol. Note that for the next section, I am doing this off the top of my head since I haven't gotten to that part of the analysis yet. The deadline is approaching, send help.

I like to call Powerwolf my problematic faves because as camp as their performances are and as self-ironic as they try to make themselves out to be, their lyrics and videos are profoundly cishet. This isn't a criticism, just an observation. As far as we know they are cishet men from a rural part of Germany (and one Dutchman). I know we make jokes about the homoeroticism between Falk and Attila but I would not be surprised if they had no idea that's what they're doing. Most cishet people do not think about queerness unless they have a reason, and in a lot of social circles there simply is none. They just don't even consider it. There's something to be said about homosocial bonds in metal music but that's a topic so large I'll skip it for now. The only queer aspect I've seen in the entire history of Powerwolf is that lesbian kiss in the music video of No Prayer at Midnight and that was so blatantly male gaze-y I'm not sure if it even counts. So, fair warning, I'm going to say men and women as in cis men and women because I'm on mobile and typing is annoying as is.

First off, to answer your question: Yes, women have absolutely become a bigger part of Powerwolf's repertoire. Joan of Arc is a historical story that they implemented beautifully, and so is Vargamor. While I personally don't like Kyrie Klitorem it's definitely interesting to analyze in a wider context. What does stick out is that the majority of women in Powerwolf's music are sexualized in some way along with sexuality becoming a larger part of their theme in general. As far as I can see, sexuality was actually not a major part of the Powerwolf brand until Sacrament of Sin. Coleus Sanctus and Resurrection by Erection are from albums before that, but they're single songs on albums otherwise concerned with werewolves, vampires and that warrior image I mentioned before. Their earlier videos have almost never any side characters and it's mostly about spooky priest things and/or werewolves (kind of mixed with vampirism, which is a parallel to the Varcolac).

In general I would say there are two 'roles' that characters in the PW universe take and it was kind of hard to find the right wording, because depending on your reading they have VERY different connotations. I'm just going to call it the 'active' and the 'passive' right now until I've explained what I mean.

Women are sexualized in the music and the videos/artworks. That's just a fact, and hasn't changed much from the beginning until now. It's not even out of character for Power Metal as an heir to classic Heavy Metal and Glam Rock. Powerwolf sing about sex, specifically hetero sex, and mostly from the perspective of cishet men. Matt even said in an interview many years ago that he's unsure if he could write about pussy because he doesn't have one. Yes, really.

The language of the music is clerical, and commonly from the viewpoint of a religious person/priest of course, which reinforces the themes of wildness/hedonism by contrasting them with what is 'proper'. Circling back to my explanations of monstrosity - improper behavior and improper physical appearance are linked, so to break the laws of faith is to become monstrous, possibly physically. The band constantly portrays this overstepping of boundaries in a religious context. Call of the Wild quite literally says "To praise the wild while the bible we're tearing". Corpse paint I would argue I'd a visual marker of monstrosity as well, especially since the band are usually the only ones in that type of makeup.

Just visually, women are a big part in Powerwolf's art and video as side characters, especially burlesque dancers, and they're typically a shorthand for desire and sexuality. Open sexuality is a massive taboo in the Catholic Church, especially in the pseudo-medieval world their music inhabits. And a woman being active in her sexuality, even choosing what, who and how to desire is far over the line even in many modern societies. (Ginger Snaps tackled this as well.) So let's take a look:

There's Demons are a girl's best friend, which is on the surface a warning against being "corrupted" by demons (sexuality) but can also be interpreted - as the title suggests - that the female protagonist is quite aware of what she's doing and likes it. Kiss of the Cobra King shows the female protagonist in white, standing in for purity, before being corrupted and possibly killed for her transgression. Still unsure about that video tbh. Dancing with the Dead is less sexual and leans more heavily into the corruption (by witchcraft?) angle. I feel like there is a disconnect between text and video in this one because in the video, the female protagonist doesn't look at all willing to dance and Attila forces her to, whereas in the text the protagonist seems quite aware and in control of what she's doing. Undress to Confess is pretty fucking clear that the woman is having fun and the artwork shows a nun, while naked, in a dynamic, powerful pose. This is what I'd call the active role. There's also the flip side of that active role that isn't passiveness but control:

Kyrie Klitorem is about how women have power over men by virtue of their sexuality. Powerwolf often uses 'we' in their lyrics and while that's technically a non-gendered pronoun, the songs suggest the narrator is a (cishet) man. Venom of Venus is also similar in topic and structure, and the vampire queen from the Killers with the Cross video is also clearly in control while being sexy (as are the hunters).

So in the 'active' role, women can be corrupted, seductive as well as empowered, it really depends on your reading. Same goes for the videos by the way - the dancers can be shown in an objectifying way, but thinking of the dancer in My Will be Done she is on equal standing with the other characters asking Attila for something. (Also, burlesque dance is an awesome art form.) Angel and Devil in that same music video are portrayed by women. However, the reduction of a woman to her body is obviously part of a long history of sexualization.

Which brings me to the passive role and the use of the nun image. Nuns have been sexualized for absolute ages. There's drawings and gossip from the Middle Ages about nuns and priests doing stuff they shouldn't. Good for them etc pp.* Powerwolf is really not reinventing the wheel by contrasting the nun's modesty/virtuousness with unrestrained sexuality. I mean look at this.

The role of women in the Catholic Church is an entire can of worms by itself. In Powerwolf's art, the love of Jesus/God is just placed on a different figure. I actually hesitate to interpret what the intention is, if it's critical of the church or a power fantasy. They absolutely criticize religion in their songs (Glaubenskraft, Sinners of the Seven Seas) but their visuals are also heavily inspired by historical art and can just be meant to look cool. That's something the band stresses in almost every interview when they are asked about deeper meanings: It has to be entertainment first. Their cover artist Zsofia Dankova told me the same: Looking cool has priority.

So nuns are in general portrayed as subservient, as they are in history and art, and sexualized. The focus on the band in performances - which in itself isn't really that surprising - and Attila's and Falk's role as 'clergy' does put them into a position of power. Here's where it gets interesting, because the bottom line of Powerwolf has been and is Have fun. In Wake up the Wicked it's a major plot point that one of them actively invites the young priest (altar boy? Idk I grew up Protestant). The artworks draw on art conventions from pulp fiction and classical works, but if you look at the lyrics involving women** it's either about submitting yourself (to pleasure) or actively seeking it out.

This has gotten way too fucking long but here's a minor detour before we get to the end. What else does PW sing about? Yes, werewolves, and history, but regardless of the underlying inspiration (Blood for Blood is about an Irish legend, I wouldn't have guessed that just from the lyrics) they sing about either bravery and power, or excess and hedonism, sometimes both. I've already mentioned the warrior ideal in my introduction, and that does a LOT of heavy lifting. Many of the artworks and merch have some sort of military theme, especially the crusades because that's fitting for the medieval-ish vibe the band has. The 'holy' knights as werewolves is both commentary on the actual crusades in a way, but also puts the listener into the body of a powerful beast heading into battle, which is just plain fun. Plenty of music is about riding into battle, Viking Metal exists. I spoke to Zsofia Dankova, Powerwolf's resident visual artist, and asked her what she thinks about the werewolf being implicitly male. She said she doesn't really see the werewolf she draws as gendered because it's just a symbol, something that stands in for power. I was a bit dubious about that answer at first, but it actually shows my own cultural bias, because that is the connotation of the werewolf at work, not the artwork itself. You can absolutely argue that the positions and clothes the werewolf is in (see image above) are men's, but for the most part, the wolves in their art are clothed in simple robes or armour that anyone could wear. It is just convention that makes it seem male. Growling (the vocal technique) is also male-coded even though men and women who growl sound identical.

I'm not going into more detail about the depiction of masculinity because y'all can read my thesis for that. Instead, I want to return to my introduction about what is considered monstrous: The breaking and exaggeration of social norms. Sexuality is what makes the women in Powerwolf monstrous - alongside a proclivity for witchcraft. Vargamor shows her to be a mother as the name implies, but more importantly a wise leader and powerful magic user. It's implied that she can fight, but the chorus is more insistent that she dwells in the shadows and is a steady presence for many different iterations of the pack through the years.

The men on the other hand are shown to be monstrous by being violent, hedonistic beasts. The songs again and again reiterate wildness and unrestrained summer fun battle prowess. Technically you could argue that 'we' doesn't have to mean men, but that would ignore centuries of cultural connotations and that it needs a pretty good in-text reason to assume an all-male metal band is writing their songs in a female lyrical I (we?).

Powerwolf quite simply portrays monstrosity as it has been since the Middle Ages, along gendered lines. This makes sense because they draw on given cultural conventions, history and folklore, they're just on the side of the monster. There's definitely something to be said about the sexualization of women in Metal and the male gaze, but the wolves have also very clearly heard the call for more female representation.

If anyone is still reading, congratulations I nearly drove myself insane here.

* As with most things in life, this isn't black and white. Nuns had some social advantages and there were most likely plenty of consensual relationships, but as women in a patriarchal society they were still under the authority of men who could harm them. ** I excluded Glaubenskraft because that song breaks with the Powerwolf universe by adressing a current, real-life injustice. Completely different topic.

[supernova-stardust]

A Tender Thing

an ongoing jegulus long fix if fic set during the first wizarding war, non canon compliant, with prominent wolfstar. also featuring background rosekiller, pandalily, dorlene, and emmary. updates 2-4x monthly. 18+!! explicit content.

chapters 1-10 on ao3 total word count: 44,954

chapter 2 after the break, word count: 4,435

Dorcas makes her way back through the garden, avoiding the couples making out amongst the shrubbery. She’d really rather not have to explain to Walburga that she caught Rabastan making out with Crabbe, so avoiding the interaction altogether is ideal, to say the least.

She enters the parlor, scanning the room as subtly as possible. Hopefully no one even noticed that she slipped away as soon as she noticed Sirius. Honestly, what were they even thinking coming here? Grimmauld Place is probably one of the most dangerous places for Sirius to be, let alone during a party where every witch and wizard who has pledged themselves to the Dark Lord has gathered for the evening. Noticing that Evan and Barty are still near the furthest wall, she makes her way through the crowd to them.

“Hey,” Evan beams at her. “Isn’t this party just the best? I mean, the groom-to-be is simply eating up all this attention.” He gives her a pointed look, clearly expecting her to know where Regulus has disappeared to. They all know that Regulus would rather drown than be the center of attention at a party like this, but usually he’d at least uphold his polite duties and greet their guests. Dorcas glances around and notices that Narcissa is beaming, Walburga at her side.

“I have no idea where he went, but I’m sure he’ll show up soon. We did drink a little before this, he probably just needed a moment to regroup. You know how he gets.”

“This is all such bullshit anyway,” Barty laments. “It’s no wonder he snuck away the moment he could. I’m looking for the next opportunity myself. This shit is so fucking boring.”

“Listen,” Evan sounds exhausted as he soothes Barty, rubbing his hand up his arm and clasping his bicep. “You’re the one who wanted to join the Death Eaters, you brought this upon yourself.” Evan’s voice drops down to a whisper, “I tried to convince you not to take the Mark.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t think it would include shit like this. I thought it would be more fighting for our lives, action adventure vibes, not hoity-toity parties and playing dress up.” Barty clearly looks put off. To anyone outside of their friend group, they’d be appalled by Barty’s attitude, but they both know that this is just a cover for his real feelings. He’s been regretting signing his life away for a while now, even if he did it because he loves Evan dearly. The only person who ever understood Barty fully was Evan; where he goes, Barty goes. To the ends of the earth or with a mark on his arm.

“Look,” Dorcas snaps in their faces to regain their attention. “I don’t know where Regulus went, but if anyone comes looking for him we need to distract them. Put on your best smiles, be polite, and avoid any firm answers. I’m going to go look for him, if any of us can find him it’ll be me.”

She waits for them both to nod and acknowledge the plan, watching as they head into the crowd. She has to find Regulus before Walburga notices he’s gone.

***

“What the fuck are you doing?” Regulus spits at him, dilated eyes frantically scanning his face. James glances down at their joined hands and feels his cheeks heat. He can’t believe he grabbed Regulus’ hand and he’s not dead yet. Suddenly he has some semblance of self preservation and drops Regulus’ hand, looking around the space they’ve claimed as their own.

“I honestly have no idea,” James says. Reaching up, he removes the mask covering his face as he turns around to really look at Regulus. It’s like he’s never really looked at him before. To be fair, it has been nearly ten years since they’ve been near one another, but Godric. Regulus has grown to be one of the most beautiful people he’s ever laid eyes on. All sharp edges and elegance. James would do anything to get close to him, even if it means he bleeds.

James always knew that gender didn’t particularly matter for him in terms of attraction, he simply appreciates beauty and all things beautiful. The world that he was raised in hates people for being queer, but really, when the world he knew has become loyal to a dark wizard hellbent on killing anyone who isn’t a pureblood, are those the standards we should be going by? James thinks not. But he’s never really felt anything towards a man before this very moment. He’s never really felt much for anyone, if he’s honest. Sure, there was Lily back when they were teens, but that ship has sailed. He tried to kiss her once and she looked at him and laughed, clasped her palm on his cheek, and told him that he was cute but she only liked girls.

That’s not to say he hasn’t had his handful of trysts. Whenever they go out for drinks in muggle London, James always ends up hooking up with someone, never remembering their name or really anything other than the fact that they were pretty.

Regulus isn’t just pretty though, he’s devastatingly beautiful. This feels different from simple attraction; that he knows he could handle. Sirius is going to kill him for this, but the more he thinks about it the less he cares. Maybe James could convince Regulus to come back with him, maybe then Sirius wouldn’t be so mad at him.

“I know I shouldn’t have come here in the first place, but Sirius–” James starts.

“You should have told Sirius he doesn’t belong here, James!” Regulus hisses, pacing around the space and gradually looking more like a caged animal.

“Why doesn’t he? You’re his brother, Regulus! I know he won’t admit it, but he misses you,” James says. Sirius never talks about his brother, it became a banned conversation after that first night he moved in with the Potters, but James knows Sirius as well as the palm of his own hand. Sirius would do anything to have Regulus back in his life.

“He’s not mine anymore, James,” Regulus bites back. “He decided not to be my brother, not the other way around. This conversation is over, you need to leave.” Stopping his pacing in front of James, he lifts both arms to shove at his chest. James clasps his hands over his wrists, pulling Regulus close and making him stumble into his body. Their chests collide and James hears a sharp intake of breath. They’ve never been this close before and James thinks that they should never be further apart again.

“James,” Regulus whispers so softly he can barely hear it. “What are you doing?” He’s not pulling away or fighting this, he’s not telling him no.

“I’m going to kiss you,” James whispers just as sweetly, waiting for him to say no. Regulus looks up at him with wide eyes, a soft blush dusting his cheeks, his lips slightly parted. He doesn’t say no.

James dips his face down, catching Regulus’ lips in his. The first kiss is soft, tender and timid. He stays as still as he can, nervous to scare Regulus away, keeping his hands to himself. Then Regulus opens his mouth for him and at the first sweep of his tongue, James is ravenous. They kiss like they’ve been starved for each other their entire lives. He thinks that this is what he was made for, kissing and holding Regulus Black is his life’s calling.

James releases his wrists and buries a hand into Regulus’ dark curls, wrapping his other arm around his back and pulling him as close as possible. Their kisses grow more and more hungry and needy, Regulus’ hands wrap around him and grab at his clothes, roving over his body. James never wants this to end.

And then it does, just as suddenly as it began. Regulus is pushing away at him and brushing his hands through those beautiful curls that James just had his fingers in, erasing any evidence that he was there. His lips are rosy from their kisses and they’re both breathing heavily. “You need to leave.”

Oh.

Oh.

Regulus was never going to allow this to happen, was he?

“Just tell me why,” James’ voice cracks in despair. He can feel his eyes brimming with tears, but he refuses to cry right now. Not until he knows for sure that Regulus never wants to see him again.

“Why what?” Regulus sounds so small and James can see that he’s mentally shutting himself down, refusing to allow himself to feel anything. It’s that fact alone that gives him hope. He knows that Regulus felt just as much as he did in those kisses, even if he won’t admit it right now.

“Why did you let me kiss you,” he pushes.

“Because I had always wanted to know what it felt like,” Regulus murmurs as he begins slowly backing away.

James stops himself from following. “What do you mean,” he asks gently, not wanting to scare him off until he gets his answer.

“I always wanted to know what it felt like to be kissed by the sun.”

He slips away through the branches of the willow tree into the night leaving James to contemplate how he really might have just fallen in love with Regulus Black.

***

Regulus is walking as fast as he can through the gardens, refusing to allow himself to look back at that willow tree where his entire life changed. He can’t believe he actually kissed James Potter.

Fuck.

This changes everything and nothing.

He can’t allow himself to think about the implications of James kissing him, if he does he’ll fall apart at this damn party. Just a couple more hours, then he can dissolve into a puddle of tears in the privacy of his bedroom. He nestles himself on the ground between some shrubs and does his breathing exercises, counting in and out for five. For a moment it works and then he’s thinking about Sirius and James and how much danger they’ll all be in if this goes to shit.

No, Regulus has to keep himself composed so that no one suspects a single thing. He’s already screwed up enough for one lifetime, there’s no room for any more mistakes.

It’s hard to know where his first mistake happened, all he knows is that it was a series of terrible events happening one after the other while he was powerless to stop any of it. Sirius left and he didn’t follow, couldn’t because of the spell Walburga had on him. But even if his body wasn’t spelled to kill his own brother, would he have left with him? He honestly can’t answer that question and that scares him the most. Nothing good happened after that night. He took the Dark Mark, binding his life to the Dark Lord’s, and vowed to himself that he would do everything he could to defeat him. By being close to him and all of his servants, he believed that would be enough to learn his secrets and destroy him. Naivety, at best.

Voldemort doesn’t share anything with anyone. Lies and half truths and orders with no context is the most information Regulus has ascertained in all these years. Besides the Horcrux.

The fucking Horcrux.

If the Horcrux didn’t exist then Regulus can guarantee he wouldn’t still be stuck here right now, miserable, marrying his cousin, and wishing that he could be marrying James Potter instead. Wait, he might be crazy. Slow down, all he did was kiss you, that doesn’t mean he wants to fucking marry you.

But they can’t get married because the Horcrux exists and Regulus can’t figure out how to destroy it undetected. Regulus can’t figure out if there’s more of them either, and if Voldemort can sense that one of them has been destroyed, figuring out if there are any more is going to be even more difficult than it has been the last few years. He has a gut feeling that if there’s one, there’s others. One doesn’t become that disfigured and revolting without fracturing your soul into many pieces.

Regulus is fucked.

At least when James existed as a concept in his diaries instead of as someone who seems to actually want him back it was a lot easier for Regulus to pretend that he didn’t exist and he could continue wasting his life away, waiting for the day he would finally figure out how to defeat Voldemort. Now he has to return to this farce of a party and pretend to be overjoyed about marrying his cousin.

He can’t stand the idea of leaving James alone under that willow tree either, but he knows that if he hadn’t been the stronger person and left, they would have been caught. At least now James has a moment to compose himself and sneak out undetected.

Regulus breathes, counting in and out for five a few more times in an effort to build up his emotional walls before he can carry on the charade.

“There you are!”

Regulus nearly jumps from his skin at the sound of Dorcas’ voice, not expecting anyone to find him crouched between some shrubs practically hyperventilating. So much for breathing exercises, he supposes.

“Here I am,” he sighs. He knows he looks a mess and he’ll trust Dorcas to tell him so. She does, crouching down to his level and fussing with his hair, running her cool fingers over his cheeks to try and calm the flush there.

“You’ll tell me what happened,” she starts. He barely opens his mouth to object before she continues. “After you make your appearances. It’s been too long, people are getting suspicious. Narcissa has been a dream, as I’m sure you’ve been relying on.” Dorcas stands on her feet and stretches her hand out for him to grab as he rises. She helps him brush the dirt and dead leaves off his robes and they head back into the parlor together.

The rest of the party is a blur of polite niceties that Regulus truly doesn’t care to remember. After a few more hours, he says his goodbyes and retreats to his bedroom, giving Dorcas a glance as he goes that she only understands from years of breaking rules together.

***

Dorcas swipes a bottle of whiskey from the bar as she makes her way up to Regulus’ room. When she went looking for him earlier, she didn’t expect to find him quite so sad. She knows something happened beyond the marriage finally setting in and so they’ll need alcohol.

Weaving down the hallways that she’s always found quite creepy, she arrives at his door, lightly knocks with one knuckle, and lets herself in. Regulus is pacing. Honestly, she’s surprised there isn’t a path in the hardwood floor from how often he’s paced in the last few years, but he seems even more stressed than usual in the speed he’s pacing.

“What happ–”

“He kissed me,” Regulus interrupts before she can finish her question. Well, that’s not the answer she was expecting. “Who?”

“James fucking Potter, Dorcas. Him and Sirius and their stupid friends came here tonight,” he pauses, looking at her with fear and agony and something she can’t quite place. Dorcas knows right now that she has to let him work through his emotions before he’ll continue, so she waits patiently as he collects himself. He looks so small as he worries at his lip and breathes for a few moments before continuing.

And he tells her all about how James was alone by the time he went outside to tell them all to leave. How James grabbed his hand and kissed him under the willow tree. And how Regulus pushed him away, telling him to leave. “I’ve had a crush on him since I first met him, Dorcas.”

This breaks Dorcas from her self imposed ‘listen but do not react’ rule. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? I told you all about every cringey crush I had growing up! You even knew about Mulciber, Reg.”

“Is this really what you want to focus on right now? Mulciber?”

“Oh fuck off, you know that’s not what it’s about,” Dorcas groans. “I just didn’t think we still kept things from each other, y’know? I don’t keep anything from you.”

“Dorcas, there’s so many things that I can’t tell you,” he murmurs, avoiding her eyes. She unscrews the cap to the bottle of whiskey and takes a long drink. When she’s done she holds the bottle out to him as an offering.

“You can tell me, you know. I’m not as fragile as you pretend I am,” she gives him a knowing smirk. Regulus has always protected her and she knows it, even if he’ll never admit it. That’s just his way, suffer in silence and protect the people he loves at all costs, even at a detriment to himself.

“Dorcas,” Regulus takes a deep breath and a long sip. He casts a silencing charm around them before he says his next words. “What do you know about Horcruxes?”

“Reg, don’t tell me you’re considering making one. I know that–”

“Not me, fuck, never me. The Black’s practice dark magic, but I’d never dream of that.”

“Okay, so who?” Regulus just stares at her. He takes another drink, much longer than the one before, passes the bottle back to her and crosses his room. He crouches on the floor and she can hear him fussing with a loose floorboard. When he rises again, he’s carrying a necklace in his hands, the pendant shining softly in the dim light of his room.

As he approaches, she can feel the dark magic radiating off the necklace and sips more whiskey to give her some courage. “Reg, please tell me that’s not a very dark and very powerful wizard who has our lives in the palm of his hands’ Horcrux that you’re holding right now and hiding under a floorboard.”

“Okay, I won’t,” Regulus says dryly. “Or, you could tell me what you do know about Horcruxes and I can tell you what I know and you can help me.”

Dorcas honestly doesn’t know if Regulus has ever willingly allowed her to play a part in his plans and maybe this is just because they’ve finally reached an age where their brains have finally fully developed, but she’s relieved by the change in his attitude. She knows this is a precious and gentle gift that he’s given her and she refuses to squander it.

“Not much, just the whole division of the soul bit.”

“Do you know how to destroy them,” he asks with trepidation.

“No, they didn’t exactly cover dark magic in Hogwarts.”

“Neither do I,” he says as he slowly lets the necklace drop from one hand to another, the chain making a soft metallic noise. “I’ve had this since seventh year.”

“I’m sorry– What?”

“Dorcas, I’ve been so afraid,” he whispers. “I just wanted to keep everyone safe, and I have, but everyone is going to die if we don’t figure this out and I don’t think I can do it alone anymore.” He crosses the room to put the locket away and sits on the edge of his bed, holding his hand out in a silent request for more alcohol. She sits next to him as she hands him the bottle. They remain this way for a few more minutes, silently passing the bottle back and forth.

“Okay, so he hasn’t figured out that the Horcrux has been missing this entire time? Where did you even find this?”

“That’s the thing, you remember how I was as a teenager,” he laughs. “I had to make sure that if he found out it was gone, that he knew it was me. I wanted the credit, you know. I just didn’t have the foresight to imagine not being able to destroy it.”

“Reg,” she breathes. “What did you do?”

“I left a note inside a replica, even signed off R.A.B. for good measure.”

“What the fuck?”

“I know,” he sighs as he flops backwards onto the bed. His hair fans out around him and he looks absolutely exhausted. Now she understands, if this is what’s been looming over him all these years.

“Okay, so we figure out how to destroy the Horcruxes. No big deal,” she says as she flops back to join him in staring at the ceiling. “I’ll scour the Meadowes family library tomorrow, there’s got to be something in there that you just haven’t had access to.”

“You can’t tell anyone.” He turns his head to look at her. “Not even Evan or Barty. I shouldn’t have told you, this puts you in so much danger. If Voldemort even suspects that you know anything, he’ll rip his way right into your mind and steal every thought you’ve ever had about him. You’ll have to practice your Occlumency and in the meantime, pass any books that you think may have information directly to me without reading them. I can filter the information myself.”

“We’ll get through this Reg.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Dorcas stays late into the night, the two of them deciding to switch to lighter topics such as how beautiful James looked tonight, rather than focusing on things they can’t change right now. She heads home long after Grimmauld Place has emptied of other guests. She doesn’t ever feel up to telling Regulus that she spoke to his brother today. She promises to herself that she will another day, but she has a feeling that knowing how close he came to interacting with Sirius might hurt him too deeply to cope tonight. When Dorcas’ head finally hits her pillow, she finds her mind wandering to a beautiful woman with golden hair and wild eyes.

***

Remus guides Sirius through the door to their flat, wrapping his arm around his waist. Sirius hasn’t said a word the entire time they walked home. Walked, because Sirius clearly needed the time to process what had happened and they both needed the fresh cold air to sober themselves up. Between the two of them, they smoked a whole pack of cigarettes, and Remus is honestly wishing he had stopped by the shop to grab more before they made their way here.

They make their way inside and finally, Sirius breaks the silence with a gut wrenching sob. Remus folds Sirius into his body, wrapping his arms around him and rubbing his back. His shirt soaks up Sirius’ tears and he hums a soothing melody. They remain like this for a minute or an eternity, Remus isn’t sure, until Sirius finally looks up. Remus wipes away the tears staining his face with his thumbs and gently brushes his hair from his face.

“Love,” Remus says, breaking the silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sirius shakes his head, closing his eyes. “No. Yes? Oh, I don’t know.”

“It’s okay not to know how you feel.”

“I just don’t know why he wouldn’t come with me that day. I thought I had gotten past that, but being there, in that place, seeing him? It put me right back to the day I left, Moony. All I could think about was his face when I asked him to leave and he said no. He looked horrified, I’m pretty sure he was scared, but I don’t know why he’d choose them and not me. We always chose each other, why couldn’t he have picked me when it really mattered?”

“I don’t know, Pads. It’s not fair for either of you. I can’t imagine the hurt you’ve been carrying all these years.”

Sirius’ body wracks with sobs again, curling back into Remus. They stay this way for a long time before Remus finally guides him to their bedroom. Remus sits Sirius down on the edge of the bed and helps him strip down to his boxers, throwing the discarded clothes on the floor to be dealt with later. Sirius continues to cry softly as Remus gently tucks him into bed and then chucks his own clothes off onto the floor in the same manner. He pulls the blankets back to wrap his body around Sirius’ and settles into bed.

“Moony?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Pads. I’ll always choose you.”

***

James’ mind's going a mile a minute by the time he makes his way back into his bedroom at Potter Manor. He kissed Regulus Black. Like, for real. He didn’t just hallucinate it. And Godric, it was the best kiss of his life. He jumps onto his bed, bouncing on his back and kicks his feet in the air for a few moments. He’s so giddy, he feels like he could fly.

He doesn’t know what to do next though. Regulus pushed him away, which should discourage him. I mean, Regulus is literally a part of one of the most loyal families to Voldemort, that alone should be enough to tell him this is all a terrible, awful idea. But what if he could convince him to leave? Sirius couldn’t when they were teens, but has enough time passed that Regulus could be open to reconsidering his position in the war? Can he even reconsider his position now that he’s taken the Dark Mark? James isn’t sure, but he’s willing to try anything to convince Regulus to leave.

Then he has a pathetic thought. What if Regulus just wanted to kiss him to see what it was like? What if he didn’t like kissing James? No, those kisses were electric. There’s no way he didn’t enjoy himself as much as James did. Is there? What makes James think that just a few kisses in the dark will convince Regulus to leave everything he knows and join him in the fight against Voldemort anyway? He’s getting carried away. He has to see him again.

Now that he knows how to enter the gardens through the back, he needs to go and see Regulus again this week. They just need to have a proper talk about their feelings and then he’ll know where they stand. Yeah, they’re both adults, they can do that. He doesn’t know what room is Regulus’, but hopefully it’ll be easy enough to figure out from outside.

Okay, he has a game plan. Sneak back to Grimmauld Place, knock on Regulus’ window, and tell him he’s wild about him and please, please, please run away with me. What could go wrong?

[princessmisery666]

Meeting In The Darkness

Summary: You forgive Dean for what he did when he had black eyes but he can’t forgive himself.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, blood, implied torture, Demon!Dean, MOC!Dean, unresolved angst.

W/C: 2,882.

Pairing: past Dean Winchester x fem!reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).

Bingo: @jacklesversebingo Square Filled: “Well one of us has to be wrong, and it’s not going to be me.”

A/N: @justagirlinafandomworld and @pink-sparkly-witch helped with ideas and feedback, thank you, but it has changed a little since then.

Betas: @slytherkins // all mistakes are my own.

Graphics: made by me on canva, divider @talesmaniac89

Master Lists: Dean Winchester // JAckles Verse Bingo // Main

It’s dark. Too dark. Your gun is out along with your flashlight, scanning the corners of the abandoned warehouse but the darkness seems to swallow anything beyond the end of the barrel.

Something is off and your gut tells you to get out, run fast and far. But you won’t, at least not until you find Dean. He called hours ago, said he was hurt and needed help. He sent the location pin and it brought you here. But it doesn’t feel right, it's too…quiet. Like the shadows are listening to your heartbeat. 

You tried calling Dean when you arrived but it rang out until his voicemail picked up. Sam’s not answering his phone either, maybe he’s hurt too? 

One foot over the other, that’s all you can focus on, not the worry making your heart beat faster. You desperately wish you’d called for back-up. Jody, Donna, hell even Garth. Except it was Dean. Your affinity for the surly hunter often clouded your judgment. He might not have time for you to wait for back-up. If Dean is hurt, he needs you now, not when the sun rises, though you doubt the dawn would penetrate the dark depths of the damp smelling warehouse.

“Dean,” you call out in a soft whisper. “Sam?”

Dean’s location blips on your screen, you're standing right on top of it, but he must be a floor above you because there’s no sign of him, and you’ve checked below. You're afraid of what you’ll find, and looking down at the illuminated screen blinds you further in the blackness that surrounds you.

“This isn’t right,” you say and have the eerie feeling someone hears you. 

Your phone rings, startling you so much, it drops to the floor. Of course it lands face down so you can’t see it.

“Fuck!” 

You scramble around, flashlight scanning for it, and as you step forward, you manage to kick it further away. You follow as it slides across the dusty floor, and the corner hits the wall just as it stops ringing.

You're quick to pick it up and the smell hits you as you straighten up. It isn’t dust… 

Demons. 

You sigh with relief when Sam’s name flashes on the caller I.D again. “Sam.” 

He doesn’t offer a greeting, frantically asking, “Where are you?”

“I’m at the warehouse. Dean called, he said you-”

“Get out,” Sam panics, “get out now, run!”

You freeze, terrified to turn around as the sudden sense you aren’t alone makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. 

“Sam what’s going on?” You ask, slowly backing up, trying to follow the same path to ensure you don’t trip over anything.

“Dean isn’t Dean,” Sam explains, “the Mark, it changed him. He’s a…” he struggles to finish the sentence taking a deep breath, and he utters the word as you back into a solid chest, “demon.”

“Shit.” 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean’s voice whispers against the shell of your ear, and it sounds as dark as the shadows. 

He takes the phone from your hand and hangs up, throwing the device over his shoulder. He runs his fingers down your arms, shoulder to wrist. For the briefest of moments, you convince yourself it’s a gentle caress, a sweet ‘I missed you’ in Dean’s language, until he wraps his fingers around yours and the gun.

You forgot you had the weapon, despite Sam’s frantic warning, you’ve never feared Dean, and it’s not like you’d have shot him. But you know you’ll soon regret that thought.

“Give it up,” he instructs, with little room for argument, almost crushing your fingers beneath his. 

You surrender it, cautiously taking a half step forward and turning at the same time when you feel Dean lean back to hand off the gun to someone you can’t see. He’s unnaturally fast, and before you can take a breath, he has you pinned against the wall, arms above your head. The flashlight falls, making the shadows dance, and as if on cue, the room's light illuminates, blinding you.

You squeeze your eyes shut against the assault and debate whether to keep them closed, afraid of what else is lurking in the room.

Dean demands, “Look at me,” and you know you’d be a fool to disobey.

Finally, when you find the courage to follow his command, you look up at him. Black drowns his pretty eyes, and his smile is fiendish.

“Please don’t say here’s Johnny,” you quip though you feel yourself start to tremble.

Dean laughs, but it doesn’t hold an ounce of amusement. “Johnny ain’t got nothing on me.”

You look over his shoulder, an army of demons line the walls looking at you with a fatal hunger. 

“Is this…” You can’t say it, recognizing that this is the place Crowley kept the alphas. The room where you saved Meg from Alistair’s clutches. You don’t know what you're asking for exactly; to be let go, to make it quick or something else, but the word falls from you in a shaky breath. “Please.” 

“Oh, don’t start begging yet,” Dean tuts, “you’ll spoil all the fun.”

“Fun?”

“See Sammy doesn’t believe that I’m no longer his big brother,” he explains, sounding irritated and bored.

“Dean, you don’t…” 

His hand wraps around your throat, lithe fingers reaching from ear to ear, and he cuts off your air to stop you from talking. “I’m tired of telling him to leave me alone, so I thought it’s time to really show him what I am. Maybe when I’m done here, he’ll let me go.”

Dean POV

I watch you thrash and squirm in your sleep. I know better than to wake you. Luckily, my reflexes saved me from any real damage but I have the scar to remind me of the knife you keep tucked under your pillow. 

“Dean, you don’t…” you whimper into the dream world.

Only, I know it's not a dream. It's a memory, playing out in full high definition. Unfortunately, I remember what happens next too.

I’ve tried running from the man - thing - I was, but I guess I’m too slow. It catches up to me in waves, winds me so much I clutch my chest, digging my fingers into my skin, hoping I’m somehow strong enough to break the flesh and rip my own heart out. Because that’s what it feels like while I watch you struggle. Every thrash or whimper is a blow to my chest, and I can’t catch my breath. 

I’ve waited at the bottom of a hundred bottles, drowning while I waited for you to come back. Waging a war against myself, punishing myself the only way I know how, abusing my body and falling into bed with any woman willing to sleep with the down and out drunk. 

I denied myself access to you. And you never called me. When finally I thought I had gotten away with it and felt a spark of relief that I wouldn’t ever have to face you again, like magic, you appeared.

That agony swallowed me whole, and I still feel like some big bad is chomping on my insides. It’s no less than I deserve, and heaven knows I’m never getting over you or what I did.  

I remember the pact you made, a vow etched in your blood as I slowly and painfully drew it from your body. “When all this is over,” your lip trembled, but the conviction was in your eyes. So much so, even the demon in me was intrigued with the absolute belief written on your bloodied features. “When Sam has fixed you…” you swallowed thickly, found a last ounce of strength and told me - him - “I can wait for you at the bottom. I can stay away if you want me to, and I’ll wait for years if I have to, but I’ll see you again, and I’ll forgive you, Dean.” 

I thought when your blood dried, you’d take it back, but apparently you haven’t. Because here you are, back at the bunker, sleeping in your old room. Is this what your forgiveness looks like? Pretending like nothing happened, even though you still have the scars, physical and mental, to show that it did. 

Your jerking movements stop and I hope that the nightmare has passed when you roll to lay on your back. I wait a few minutes, watching your body relax, your eyes remain closed, and your frown smooth as your breathing evens out. 

“Dean.” 

It sounds intentional but you still look like you're asleep. You sigh heavily, hand coming up to rub your eyes open, and then you’re looking at me. A mixture of tiredness and weariness in your expression. 

“Did I wake you?”

I can’t help but huff a laugh. You woke me. Seriously? I’m literally the thing in your nightmares, but you’re worried about waking me. It’s infuriating and typical. 

“No, I haven’t been to bed yet.” I haven’t been sleeping much lately, but with you here, I knew it was useless to even try. 

You roll on to your back, stare up at the ceiling and ask, “Where’re you gonna run to?” 

You’re not completely wrong. I thought about jumping in Baby and hauling ass in any direction. I wish I had. I didn’t because I owe you at least an opportunity to tell me how much you hate me, remind me that I fucked us up, all because I couldn’t lose Sammy. Worst part is, I think you know I’d do it again.

Silence deafens me for a long time, and I can’t be sure if you’ve fallen asleep or not, until you deliver a blow I never expected. 

“I still love you.”

I really did do some permanent damage because that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard you say, and you’ve never said it before today. It’s always been on the tip of your tongue. I could see it in the moments you wanted to say it, especially the moments it wouldn’t have changed anything because then you’d have been saying it for you, to make yourself feel better, knowing I was going to hell or purgatory or wherever I was headed knowing how you felt. But now you're saying it for me because it’s what I need to hear, despite that I doubt the truth of it.

You shuffle to sit up, stare at me through the darkness, repeating, “I still love you, Dean.”

“You shouldn’t.”

You lean over to switch on the lamp, a slight jesting smirk when you look back at me. “Well, one of us has to be wrong, and it’s not going to be me.”

You say it so unbelievably casual as if you're commenting on the weather, and I know you’re trying to lighten the mood, but I just don’t have it in me to make jokes.

“There’s a first time for everything,” I counter, “and this is that time. You don’t love me, you love the idea of me, and I wish I was the guy you think I am, but I’m not and I won’t ever be.” 

You sigh, and though you're too far away from me, I swear I feel it. As if a ghost just showed up, the temperature drops a few degrees, and a cold shiver runs through me when you mutter, “I know,” looking down at your fidgeting hands in your lap.

Son of a bitch. Why does that sting like a rock salt shot to my chest? 

“But you're not the villain you think you are, either,” you say, softly, as if you're talking to yourself, and you may as well be because I’ll listen, but I won’t hear it.

“Villain, monster, all means the same.”

“You know what your problem is?” There’s no softness to your tone now. You're getting angry, and that makes more sense to me. You should be angry, furious, murderous even, but you won’t claim it like you should.

Regardless of your right to be furious with me, I bite back, “I have a few, but why don’t you tell me?”

“You don’t think you're worthy of love, that anyone who cares for you has been fooled into doing so, but what you don’t see is that you prove yourself worthy over and over again. The sacrifices you make, you put everyone - damn, the world - above yourself, and that makes you worthy.”

There’s that conviction again, the same undeniable faith you had when I had you tied down and bleeding out. You believe everything you just said, but it's the second time you’ve been wrong today.

“You’re wrong,” I say. “All the sacrifices I make are for selfish reasons, to save Sam, so I don’t have to live without my brother. That’s not commendable. And all the other times it was probably to fix a mistake I made trying to save Sam. I’m not worthy. I’m a screw up.”

You shrug, “Difference of opinion, I guess.” 

Letting out a frustrated sigh, I shake my head, looking up at the ceiling as if I’ll be able to see the sanity you’ve so clearly let go of floating around up there. As my eyes drift back down, they land on your duffle sitting on the chair. It’s packed up tight still, the clothes you were wearing when you arrived neatly folded on top, boots on the floor beneath it. 

You’re saying all this, claiming you love me but it looks as though you're ready to leave at the drop of a hat. “Not planning on staying?”

“Hadn’t decided yet, needed to know if I was too much of a reminder or if you could get past it all.” 

“Get past it?” I shout. “It’s not some minor accident, YN. I didn’t accidentally step on your foot. I ran a blade through your skin, repeatedly. I took pleasure in hearing you scream. I was proud of how your blood dripped onto the floor!” 

My rage makes you jump out of the bed. You, quite literally, won’t take this sitting down. You cross the room and get in my face. “I got past it, so why can’t you?” 

I laugh, there’s no humor in it, but it's either that or smash my fist into the door. “You're past it, huh? So I wasn’t just stalking your sleep, walking around with black eyes and a knife soaked in your blood?”

You avert your gaze and take a half step back. I’ve won, I see the fight drain out of you in the way your shoulders slump. I don’t feel good about it. 

“You came here to forgive me.” You meet my gaze and it’s right there, I can see it reflected back in your tearful expression.  “But I don’t need it,” I say, as the first tear slips free, “and I really don’t want it.”

“We can’t go back.” 

You’re not asking a question, you're speaking the realization aloud. But to be sure you understand, I add, “And there’s no going forward.”

Your gaze flicks to your unpacked bag. You inhale slowly and hold it for a long pause. “I won’t stay where I’m not wanted,” you exhale, “So when I leave, I’m not coming back.”

That’s not true. You are wanted, more than you’ll ever know and more than I could ever express, but it doesn’t matter. Wanting you is not enough to keep what I did in the shadows.

It’s a dick thing to do, but the hurt I’m causing you now, the pain that is free flowing from your eyes, is nothing compared to what will happen if you stick around. “Finally,” I sigh, “something we agree on.” 

You hand flexes at your side, balls into a fist while you decide whether to strike me or not. I brace myself, expecting the blow. I deserve it. It’s what I need, a flare of anger, a singular moment to show me that I haven’t slaughtered the fight left in you.  

Your hand relaxes, and the resolve, with such a finality I’ll never forget, settles in your eyes. 

You’ve given up on me.

It’s for the best and there’s nothing left to say, so I turn and walk away.

It doesn’t take you long to get dressed, and I can’t bear to watch you leave, but I wait around the corner, out of sight, listening to your movements. 

When you leave your room, I follow your departure through the halls, trying not to inhale your scent too deeply, knowing the memories it will ignite will burn my resolve.

Your truck door slams, but the engine doesn’t start, and I hold my breath. Are you fighting with yourself to leave or stay? 

I don’t know which would make me feel worse. 

The engine starts, and I drift closer to the garage door. I push it open a crack, enough to see you resting your head on your hands that grip the wheel so tight, I can feel the sting on my own palms. Your shoulders heave with your tears that the old cranky engine drowns out. 

I do nothing but stare. The irony isn’t lost on me, I did the same thing that day in the warehouse; waiting, watching. The only difference is, as you drive away I’m the one left bleeding out and tortured.

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Master Lists: Dean Winchester // JAckles Verse Bingo // Main

[iamvercnika]

₊‧⁺˖ ⠀⠀⠀ PEOPLE ARE GOING TO HURT YOU. IT'S A FACT OF LIFE.

CHOI YOONA  was  born  in  seoul,  south  korea,  on  april  30,  1997.  her  early  life  was  marked  by  an  oppressive  and  overprotective  upbringing —  YOONA's  mother  was  fiercely  protective,  driven  by  a  deep-seated  fear  of  the  outside  world.  this  fear  translated  into  strict  and  isolating  rules  for  her  daughter.  as  a  child,  YOONA  could  not  step  outside  their  house  except  briefly  on  their  porch.  this  sheltered  existence  buried  her  social  development  and  exposed  her  to  a  world  limited  by  the  confines  of  her  home.

despite  the  restrictive  environment,  YOONA  found  comfort in  her  mother's  collection  of  vinyl  records.  the  haunting  melodies  and  powerful  vocals  of  the  artists  she  listened  to  sparked  an  early  interest  in  music.  however,  her  mother’s  strict  rules  overshadowed  these  moments  of  peace,  making  YOONA’s  childhood  a  blend  of  fleeting  joy  and  constant  surveillance.

as  she  grew  older,  YOONA's  curiosity  about  the  world  beyond  her  front  door  intensified.  by  the  age  of  twelve,  her  desire  for  freedom  became  too  strong  to  ignore.  one  fateful  night,  she  mustered  the  courage  to  sneak  out  of  the  house  for  the  first  time.  the  sense  of  independence  she  felt  was  short-lived,  as  a  police  officer  soon  found  her  and  escorted  her  back  home.  the  officer's  visit  only  helped  deepen  her  mother's  fears  and  strictness.  that  night  marked  a  turning  point  in  YOONA's  life.  her  mother,  in  a  fit  of  rage,  beat  her  and  confined  her  even  more  rigorously  than  before,  blaming  her  for  disobeying the  rules.

despite  the  harsh  punishment,  YOONA's  rebellious  spirit  remained  unbroken.  she  continued  to  push  the  boundaries  set  by  her  mother,  seeking  brief  moments  of  freedom  whenever  possible.  these  acts  of  disobedience,  however,  came  at  a  significant  personal  cost,  as  her  mother's  punishments  grew  increasingly  severe.

the  turning  point  in  YOONA's  life  came  when  her  mother  fell  gravely  ill  and  was  hospitalised.  with  her  mother  incapacitated  and  facing  the  possibility  of  death,  YOONA  experienced  a  newfound  sense  of  freedom.  this  period  of  her  life  was  both  freeing  and  confusing  as  she  navigated  the  world  outside  her  home  for  the  first  time.  nearing  her  twenties,  YOONA  was  determined  to  carve  out  a  life  for  herself  beyond  the  shadow  of  her  mother’s  influence.

during  one  of  her  explorations  of  the  city,  YOONA  was  approached  by  a  talent  scout  from  GLASSHOUSE,  a  renowned  music  company.  impressed  by  her  beauty and confidence ( that she somehow exhibited ),  they  offered  her  an  opportunity  to  audition.  drawing  from  the  countless  hours  she  spent  singing  along  to  her  mother's  vinyl  records,  YOONA’s  audition  was  a  success.  she  was  soon  signed to  the  label,  marking  the  beginning  of  her  journey  as  VERONIKA.

transitioning  from  her  sheltered  upbringing  to  the  fast-paced  world  of  the  entertainment  industry  was  a  challenging  process.  YOONA,  now  VERONIKA,  had  to  quickly  adapt  to  the  demands  of  her  new  career  while  also  learning  about  the  world  she  had  been  kept  from  for  so  long.  despite  these  challenges,  her  unique  background  and  powerful  voice  quickly  captivated  audiences.  her  debut  mini-album,  VERONIKA,  introduced  her  as  a  modern-day  witch,  a  persona  that  resonated  with  her  rough past  and  her  newfound  freedom.

as  she  continued  to  release  music,  VERONIKA's  themes  of  darkness,  resilience,  and  empowerment  drew  from  her  personal  experiences.  each  release,  from  VERONIKA  to  SPIDERWEB,  told  a  story  of  struggle,  defiance,  and  ultimate  triumph.  her  music  not  only  showcased  her  vocal  talent  but  also  served  as  a  cleansing outlet  for  the  pain  and  isolation  she  endured  during  her  childhood.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 71

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 71: The Tower of the Hand

AO3 - Masterlist

Daenera cast a steely gaze up at the Tower of the Hand, bristling at the tall structure and the man that resided within it. As the tension of a persistent headache wound its way up her neck, a guard swung open the door, signaling her to enter along with the guard that had been dispatched to fetch her, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous entry. The tower’s stairs coiled upward, a relentless serpent of stone that she ascended with a deepening scowl, her muscles still aching from the morning’s arduous climb to the Dragonpit. The brief hours of rest she had taken were abruptly curtailed by this summons. 

Approaching the Hand’s office, the distinctive sound of a cane tapping against the stone floor heralded the presence of someone she loathed to meet. Lord Larys Strong emerged with a measured pace, his cane marking his progress. His cold gray eyes swiftly found Daenera, locking onto her with an unsettling focus. 

A surge of irritation welled up within her, a tight coil of resentment unfurling in her gut as she sensed his gaze sweep over her. With a steely resolve, she locked yes with him, standing tall and proud, refusing to curl in on herself as she had done when he had stripped her of her dignity. She was determined not to show any sign of weakness under his scrutinizing stare. 

“Princess,” Lord Larys Strong intoned, his voice cloaked in a veneer of politeness. He offered a bow that, while respectful, seemed to Daenera more a performance of duty that genuine deference. The formal greeting did little to mask the undercurrent of tension between them. 

“Lord Confessor,” Daenera returned the greeting, her voice carrying a deliberate neutrality, stripped of any hint of warmth or familiarity. Her gaze shifted to the cane in his hand, noting its deep, almost ebony hue. Intricate, serpentine patterns were etched along its length, lending an air of subtle elegance to the otherwise simple object. “I see that you’ve gotten a new cane. Might I inquire what became of the previous one?” 

Daenera was well aware of what had become of it, of course. Aemond had destroyed it, snapped it in half in a gesture of retribution for the humiliation she had suffered at the hands of Larys. It was a bold move, perhaps even reckless, yet she found herself grateful for the act. 

Lord Larys Strong offered a thin smile, his attention briefly dropping to the cane as he idly twisted it, its tip scraping around on the coarse stone floor with a grating wound. “Regrettably, it snapped in two.”

“What a pity,” Daenera responded, her voice dripping with feigned concern while her expression remained impassively cool. 

“Indeed, but such is the fate of things that endure beyond their capacity. They turn vulnerable and weak,” Lord Larys observed, his fingers idly caressing the cane’s sturdy surface. “Given my long reliance on a cane, I’ve grown to foresee such weakness. It’s almost as if, with enough pressure, even the steadfast can be made to bend and succumb. It is a pity when such things happen to what was thought to be unbreakable.”

Daenera listened, her demeanor composed yet alert, recognizing the veiled implications of his words and the resilience–or perhaps defiance–they suggested. Daenera was left pondering whether he meant that she was the cane or Aemond, regardless of who, the insinuation unmistakably hung in the air–that the act of breaking his cane had laid bare a vulnerability for the both of them, one ripe for exploitation. It suggested a universal truth; under sufficient strain, even the most resolute would break. 

“I liked the other one better,” Daenera remarked shortly, a feigned smile on her lips. “It possessed a certain charm. It had that little firefly sigil of yours.” 

Larys’s lips curved upward slightly more at her words. “A replacement is currently being crafted. Until then, this one shall suffice.”

“I do hope the new emblem stands out more. Upon my initial glance at the old one, I mistook it for a toe,” Daenera quipped, a slight mock to her tone. Within the depths fo Larys’s cold gray eyes, there sparked an indiscernible flicker, its mere presence unsettling in its ambiguity. It bore a subtle resemblance to the gleam that had once illuminated his eyes, a gleam that had seemingly found delight in her past humiliations–a mere shadow of it, yet enough to stir discomfort. 

Daenera offered him a smile that was more courteous than warm, and then shifted her focus away, signaling an end to their exchange. She began walking down the hall, only to be halted by Larys as he spoke again.

“Princess…” Her path was suddenly barred by the swift arch of the cane, compelling her attention back to Larys as annoyance burned within her narrowed gaze. 

“I find myself compelled to extend my apologies,” Larys continued, advancing slightly, the sound of his cane tapping softly against the floor. “It was never within my intentions to cause you any form of indignity–”

“You had me stripped,” Daenera interjected sharply. Her hands clasped tightly before her, her fingernails pressing into her flesh. She could still feel the raw sting of that humiliation, recalling vividly how his guards had torn at clothes and pawed at her through the fabric. 

“I thought it a necessity to remove anything that could potentially cause harm, to yourself or to others. I see now that it was a mistake, that my actions were excessive–”

“You refused me a semblance of dignity by keeping me in that state,” Daenera countered fiercely, detecting no trace of genuine regret or apology in his time. The cruelty of his actions had been deliberate, aimed at belittling her, rendering her vulnerable and exposed–a tactic to strip her of her dignity and power. Regardless of his justification, she recognized in his eyes, a clear testament to the enjoyment of her discomfort. He had taken delight in her degradation, in humiliating and deceiving her, and even now, she saw that spark in him. It made her skin crawl. 

“What is the worst, I think,” Daenera interjected, halting Larys’s response with a sharp look, “was not the humiliation or being left in my undergarments. It was the enjoyment you took in your deceit.”

“I never took joy in my actions, and I never deceived–”

“Then what would you call it? A lie? Manipulation? Treachery? How would you label your actions, Lord Confessor?” Her voice was icy, unmoving, and her gaze just as frosty, as she stared at him. 

Larys’s smile tightened, yet it maintained a veneer of controlled empathy, rendering him seemingly benign, almost compassionate. He shifted slightly, as though uncomfortable under the hardness of her gaze. “My intention was merely to ensure your compliance without incident.  

“You offered me a glimmer of hope only to cruelly withdraw it,” Daenera retorted, her nails pressing into her palm, her anger flaring. Tears prickled at the back of her eyes, but she forced them down with a hard swallow. She would not waste any more tears on him. “You were callously cruel, my lord.”

“I only ever wished to protect you, Princess,” Larys claimed, his gaze softening slightly, yet his eyes remained sharp, a cold intellect lurking within. “The conflict looms large, and without your mother ceasing her claim to the throne, it will grow into a war. And war, Princess, spares none. The safest place for you to be is here. You might view my measures as harsh, yet my sole aim has been your preservation. As my brother would have wished…”

Daenera understood his position all too clearly. The notion of her fleeing was a fantasy he had never entertained, nor had he ever intended to act against his own self-interest; his allegiance had always been with himself. The affection he professed for her, the familial warmth he pretended to hold for her as his niece, was nothing but a facade. Every instance he mentioned his brother, every detail he had shared with her, served only as a means to manipulate her emotions. If he had held any genuine love and respect for his brother, he would never have made such disparaging remarks about him. It had all been a deception, a falsehood she vowed never to be deceived by again. 

“A fool with a fool's honor,” Daenera repeated the words he had made about his brother. “And you are no fool, are you, Lord Confessor? But even fools have more honor than you – even rats.”

Larys let out a soft sigh. “Your mother cannot protect you for what's to come, nor can she give you a future beyond this conflict. The Hightowers offer that with the man I believe you to love.”

Daenera’s eyes subtly widened, the weight of his words settling over her like a dense shroud, pressing heavily upon her shoulders. It felt like an accusation, a statement of fact. A profound sinking feeling pulled at her stomach, as her blood seemed to retreat from her head. Her ears began to ring with a sound akin to the howl of the wind, and she felt as though she were on top of Vhagar with Aemond once more, plunging towards the ground as he laughed at her fright. Her heart momentarily ceased to beat, suspended within the moment of dread, before it stuttered back to life again. 

There was something profoundly harrowing about the nonchalance in his delivery, the way he gave voice to a truth she had neither the courage to face nor the capacity to name–a truth she had buried deep within herself, locked away from the light of recognition and acknowledgement. She would keep it there, where it was safe from both the world and herself. 

Larys continued. “As the princess and the wife of the King’s brother, your position after the conflict will be advantageous. You’ll lead a life filled with satisfaction and comfort. Not just you, but your children too.”

“If,” Daenera sneered, her voice laced with disbelief, her thoughts a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. “That presumes the Greens triumph in this conflict–if they don't, instead, choose to eliminate me alongside my family.”

“Considering the Prince’s vehemently seeking your hand in marriage as well as his defense of you, one might argue your place by his side in the future is assured,” Larys observed, eliciting a sharper glare from Daenera. 

“And if the Greens fail in this endeavor to steal the throne–”

“They already have the throne.”

“If they fail to win this war,” Daenera corrected herself. “What of me then? Am I to plead with my mother for my husband’s life? Am I to plead with her for your life? Or am I to hang alongside all of you?”

Daenera shook her head, her expression one of incredulousness and disillusionment. “You do not care for me, Lord Confessor. To you, I am naught but a pawn you wish to move about the board.”

A crude, cold smile formed on her lips, as she regarded him with a pointed look. “It is clear now that I was foolish to place my trust in you. You only wish to serve your own interest. I see that now. It is a mistake that I will not repeat.”

Daenera set her eyes forward, her back straight as a blade and her head held high, as she started down the corridor, decisively ending this farce of a conversation. She could feel his gaze on her, icy and calculating, its sharpness akin to needles against her flesh. As she moved past him, she intentionally struck his cane with her foot, applying just enough force to knock it out from under him. The act seemed to catch him off guard as the cane hit the ground with a resonant clatter, rolling to hit his clubbed foot. It was a petty move, laden with spite and maliciousness. 

Without sparing him a second glance, Daenera continued her stride towards the door of the office of the Hand. Upon reaching the imposing dark wooden barrier, she knocked firmly. A voice from within granted her entry, and she pushed the door open, stepping into the oppressive quietude that filled the office of the Hand.

Daenera stood at the center of the room, observing Otto Hightower as he diligently penned on a piece of parchment, the quill’s tip dancing across the surface, trailing a series of inky letters in its wake. This meticulous act of writing produced a rhythmic scratching that filled the room, second only to the occasional crackle from the hearth.  

Her gaze wandered, taking in the office’s sparse decor. This was her first visit to the office of the Hand, and she found the space starkly barren, devoid of any personal touch. It stood as bland as its master, favoring functionality over warmth. The walls held no portraits or tapestries, instead it was a barren landscape of dark stone. The shelves were lined with leather-bound books and scrolls, their spines bearing the weight of governance and law, a testament to the room’s dedication to the realm’s administration. 

A tall, narrow window allowed a sliver of light, its beams fighting against the gloom but only managing to illuminate the small round table beneath it, framed by two chairs.The room battled with the shadows, the scant light struggling to penetrate the inherent darkness, casting an oppressive pall over the surroundings.

The desk, a solid piece of dark wood, bore the marks of constant use: scattered parchments, an inkwell nearly depleted, and the wax seal of the Hand, signifying the authority vested in its occupant. The only ornament, the brass seven-pointed star, hung with a sense of solemn duty rather than decoration, its presence on the wall behind the desk, seeming to imply divine favor from the gods– it stood as a reminder of the Hightowers' ties to the Faith. 

A heavy, ornate chair sat behind the desk, its high back and imposing structure serving as a throne of sorts for the Hand, while a pair of simpler chairs faced it, their less elaborate design indicating their use for visitors or petitioners. 

And then there was the hearth, despite the fire’s attempt to inject life into the room, it seemed more a necessity than a comfort, its flames battling the chill that the stone walls failed to ward off. 

Daenera stood firm, her eyes meticulously surveying the room’s every detail, determined not to be the one to break the oppressive silence. Even as Otto Hightower’s focus remained tethered to his desk, his presence exuded a formidable blend of authority and detachment. The flickering hearths light played across his visage, casting half in shadow, with the sigil of the Hand of the King gleaming ominously in the dim light. 

Otto Hightower concluded his writing, setting the quill aside with a deliberate motion before lifting the freshly inked parchment. He gave it a gentle blow, hastening the ink’s drying with a practiced ease. His gaze, sharp and calculating, lifted to meet Daenera’s, emanating a chill that seemed to fill the room. With a nonchalant hum, he commanded, “Please, take a seat.”

Daenera remained where she was, refusing to move for a long, petulant moment. Yet, summoning her will, she forced herself to move, taking a seat in one of the chairs. Throughout, Otto’s gaze never wavered, tracking her every step with an almost tangible intensity. 

Once the parchment was carefully set aside, Otto leaned back in his chair, embodying the very essence of authority and expectation. His stare became an examination, mirroring the thoroughness with which Daenera had inspected his surroundings moments before. Unflinching, she met his gaze, her expression composed yet alert, her lips pursed in anticipation of the conversation that was yet to unfold. The silent exchange between them crackled with an unspoken tension, each waiting for the other to breach the stillness that remained. 

“Green becomes you,” Otto Hightower remarked, piercing the silence with an observation that momentarily caught Daenera off guard. “It fares well with your complexion. One might almost mistake you for a Hightower.”

The underlying slight was unmistakable, a veiled jab at her heritage. The implication of being a bastard hovered silently between them, palpable and pointed as he appraised her, noting the absence of the distinctive Valyrian traits. 

“Isn’t that the point?” Daenera retorted, her voice laced with icy politeness as she forced a smile. “To remake me in the image of the Queen Mother… The green gown, the styling of my hair, even the choice of jewelry. I find myself adorned in the colors of your house, a symbolic gesture, to say the least. While you may seek to dispute who my father is, Lord Hand, you cannot deny the womb from which I came. I am my mother’s daughter–regardless of your efforts to the contrary.”

Under the weight of Otto Hightower’s scrutinizing gaze, Daenera felt an undercurrent of tension, manifesting subtly in the restless dance of her fingers against the green fabric of her gown. This sense of unease had been her constant companion since the moment she was summoned to the Tower of the Hand, a premonition that no positive outcome awaited her here. 

“But you did not send for me to discuss my attire,” Daenera asserted, locking eyes with him in a silent challenge. “Why am I here?”

Otto was unphased, leaning forward to produce a blank sheet of parchment and placing it before her.

 “You are to write a letter to your mother, urging her to agree to the terms of her surrender,” he instructed, adjusting the inkwell for her use. He then rotated the parchment he had busily scribbled down upon her entry to face her, revealing the carefully penned directive. As Daenera’s gaze scanned the document, each word etched into the paper sharpened her indignation. 

Turning her attention back to Otto, her eyes blazed with a fierce blend of defiance and scorn. “And should I choose not to comply?”

Daenera met Otto’s gaze with unwavering defiance, her jaw clenched tightly as his eyes narrowed at her resolve. She made no move towards the quill laid out before her, choosing instead to embody the resistance they so readily attributed to her character–defiant, spiteful, insolent.

“You seem to misunderstand the position you are in,” Otto remarked, his voice slicing through the air with a chill. His fingers drummed on the armrest, a subtle echo of impatience, perhaps sparked by irritation rather than any shared sense of unease. 

“I am well aware,” Daenera shot back, “I am your hostage.”

“Indeed,” Otto conceded with a nod, his expression unyielding–carved in stone. “Yet, it appears neither my daughter nor your betrothed have informed you what it fully means for you…”

“I am not ignorant of my situation,” she responded firmly, the spark of defiance turning into a childish obstinance.

Otto emitted a low, condescending hum, a sound that only served to heighten Daenera’s frustration.  “As a hostage, your comfort is at the King's discretion.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air, ensuring their gravity was fully absorbed.

Her gaze hardened, her teeth biting into the soft flesh of her cheek to stifle the retort simmering at the edge of her lips. He spoke to her as though she hadn’t already felt the ‘King’s’ discretion. It was as if he discounted the last few days–how she had been confined against her will, subjected to indignities, and made to wear the color of their cause while forcing her into a display of submission before the usurper who now sat upon the throne. It wasn’t so much the King’s discretion but rather their discretion–The Queen Mother, The Lord Hand, and even the Lord Confessor. Their discretion alone. 

Otto Hightower addressed Daenera with a condescending tone, as if she were a naive child unaware of her dire circumstances–as if she needed to be schooled on the realities of captivity. Yet, Daenera was acutely aware of her situation; she understood the full gravity of being a hostage all too well–had heard the stories of Maegor the Cruel, of disputing lords, of war. His words, laden with belittlement, did little more than underscore her understanding of the precarious position she had been thrust into. 

“The level of comfort we afford you is contingent on your mother’s compliance–and your own. It is my advice that you acknowledge and accept the circumstances you are in and the precarious nature of your position. However, defiance on your part…” Otto made a quick shift of his head, letting his words trail off, the threat implicit in his silence. “The consequences of any childish defiance, any acts of rebellion, or any semblance of resistance that might border on treason will be met with appropriate severity.”

Daenera clenched her jaw, the sensation of her encroaching cage tangible; it was as if invisible chains tightened around her wrists and throat, the oppressive weight of unseen shackles bearing down on her with each word Otto spoke. 

“While we have no desire to harm you, Princess… circumstances may compel us to reconsider,” He added, the chill in his voice underscoring the seriousness of his warning. “It is in your best interest, and by extension, your men’s best interest that you comply.”

The threat lingered in the silence between them, ominous and sharp as an executioner’s blade held aloft, its shadow casting a pall over Daenera. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, a frantic rhythm of fear and defiance. Her fingers clenched tightly into the fabric of her dress, seeking some anchor in the storm of emotions swirling within her. 

The memory of Joyce, though her body had been removed by the time they returned to Maegor’s Holdfast, haunted her. The harrowing sight of her friend, lifeless and displayed as a grim warning was seared into her mind. Even now, she could see the expression on her face when she closed her eyes. 

“How can I be certain you haven’t already executed my men?” Daenera challenged, her question laced with skepticism yet strategically aimed to pry information about the fate of her men–who was dead, who was in the dungeons, and who might have escaped. 

Otto immediately seemed to recognize her underlying motive. “Currently, I believe we have five of them in our custody.”

He rifled through the parchment strewn across his desk, retrieving a list, and he continued in a tome of matter-of-fact as he read the names aloud: “Your sworn shield, Fenrick Locke, and your guards, Eddin Follard, Kevan Mertyns, Sithric Greenfield, and the young boy, Patrick Horpe.”

A heaviness settled within Daenera, her heart sinking to the pit of her stomach at the mention of Patrick. Absent from the list were Darvin Crooler and Jelissa Stout, sparking a glimmer of hope that perhaps the two had successfully made it to Meraxes, but those left off of the list could very well be among the dead, like Joyce and Edam. 

The ship's crew were also absent from the list, their absence from the dungeons suggesting they might have eluded capture, setting sail before they were apprehended. If this was true, she could only hope they reach Dragonstone soon. 

Casually, he returned the list to the pile, reclining once more in his seat. “However, following your… spectacle with Rhaenys, that number may dwindle. And it will decrease further should you resist our demands.”

“My mother will see through this farce,” Daenera remarked, gesturing towards the letter which he intended her to copy word for word in her own hand. “She will know those words aren’t mine.”

Otto Hightower exuded an unnerving air of calculated detachment. There was a coldness to him, a sense of ambition so pure it seemed to strip him of any warmth or genuine human emotion. Daenera found herself wondering if he was ever capable of a genuine smile or if his expression was doomed to a perpetual stoicism.

With a measured calmness, Otto spoke up, “I recognize the difficulty you face in accepting this situation. Nevertheless, we are duty-bound to fulfill what was Viserys’ final decree–to rectify the mistake he made years ago by naming your mother as his successor.”

At his words, Daenera let out a derisive scoff, a sound teeming with disbelief and frustration. “Your ambition knows no bounds, Lord Hand.”

“I merely strive for the realm’s stability,” Otto responded with such stoicism that Daenera wondered if his heart had rotten away in his chest, leaving nothing but empty space and his own lofty aspirations. 

“Do not pretend to care for the good of the realm,” Daenera retorted, her voice laced with animosity. “Your aim has always been to see your own blood on the throne. You’ve sought to weaken Viserys’ rule, orchestrating elaborate plots to undermine and remove my mother as his heir to install your grandson as king, not out of any loyalty to the realm, but to secure your own hold on power.”

Daenera’s words were a blistering rebuke, and she leaned slightly forward, her resolve unwavering, “You may have crowned Aegon as King, but the realm will see through your lies. History will remember you all as the usurpers and traitors you are.”

Otto Hightower remained stoic, his gaze cutting sharply towards her. “The realm will acknowledge Aegon as its legitimate ruler.”

“Why?” Daenera sneered. “Because he’s got a cock?”

“No great ruler has ever been a woman.” Otto declared, the statement hanging in the space between them, an indictment on the basis of gender. 

Daenera felt the sharp bite of Otto’s indictment, its bitterness coiling within her, festering like a relentless wound inflicted by the harsh realities of her existence. This wound was profound, resonating with the silent chorus of women everywhere, etched into their souls by the world’s harsh decree–by the utterances and blades wielded by men of his ilk. It was a wound that wept silently into the void, a lamentation of all women as they were cut by the world around them. 

“Even if your mother were Jaehaerys reborn, she remains a woman,” Otto persisted, unfazed. “No woman could ever think to rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

“History is full of terrible rulers that have all been men,” Daenera answered him, digging her nails into the fabric of her dress and into the meat of her thighs. “There may be no precedent for women to rule but–”

Otto interrupted her with a wave of dismissal, “The absence of precedent is not without reason; such things are simply not done. Women are not meant to rule. Your mother's appointment as heir was a temporary measure, void the moment Viserys bore a son. Should she prioritize her well-being and that of her children, she would surrender her claim to the throne and acknowledge Aegon as her King.”

“And what becomes of the realm when Aegon proves inept and unworthy of the throne?” Daenera questioned sharply. 

Otto responded with a measured calmness that belied the gravity of the discussion. “Time will reveal his capacity for rule. As the rightful heir, his path to kingship is ordained. And as his Hand, I will be there to guide him.”

“You think him a mere puppet, as pliable as Viserys was?” Daenera asked, her skepticism palpable, alluding to Aegon’s known recklessness and disregard for consequences. If anyone weren’t fit to rule, it would be him. “And when he finally realizes the full extent of his power, what then?”

“Power, Princess Daenera, is a delicate balance, “ He said, his tone laced with a subtle condescension. “Aegon will come to understand the weight of his crown, and the responsibilities that follow. Be assured, I harbor no delusions regarding the potential challenges we may face, but I will be there to offer him counsel.”

Otto’s demeanor remained impassive as he gestured towards the parchment. “Impress upon your mother the necessity of her surrender–and the consequences of refusing.”

Daenera’s gaze reluctantly returned to the parchment, bitter tears prickling behind her eyes, her throat constricting. She gripped the quill, its tip dipping into the ink before she paused, the nib suspended above the parchment. The act of writing words not her own, words that beckoned her mother to surrender, to concede to a forced peace, and to feign hope for their presence at the wedding with Aemond felt like a betrayal. And though the words would remain words on parchment, she felt them rot within her mouth, felt them turn in her stomach, felt them etch themselves into her bones.

With a cold determination, she lifted her eyes to meet Otto’s, her gaze sharp beneath her lashes. “Your threats may loom large, Lord Hand, forcing my hand to pen this letter. But be under no illusion–it changes nothing. My mother will stand firm.”

“For the sake of the realm,” he intoned, his voice a steady beacon of his conviction–and deep with an underlying threat, “I hope she has the wisdom to accept.”

As the quill touched the parchment, greedily absorbing the ink, her movements were deliberate, each stroke laden with the weight of compulsion. Penning these words felt like an act of betrayal, the quill’s tip seeming to pierce her skin, etching each word into her flesh, engraving the betrayal on her. 

With each sentence crafted, an underlying menace pulsed through the ink–a silent, screaming testament to her status as a hostage. The letter’s promises, though seemingly benevolent, were etched in duplicity. They spoke of life, of peace on Dragonstone, even of allowing them to come to her wedding, as if such an event weren’t mere exhibitions of their power. These assurances, suggesting a future at all, were a stark contrast to the reality of their situation, painted in stark relief against the blank canvas of parchment. 

Beneath the surface of her calm exterior, a stormy sea of anger and fear roiled within her. Yet, she shielded these emotions behind a veneer, refusing to grant Otto the satisfaction of witnessing her despair. Internally, she grappled with the painful acknowledgement of her role in this political game–a mere tool wielded to bend her mother’s will. Regret was such a suffocating, cruel thing as it wrapped around her throat. She should have gone with her family when she had the chance. 

With a steely resolve, Daeenra met Otto’s gaze, her voice laced with determination. “Rest assured, Lord Hand, my mother will see through your schemes. If you kill me she will not hesitate to return the insult, and Daemon will be far worse.”

“Taking your life would be an error,” Otto stated, “hence, the decision to align you with us through a marriage to Aemond. This alliance holds more value than any consequence of your death, despite the challenges it may bring… Consider this a chance to improve your standing, and be grateful we are prepared to offer you a more comfortable arrangement than we have our other hostages.”

The notion of gratitude, as Otto suggested, felt like a bitter pill, echoing harshly within her, chafing against her very soul. The idea that she should feel ‘grateful’ for their ‘generosity’–for allowing her freedoms that were rightfully hers, for sparing her the isolation of a dungeon cell, for granting her a semblance of comfort amidst the looming threats against her and her loved ones–was infuriating. Each word he spoke was a reminder of the transactional nature of her existence in their hands: comfort and privilege at the expense of her autonomy and choice. With every mention of gratitude, it became clearer that her so-called ‘comfortable arrangement’ was nothing more than the gilded cage she already thought it was, a luxurious imprisonment where the currency was her compliance and the stakes were the lives of those she cherished. 

Daenera lifted her gaze to meet his, eyes narrowed as she scrutinized his words. “And when you have no use for me as a hostage, what becomes of me then?”

As his gaze swept over her, Daenera couldn’t help but wonder what he saw–a mere piece to be strategically placed and potentially sacrificed, a threat to be kept in line, or simply a girl, tears teetering on the edge of her vision, coerced into a corner. 

“So long as Rhaenyra and your brothers breathe, you remain a hostage,” he declared. “What happens once there’s no need for a hostage remains up to you and your decisions through this.”

Returning the quill to the inkwell, Daenera reclined in her seat, processing his words with a heaviness that weighed down her stomach. His message was unambiguous: Her value was contingent on the survival of her family–of her use as a hostage. Their lives were the thread suspending her over the abyss of expendability. Yet, in a cruel twist of irony, her captors were intent on severing this thread and end all of them. 

As she settled deeper into her chair, her gaze fixed on Otto, who now examined the letter she had been coerced to write. He lifted it, scrutinizing each word she had penned–his words–before giving a satisfied nod. Carefully, he aired the ink, waiting for it to set, then methodically folded the letter, placing it on the desk. 

Daenera’s attention drifted to her own hand, pausing on the scar slicing through her palm. She traced it softly, lost in thought, haunted by the implications of her forced compliance and the deeper, unspoken threats that lay beneath the surface. 

Her gaze raised to Otto, observing as he prepared the sealing wax over the flickering candle flame. 

“Is Aemond aware of the nature of this betrothal?” She inquired, her voice tinged with skepticism and something else, something more bitter. “Does he understand that I am a hostage until you no longer have use for me and may be put to death along with the rest of my family?”

Otto’s response was measured, his scrutiny tinged with a hint of amusement as the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. “Aemond might hold a certain fondness for you, Princess, but he is acutely aware of his duty. Even as his wife, your role remains largely political–a pawn, if you will, held for leverage.”

Daenera offered a contemplative hum, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that mirrored his own. “You appear quite confident that he perceives our marriage purely as a political strategy.” 

Otto’s brow lifted slightly, and Daenera couldn’t decipher if it was astonishment, amusement or surprise. His head tilted slightly as he observed her for a long moment before answering. “Aemond is, above all else, dutiful and loyal to his family. He is acutely aware of his responsibilities and the expectations placed upon him. While he may have had a personal interest in securing you as his wife, the strategic benefits of it cannot be ignored.”

As he spoke, Otto lifted the spoon of molten wax away from the candle’s flame, carefully pouring it onto the folded letter. The wax spilled out in a deliberate, emerald stream, pooling on the parchment before cooling. “Regardless of Aemond’s personal request, a marriage alliance between you and one of the King’s brother’s was inevitable. It serves a dual purpose: securing the appearance of your allegiance and reinforcing our position.”

Daenera felt a tightness in her chest, her thumb pressing into the scar on her palm, forcing her nail into the tender flesh and between the bones within. 

Otto continued, “The pre-existing connection between you two merely provided a convenient pretext for this arrangement.  The mere presence of this ‘connection’ casts shadows of doubt over your loyalty in the eyes of Rhaenyra and her counsel. In the fertile ground where uncertainty is planted, victory can be harvested.”

With a final gesture, he placed the wax back down, then firmly pressed the Hand of the King’s seal into the now-cooling wax, creating a precise imprint and sealing the letter shut. “Aemond is under no illusions about the importance of this marriage–and he understands it for what it is.”

Daenera fought back the tears that threatened to breach her composure, a fierce indignation igniting within her at the sheer unfairness of her circumstances. Her gaze lingered on the letter resting on the table, a part of her yearning to snatch it and cast it into the flames, consequences be damned. Instead, she raised her eyes to meet Otto’s, her gaze sharp and challenging. 

“Yet,” she began, her voice strained but determined as she ventured to plant her own seed of uncertainty, “Given the lengths to which Aemond has pursued my hand, one might argue that duty alone does not drive his actions.” 

Straightening her posture, Daenera tilted her head, her expression one of calculated interest as she observed Otto’s reaction. “Emotions are such a fickle thing, wouldn’t you say? Unpredictable. While his loyalty stands firm now, what implications might arise if I were to bear his child? Could he so easily cast aside his child’s mother?”

Otto’s response was a smile, devoid of warmth, a mere thinning of his lips that did not reach his eyes, which flickered with a steely intensity. “A child would indeed fortify the bonds of your marriage… And it would certainly show the both of you where your loyalties should lie.”

As Otto’s words unfurled, Daenera felt a profound heaviness settle over her, her heart twisting painfully within her chest. The satisfaction that danced briefly across Otto’s features at witnessing the crestfallen look on her face only served to solidify the heaviness. He leaned back, an air of triumph surrounding him, yet even in his triumph he maintained an impeccably rigid posture. His gaze, sharp and shrewd, betrayed a mind always scheming–always calculating the next move to make. 

Daenera realized she was ensnared in his meticulously spun web, forced into a corner with no escape that didn’t demand a piece of her soul. Everywhere she looked, she saw the opulent yet confining bars of her prison, a golden cage from which there was no immediate release. Her only recourse was to adapt as best as she could to the circumstances, to find some semblance of comfort amidst the opulence that served as her shackles, all while patiently waiting for an opportunity to change things. 

The sharp rap at the door interrupted their intense exchange, drawing Otto’s attention away from her for the first time in what felt like eternity. “Enter.”

As the door swung open, Daenera shifted in her seat to glimpse the newcomer. Gwayne Hightower stepped into the room, his appearance marked by the distinct auster Hightower traits–a slicked-back hairstyle and those icy blue eyes so reminiscent of his father’s. A green cloak hung over his shoulders, the Hightower sigil prominent on his leather jerkin. 

“The ship is prepared for departure,” Gwayne reported, positioning himself at the edge of the desk, his gaze briefly intersecting with Daenera’s before locking eyes with his father’s.

Otto extended the folded letter to his son. “Make sure Rhaenyra understands the gravity of her situation. If she remains obstinate, hand her this.”

Gwayne secured the letter in his jerkin with a nod. “I will leave immediately.”

“Very well,” Otto responded, his voice steady, as he reclined once more. “Rhaenyra will be aware of Aegon’s coronation by now. Daemon, I suspect, will not be pleased to see you.”

“I imagine not,” Gwayne agreed. “But he cannot do anything lest he break convention.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” Otto warned. “Now, go.” 

As Ser Gwayne left, Otto’s gaze once again settled on Daenera, its intensity anchoring her in place, laden with the silent weight of judgment and expectation. It was a sensation akin to being bound by invisible shackles, each glance from him tightening these restraints around her. Despite the suffocating grip of her circumstances, which seemed to wrap around her neck like a noose, and the ever-narrowing confines of her gilded cage pressing in, Daenera’s spirit rebelled in the only manner left to her. They had branded her with many labels–insolent, petulant, obstinate–and in a moment of quiet rebellion, she embodied these traits. 

With a deliberate yet seeming accidental flick of her wrist, Daenera sent the inkwell tumbling as she rose from her seat. Black ink cascaded across Otto’s desk like a sudden, dark deluge, swallowing the parchments in its path and desecrating the meticulously penned documents and notes beneath. 

Otto’s reaction was swift, his hand shooting out to salvage the inkwell, but the damage was done. He surveyed the calamity before him, a pool of ink seeping through the fibers of the parchment, obliterating words and wisdom alike. His expression was a mask of controlled irritation as he witnessed the defilement of valuable correspondence and records, each blot of ink a testament to the defiance that simmered beneath Daenera’s composed exterior. 

“Oh, my apologies, Lord Hand,” Daenera uttered her apology, her voice taut with feigned remorse as she lowered herself in a courtesy, bowing her head in a display of contrition. “Such clumsiness on my part, I truly hope I haven’t spoiled something of importance. Alas, I am but a clumsy girl, it seems.”

Otto’s irritation was palpable, his stare piercing as Daenera edged towards the door. 

“Princess…” He began, his tone halting her attempted departure. Turning to face him, she met his icy, cautionary look. “Do well to remember our conversation and the precariousness of the position you’re in. It’s not merely your own comfort that hangs in a balance here… I do hope you find some lesson in this.”

Biting back a retort, Daenera averted her eyes and executed another surrendering bow, a gesture of forced submission. Resuming her path to the door, she allowed herself one more act of petulance; her hand swept a decorative silver flagon off the table by the door, sending it crashing to the floor with a loud clang. The door swung shut behind her, severing her from Otto’s presence, yet the oppressive sensation his his scrutiny lingered, as if penetrating the barrier of the wood to weigh heavily upon her. 

The tension between her and Otto lingered like a dense fog as she stood in the dimly lit hall under the watchful eye of the guard who had escorted her to the Tower of the Hand. Together, they made their way down from the tower, descending the winding staircase to emerge into the modest courtyard below. The chill in the air seemed to mirror the coldness she had left behind in Otto’s study. 

There, she spotted Ser Gwayne preparing his departure, gracefully hoisting himself onto his steed. The sight of him stirred a mix of emotions within her. 

“Ser Gwayne,” she called out, her voice cutting through the air, drawing his attention downward. 

The knight peered at her, his gaze a blend of curiosity and wariness, akin to that of a fox – astute yet ready to adapt. He acknowledged her with a tone of both respect and caution, “Princess.”

“I wish to ask a favor of you,” Daenera said, her voice steadier than she felt. 

“You may,” Ser Gwayne responded, his interest piqued, a sly smile playing across his lips. To Daenera, he always seemed like a clever fox, his demeanor more approachable than his father’s, yet within the amiable exterior lurked a hidden sharpness – one to be wary of. 

“When you deliver the letter,” she started, her voice thickening with unshed tears, the raw emotions evident in her plea, “please convey to my mother that I am her daughter, and I love her. Inform her that I have not forgotten who I am.”

Ser Gwayne observed her silently for a few moments before offering a slight nod. Her message was deliberate and straightforward, lacking the subtlety for any underlying message that might reveal more than the Hightowers would allow her to convey. If possible, she would have chosen different words, urging her not to agree to their demands, to declare war, and to reclaim her throne. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, a fragile smile touching her lips. “And Ser Gwayne, do return with your head still upon your shoulders. 

His grin turned wry at her remark, “I shall endeavor to do so, Princess.”

“Ensure that you do,” Daenera replied, her tone laced with a seriousness that belied her concern not for Gwayne’s safety, but for the diplomatic balance her mother might upset by having his head removed, and what it might mean for her position. “It is not for your sake. I do not wish for my mother to stain herself with the blood of an envoy and defy convention.”

“Understood,” Ser Gwayne responded, his expression amused, the light of jest twinkling in his frosty gaze. “The preference to keep my head firmly attached is mutual, Princess.”

With a respectful incline of his head, Ser Gwayne gently coaxed his horse forward, gradually picking up speed as he made his way towards the castle gates and the docks that lay beyond. 

Daenera stood there, watching his departure, a weight of sorrow and concern anchoring her heart. 

“Princess, it’s time to return to Maegor’s Holdfast,” the guard intoned, his voice leaving no room for debate. His grasp was gentle yet firm on her arm, prompting her to start moving, a silent reminder of the constraints around her. Once he felt her comply, he loosened his grip, maintaining a matching stride by her side. 

As Daenera made her way into Maegor’s Holdfast, a chilling sight greeted her. Two more bodies had been strung up, ominously swinging from ropes secured to the second floor balustrade. 

Daenera is starting to realize just how confined she is--and what the price of acting out in a big way is. Does she still act out in small ways that is stupid to punish her for? Yes. Like, Otto wouldn't kill her men for knocking over an inkpot. It's in this small way she finds some form of liberation and comfort, even as the cage is pressing in around her, even as the shackles chafe at her skin. And yes, we will know what exactly is written in the letter once Rhaenyra receives it. Next chapter: We finally make our way to Dragonstone, where the calm is broken by Rhaenys bringing the news. We will get to follow Rhaenyra as she's told of her father's death, and we will follow Daemon as he sends out ravens and calls for the guards to stay vigilant + Him sitting the children down.

[babylon-crashing]

[X marks the spot: the only lending library on Culebra.]

Q: Would you ever give a lost Tarot deck a good home?

Every year I travel to the tiny island of Culebra, off the coast of Puerto Rico, to frolic in the ocean and explore coral reefs. It's so small that there is only one stop sign and most of the residents tootle around in golf carts. There are no cruise ships, no mega-hotels, no nightlife, no drunken entertainment. It's humble. It's beautiful. It always feels like home when I return.

There use to be a public library but for complicated reasons that have nothing to do with this post it was closed down a few years ago. Regardless, every year I bring an assortment of books that I find fascinating and leave them in the little free library that someone erected in the downtown of the island's village, Dewey. Last year it was all about one of my favorite poets, Alejandra Pizarnik. This year I'm bring Barbara Smith's Home Girls anthology, the poetry of Pat Parker and Celia A. Sorhaindo's collection, Guabancex, named after the Taino goddess of hurricanes.

I'm also bringing something slightly different, a Sea Witch Tarot deck and its grimoire that I wrote in 2023.

The book isn't just an user guide for Tarot, it's much of my writing on the theme of Sea Witchcraft. I include tidal charts, spells, history, poetry, maps and translations as well as the art that went into the deck.

I have no idea who on Culebra needs this but that's not really the point. I have faith that these gifts will make their way into the right hands provided that I'm open and listening. Who knows what will happen? It will be, as they say, a grand adventure.

[dipplinduo]

So, I'm really looking to write a Dipplinshipping series myself and I really love the depth that you go into for S&D Dipplins (and its related spinoffs, I am very up to date).

Do you have any tips for keeping up with/writing longer works? I think my idea may take at least 10 chapters, but I've never been able to finish anything but oneshots before... I admire your consistency with the quality of your work (there has not been a single miss, not a one) and I hope to be able write like you one day.

No pressure to come up with anything if you don't know what to say. Regardless of anything, I hope this message reaches you well and that you have a fantastic day!

Omg I love writing talk asks and I'm so touched that you thought to ask me this question!

I'm gonna share stuff I found helpful to keep in mind:

- Take your time with storytelling. The advantage of having more chapters is that you can reallllyyyy enjoy your pacing. One way I do this is through gradual hints and breadcrumbs that build to the major plot points. It's a fun way to develop your story over time while keeping readers interested and theorizing. And when you're not focusing on the main plot, you can focus on other aspects of the story.

- Outlines and general note pages for your fic as a whole are your best friends. They will do the work of keeping track of different story elements for you.

- Listen to your readers. Their feedback is invaluable. If you get a lot of comments about something people seem to be enjoying, this may suggest that it's part of the voice of your fic. It can help you figure out what you'd want to emphasize more down the line - whether it be through side stories or through the main plot.

- Switch up some dynamics overtime. If you find yourself feeling stuck because you feel like you're trying to write similar kinds of moments, thoughts, or dialogues, this is a sign that it's time for you to move on and shake things up. I've done this with Kieran & Juliana in S&S D after I felt I have described Kieran seeing Juliana as a witch (who he has a hard time resisting lmao) so many times.

- Flush out the roles of supporting characters. They don't need their own character arcs, and they don't need to be focal points of the story. But they can influence some events, and it can help with the movement of your fic. (E.g. I often use Drayton to instigate moments one way or another, and this suits his character given that hes relatively chaotic neutral).

- Focus on the quality of telling your story first and foremost; you do not need the permission of certain chapter "markers" to progress. You don't need to wait for Chapter 10 or 15 or whatever to have a big moment happen. If everything is set up and ready to go, just do it. This is why a big moment of S&S D happens in Chapter 9 rather than Chapter 10; there was enough in place and I felt dragging it out would've diminished the moment. No one's really gonna care that much about how things line up to a chapter number. They're gonna be happy they got a big moment, and if anything, your ability to break this norm can keep readers on their toes.

- On the opposing ends of things, know when you have enough in a chapter to stop even if you know where you're going next. If you flushed out descriptions of someone's feelings or some scenery or whatever, and you feel you have enough? It's okay to stop writing and publish. Giving yourself more time to soak on ideas can improve the way you're going to pick up where you left off. I personally don't have a hard rule around this, but I tend to cut things off at the 15-20 page mark for a chapter of S&S D.

- If you feel like you're writing a filler chapter, think of ways it can build to your overarching story. You really don't need filler chapters if you think about it - even if you want to delay going somewhere specific. So if your work could be summed up when completed, what would you want someone to say? Think of ways you can slip in gradual storytelling from multiple angles - whether it be through plot or through some of the lighter moments (that may build to the heart of the fic like found family or dorm life or whatever). This can help breathe life into any chapter update.

- Remember that by taking your time, you're actually developing the voice of your writing and of the story. My original conception of S&S D and where it's at now are wildly different, and that's because there's no rushed time table. That goes for the storyline, the characters, the plot points - everything. LMAOOO, even the beach episode content is going to be very different because I gave myself permission to delay it until I figured out the exact roles I want Paldean Squad to play! It was a better decision that will lead to better characterization (even though I'm nonetheless very grateful for people's patience).

- Write on your timetable, not anyone else's. I occasionally put due dates on myself to get me going (e.g. by teasing a chapter update), but I never promise that I'll have chapters out on a weekly basis or whatnot for anything I write - S&S D related or not. This is deliberate. Life happens and the last thing you need is to write for the sake of writing and nothing else. I feel it's the easiest way to kill your passion if it becomes stressful for you.

- Lean into what inspires you. I find a LOT of motivation through comments, reactions, asks, fanart, etc., so I make it a point to respond to every comment on AO3 and engage continuously with the community on here and whatnot. I've also been loosely inspired by art pieces that have nothing to do with my work. This is just what works for me, though. Sometimes you might be inspired by other media, or maybe by things that you've seen or experienced in your own life. Whatever it is, draw from it.

Hmmm that's what comes to mind for now. Happy to give more later if they come up, & hope this helps! Best of luck with writing YOU GOT THISSSSS 🤗💛

[rjshepherd]

Still in my Dishonored kick. Platinumed 1 AND 2 as of last night, now I'm working on doto, knife of dunwall and brigmore witches. Idk how I feel about the trials BC I've not even looked at them yet.

But anyways here's more art. Re uploading human!Outsider because his art was bugging me. Fixed his jawline, toned down his scars and desaturated the forget-me-not behind his ear BC it was distracting

Pose refs by Mellon-soup

Have more headcanons

More for The outsider

So @je-suis-problematique named him Rasmus and I decided to steal that BC it's a good name.

Since jindosh is losing his hearing, he's made an effort to learn sign language

I know he's cannonically 4000 years old but in my mind he's 17-19, physically at least.

Hella thin and constantly hungry. When he was murdered by the cultists it essentially preserved him in the last moment before he died, including any injuries or conditions like hunger ,thirst or exhaustion. It takes a long time for the feeling to wear off.

Billie brings him to dunwall for a few months to help him adjust to real life again. He spends most of his time sleeping, eating all of Emilys snacks and asking a miriad of questions to anyone who'll listen.

Billie Lurk

I haven't read veiled terror yet so I don't know what she's doing post dh2. In the au she's roving the isles looking for places where the void is opening up like a sinkhole and trying to prevent normal people falling in.

She did take a few months off to set up a lawn chair on a roof in Holger square so she had a front row seat to watch the abbey fall to bits.

Corvo occasionally popped in with popcorn and a spy glass for a better view.

When the void started leaking more and more into the real world billies arm and eye began to sort of stabelize. They still look odd but are definitely easier to disguise. Her eye can now be covered with a patch, although she can still see through it, and her arm resembles liquid gold as much as it does bone and stone.

Teague Martin

So don't ask how or why but this little bastard wormed his way into my top 3 DH characters. This drawing of him took me like 3 days BC I kept getting stuck on it but I'm happy with how he ended up.

Low chaos ending for him. Although I refuse to believe he didn't know his drink was poisoned, I'm fully convinced he drank it on purpose because he couldn't live with the guilt.

In this au he's been friendly with Lamb and Wolf for a fairly long time, since they normally live in Morley where teague is from.

He and Wolf have a friend's with benefits arrangement. They've been seeing each other since before jessamines murder.

During dh1 lamb and wolf relocate to dunwall, partly to deal with the influx of souls related to the rat plague, partly to be closer to teague and his terrible decisions.

He's fully aware that both lamb and wolf are void creatures, not to mention magic users but he justifies his relationship with them by adopting a lesser of 2 evils sort of mind set.

Despite being in his position for power alone, Martin really does what what's best for the empire

After his death, rather than wander the void for eternity he winds up working for them, collecting souls and ushering them to the void.

His tattoos where given to him by wolf, to allow him access to void powers. Wolf's particular gift, her equivalent of the outsiders mark is called 'fatal wound'. usually taking the form of a bite mark around the neck, allows access to extra powers.

Wolf painfully carved his scars herself to give him incredibly customised abilities.

His outfit is a modified overseer uniform, adapted for using movement abilities like blink. The scarf was a gift.

Wolf

Lamb and wolf have a sort of Kindred relationship. They are both void creatures, presumably knowing all the old gods who died before the outsider was created.

Where lamb is inspired by Inuit whaling culture, Wolf takes hers from west indies, 17th century whaling (think assassin's creed 4 style) . She has a more nautical pirate thing going on. Her original design had her eyes covered by a tritip hat rather than her fringe.

Wolf's ears are functional but she's not a werewolf or anything of the sort. Originally lamb had sheep ears but they were covered by her hair. She still has a lambs tail under her clothes though.

To cover her ears in public, she usually uses the silk ribbon on her waist as a bandana.

Although her eyes are always covered, they are the same void black as lambs.

She spends her free time creating bone charms. No one's sure what they do thought...

Originally Lamb and Wolf are from an island near pandyssia. The way they speak of it however makes it seem like the island no longer exists.

Like the kindred, where lamb goes wolf follows. She's never more than a few feet from lamb, even if you can't see her she can sure see you.

Everyone finds her relationship with teague Martin strange. Lamb often refers to him as " wolf's chew toy"

By the time of dh2 she can usually be found in the back room of Lambs apothecary, concocting potions and running the accounts.

I'm super proud of the way wolf turned out. I had no idea where I was going with her when I started, only that I wanted a visual foil to lamb. I think I'll draw them together and do more details about them and maybe their relationships with the other characters

[theresattrpgforthat]

hi! this might be odd but im flirting with this nerd -- do you have any recommendations for 2 players ttrpgs that we can turn romantic?

THEME: Two-Player Flirty Games

Hello friend. There are so many great 2-player games out there that I wanted to recommend but I did my best to cultivate a list with an appreciable amount of variety. Some of these games are designed to be romantic, while others simply have the potential. Some games are slightly more serious, while others have room for goofiness. Enjoy!

Over the Moon, by Speak the Sky.

Over the Moon is a 2-player role-playing dating game of dark lunar obsession, awkward online dating Q&A, and tantalizingly limited information that's designed for play via online messaging apps!

Each of you plays a moon cultist, witch, or other dark creature who loves the moon a little too much, and whose comrades decided to ‘fix’ this by online dating with ‘normal’ people… but you’ve just been matched with each other instead, and it’s up to you to see if you can make this work. Is the moon your one true love, a third wheel in the sky, or the ultimate wingmoon? Play to find out!

This is a wholeheartedly goofy game that uses romance without expecting the players to take the story seriously. Players will create dating profiles complete with likes, dislikes, and personal qualities. They will also create hidden personal preferences based on moon sign. The game itself progresses over the course of a moon’s cycle, starting on the new moon. You will take turns sending questions to each-other, replacing some words “moon” or other moon-related terms, reacting to messages using exclusively moon emojis. The game even comes with (optional) spicy questions, if you want to progress past flirting, and into something a bit more overtly sexual.

Perihelion, by Meghan Cross.

Perihelion is a prompt based storytelling game about the Sun and the Moon and the relationship that they share.  It can be played two different ways - either as a new and developing relationship or an established and changing relationship. 

Play out the phases of a lunar cycle, making your way through the prompts and treasuring every fleeting moment you have to spend together.

Perihelion has the capacity to be as romantic or non-romantic as you like, with the focus directed instead to the type of relationship being depicted. Whether the relationship is new or established, the Sun and the Moon don’t get to see each-other very much. Their relationship is one of trading places, reading the marks of what the other has left behind. I’d recommend this game if you don’t mind a bit of a more serious tone, but want some ambiguity about your characters’ relationships.

Alone Together in this Vast Space, by Junk Food Games.

Alone Together in this Vast Space is a 2-player one-page ttrpg meant to be played in a single session. 

To play, you need the game sheet, one 12-sided die and access to music.

It is about a lone passenger aboard a spaceship whose only company is the ship's AI. Using music, you will find out what you want to do on this interstellar journey, face threats, and connect more with the only other being with you.

Despite being only one page, I think this game has a lot of potential to create intimacy, romantic or non-romantic. It’s a great chance to introduce your potential partner to the kind of music you like to listen to, and therefore learn more about each-other in the process. 

From the Sea to the Sky, by somewhere with stories.

A two player game about writing to a loved one while you are apart. 

One player resides at the bottom of the sea, having made a home in sunken stone ruins. The second player takes their residence on the moon, observing the stars and the world below from the endless skies.

As a letter-writing game, From the Sea to the Sky provides another option for players who want a nebulous definition of the relationship between the characters. You could be good friends, siblings, former comrades, or lovers. The game is simple, providing a series of prompts that you can use to fuel your initial letter, and the author expects the players to pick up from there and find many things to write about. If you are long-distance, or if you want an opportunity to flex your creative muscles, this game might be worth taking a look at. 

Eyes on the Prize, by ira prince.

Eyes on the Prize is a court intrigue game for 2 or 4 players (1 or 2 pairs) in which you dream up a fake-married couple, then attempt to wield their fraudulent union to achieve their shared goals. Perform badly, and nobody will buy it, tripping up your attempts to advance your plots; perform too well, and you might start fooling even yourselves.

Use a deck of playing cards, a d8, some tokens and a timer to role-play two people doing their best to keep up fake appearances for the purpose of satisfying court society. If you liked the first season of Bridgerton, you’ll probably like this game. If you like fanfic tropes like “only one bed” or “fake partner to bring to the wedding”, you’ll probably also love this game. The outcome is up to the players - do you go your separate ways once the crisis is averted? Do you achieve a satisfying friendship? Do you actually fall in love? It’s up to you!

Ships That Pass, by Ash Can Games.

A game for two players about queer spaceships with crushes on each other, the biological allies they make along the way, and the Powers That Be threatening to separate them all.

Players design their spaceships and then role play scenes between ships, between ship and pilot, and -- if their anomalies are detected -- between pilots and agents of The MAN (Monitors of Artificial Norms), a privatized organization that deals with aberrant tech.

This game leads you step by step through a session of Ships that Pass, going through each step of the game in chronological order. You’ll learn about relevant parts of the fiction as they become necessary to the game. This includes ship design, pilot creation, your first meeting, etc. All the while, any anomalous activity has a risk of tripping the radar of The MAN, who your pilots will try to protect you from but may not always succeed. 

I like the way this game frames romance as between ships; it allows you to role-play romance in new and creative ways, and might also provide a bit of a buffer between two parties who aren’t entirely sure if their relationship is romantic or not. You don’t just play as the ships, you also play as the pilots who are responsible for them. If you want a game with suspense, romance, and a balance of romantic and platonic connections, you should definitely check this game out.

Games I’ve Recommended in the Past

I Have the High Ground, by Jess Levine.

Anyone Can Wear the Mask, by Jeff Stormer.

The Serpent and the Spider, by Junk Food Games.

[belphegorspillow]

Soul Bound [Obey me! x GN!MC] [Soulmate Au]

Soul Bound [Obey Me x GN!Mc] [Soulmate AU]

Chapter 8: Mammon.

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Story Masterlist 

~~~~~~~~~~ Mini note: not including the events of nightbringer that have MC in it.

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

Mammon believed in Soulmates.

The idea of someone being destined to be with you definitely made him giddy about who it could be, yet when he was an angel, there was never a mark. No symbol, no string. Nothing. He had no soulmate.

Mammon would just continue on with his life as an angel. Why should he care for the other angels as they met their soulmates? Why should he bother when humans get to meet the person they know they will love for the rest of their lives. Why should it matter if even the demons got to meet their soulmates in the Devildom?

Why....Why did it matter... It shouldn't....He didn't have one. Clearly he didn't deserve one.

He would never hate the idea of soulmates, but he felt jealous as he watched others find the ones they love. He was going to be alone...forever..

He would only care for soulmates when he saw the mark on his sister's write. A small flower that tattooed on her wrist. Mammon would feel happiness for his sister that she could find her love, though that small sadness stayed inside of him, he would be alone...

After the Celestial War. Mammon would continue on. He would watch as the Demons and some Witches find their lovers.

After becoming a ruler of the underworld, nothing changed. He would continue with his life. RAD would be finished and he would start to go to school.

Time would pass by...Years...Decades... before...

'Maths homework or Miss June will be mad'

Mammon would stare at his arm seeing the messy, yet readable words on his write in f/c on. He couldn't say anything. He had a soulmate...? Why didn't they talk to him before? Why...Why only now.... Why did he have to feel so alone...for so long...

'Oi! Don’t write reminders on your arm!'

Nothing... It was silent after that. Mammon attempted again.

'Hey, you there?'

'Oi! Don't ignore me!'

Nothing... Nothing came... Did his soulmate just hate him? Mammon would just slowly drain out the idea of his soulmate. He would continue to write on his arm, various notes to himself, sometimes adding something, hoping some reaction from his soulmate...nothing

Mammon would continue on. Soulmates. He didn't have one... Or at least he never considered his soulmate on his arm as his soulmate...

Then they came. The new Human exchange student.

MC Hello? Are you Mammon?

Mammon hated it. The idea of taking care of a human exchange student for the next year? They didn't even speak, not a single word. They always wore things covering up.

Then Lucifer came forcing him to learn how to speak with his hands on top of his school assignments already. Why should they bother, the human is going to get eaten anyways...

Then the Goldie incident. Mammon couldn't believe that Levi and the Human would use his own card against him. Mammon would dread as the human dragged him along...

They started to become less annoying... Mammon couldn't like, he would start seeing them as a friend. As they were always listening to him rant. They always let him hang around in their room.

Mc... They were...special... Hell, Mammon started to learn sign language to talk with them. He wants to surprise them. He had been looking at things in stores thinking if they would like the gift or not. He would imagine them whenever he could. He started to develop feelings...

As much as he would try and deny it, it was the truth.

Which was why when he saw the green cat notebook, hidden under the bed, broke something inside him.

Mammon would move a bit to pick it up, as he opened it to see the name 'MC' written on the cover side while the pages contained various notes in green. He could recognise Satan's handwriting.

Mc had a soulmate....It was Satan...

Mammon would sit quietly for the night as he read through the green letters. There was maybe one or two lines in a different pen colour that MC wrote.

Mammon couldn't sleep that night...

.

.

"You challenged him in a Competition in TSL?" Asmodeus spoke as everyone besides Levi were at the table.

Mc nods their head as their hands move to respond to Asmodeus. Mammon wouldn't say anything or look up from his plate. His fork pushed the food around on his plate.

"Are you going to eat it?" Beel questioned before Mammon would just push the plate towards his brother.

Mammon felt someone pull on his sleeve causing him to look over at MC who mouthed to him. 'Are you okay Mammon?'

"Yeah..." Mammon just pulled himself out of the seat and started to head out.

The last thing he heard was from Satan.

"Just let Mammon go."

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

Taglist:  @candlewitch-cryptic ,   @iamqueenlila ,   @bloodyvampnblm , @somany-fandoms-solittle-time ,   @lizard-zombie ,   @doomcandy  ,  @sakuram1nt  ,  @bontensbabygirl , @avatarofenvee, @lizard-zombie, @kokomisimpppp , @nyxibis , @mel-star636 @nothingfuninthislife

~~~~~~~~~~~

How are yall doing after this chapter? :]

[sendmyresignation]

In that case could you possibly compile an introductory list to what you would consider good black metal for someone coming more from hardcore (i also listen to some metal but nothing really specific as a genre)? Thank you for your previous answer

sorry this took so long anon! i wanted to really give some specific recs, especially considering you sound less familiar with the metal basics. hopefully you find some good stuff worth exploring!

first and foremost, i would recommend first wave black metal pretty wholeheartedly for punk/hardcore fanatics. First wave essentially refers to the 80s black metal that existed pre-scandinavian genre definition (which means its also less sketch, typically, though there are shitheads). This stuff is pretty nebulous, its defined mostly by "extremity" and genre mixing (stuff that existed on the outskirts of other genres, with different balances of black/death/thrash). A lot of it is influenced by thrash and punk + it was way underground so shares a lot of qualities with diy/shit production + was primarily made by teens and people who could barely play their instruments. some essentials:

Venom - Welcome to Hell (defining black metal influence even if the sound of black metal is unrecognizable now. punk influence in spades, if you like discharge you'll love this)

Bathory - Under the Sign of the Black Mark (if venom is what really codified Satanism in bm, then bathory did the same for vikings. this is probably The Classic first wave rec)

Slayer - Show No Mercy (barely counts here, but they rip off venom enough and this is impactful enough that if you haven't gotten to it, this is required listening)

Celtic Frost - Morbid Tales

Sarcofago - INRI

Sodom - In the Sign of Evil (much more on the thrash side of first wave, Sodom was pushing enough boundaries that they've been incorporated into the first wave)

Bulldozer - The Day of Wrath (blackened thrash with a ton of venom/motorhead influence)

Mortuary Drape - All the Witches Dance

there's also a long tradition of black punk crossover. ultimately the genres have ideological similarities in terms of their philosophies surrounding music imo (not politically, obviously) and how it manifests as its own self-perpetuating diy culture. black/punk tends to also be less full of shitheads, which is nice

Devil Master - Satan Spits on the Children of Light

Melissa - Melissa

Truchlo Strzgi - Gwiezdny Demon

Gehennah - Hardrocker (tw for puke on the cover btw)

Wildspeaker - Spreading Adder (black and crust infusion here, rather than just punk)

Svalbard - When I Die, Will I Get Better? (technically my blackgaze rec, I think it's tempered significantly by the post-hardcore influence, it feels much more intense and varied)

in terms of true blue kvlt black metal, here's a nebulous collection of bands I'd suggest checking out since they're more along what i see hardcore heads gravitate towards and then you can dig deeper into their respective scenes/niches

Darkthrone (first couple classics have the greatest diy charm of the second wave imo. later work incorporates a lot of punk, they experiment with crust and trad and such)

Immortal (think the fact immortal seem very ridiculous and over the top makes them very endearing to people who otherwise dislike the self-serious nihilism of the second wave)

Rotting Christ

Panopticon

Gabestok

Hulder

Tietanblood

Havukruunu

as a final note, I'll just mention Opera IX, Spectral Wound, Yaotl Mictlan, Valdrin, Tresspasser, Dawn's Reflection, Thantifaxath, and Marthe for some bands i really like that are less accessible for hardcore listeners (mainly use symphonic elements like synths and keys or are atmospheric in an opposite direction to blackgaze)

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @kaylinalexanderbooks! Sorry it took me a while to respond

5 Lines Tag

.

A line about a building

In time, Mashal began to recognize the buildings they passed from his first trip here. It seemed like all of the apothecaries and paper shops huddled around the city’s center, and by extension, the Archive. None of these were open at such an hour, so sneaking around was even easier. Above the slate roofs, he could see the dour spire of the magical library---the tallest spike in the crown that was the Yewbury College of the Arcane.

As they passed through the ring of shops and entered the university grounds, that spire towered above then as a gargantuan monolith, a massive panopticon set to watch the whole city for any signs of ignorance. It seemed almost alien, how bare it was. Just a brutalist gray slab reaching impossibly high into the sky.

A sad line

From outside the house suddenly came the shrill blast of a whistle. Mashal jumped at the noise, while Astra's face fell. Elwe and Dahlia looked at each other exhaustedly. It seemed their lunch break was over.

"Time to get back to work," Dahlia muttered. She stood, crossing the room to pull on a heavily mended pair of boots. Elwe hesitated, but stood as well with a sigh.

Astra scowled bitterly. Mashal saw her briefly reach into her sleeve, fingers brushing over dozens of assorted runes, though none that did what she wanted right now. Her gaze was dim as she hugged her parents goodbye. Soon, it was the two of them alone in the house.

"I coulda' begged 'em to stay," the witch murmured. "They deserve a day off. I deserve the chance to spend time with 'em."

A line that's wimpered

"You've got this," he whispered, careful to keep his voice below Avymere's enraged complaints---which now featured not only Landry's blood, but the lack of refreshments and seating arrangements, the demiplane's air quality, and both his and Sixteen's omnipresent mechanical hiss-clack.

"I'm going to die," Elsind whimpered.

Without another word, the changeling squeezed into their liquid form and oozed towards the cell bars. The moment they moved, Mashal could see what the problem was. Elsind's skin typically had a slimy cast to it. Not enough to leave marks or stains on anything---just a bit of a sheen. Vermir had scalded all of that off to rid herself of her liquid intruder. Elsind's movements were jerky and pained; they involuntarily tensed up any time something brushed up against them. Instead of a clean squeeze through the bars, it was more of a sticky struggle, limbs clawing half-formed on either side.

A line with taste

Then came the unmistakable sound of a large explosion.

A bitter grin crept up Vermir's face. She remembered the taste of that summoned fire. It had stuck. What sort of fire did that? No, the witch who'd managed to impress a five hundred year old mage possessing the power of seven sorcerers wouldn't fall to some city guards.

A funny line

"Top of the east tower, right?" Mashal asked. He held out a map, cross-referencing that with the written directions.

"Yeah, but we gotta take the servants' passages or they'll kill us," Astra muttered. "Or boil us alive, or sew us in a bag with rabid dogs. Or make us listen to ballad jazz."

Mashal shook his head. "Ballad jazz is great---you must be deafer than I thought from all those explosions. We'll take this passage here." The man started walking faster, Astra having to take twice as many steps to keep up with her long-legged friend. "That'll connect to here, which should bring us to the stairs."

"How many stories?" she asked with a wince.

"Thirty," he answered mercilessly, eyes still on the map. "The good news is, the staircase connects directly to a door in the Duchon's chambers. Technically, the whole east tower is theirs, but they only live on the top floor. Also, did you know there are elevators here like in Unity? Though they're only for the---"

"Love, if ya finish that sentence, I'm gonna have a conniption."

.

Your lines are: A line about clothing, an angry line, a line that's muttered, a line with taste, and a loving line

I'll tag @bunnymermaidwrites @the-ellia-west @melpomene-grey @sleepywriter00 @somethingclevermahogony and YOU :D

Have a bitchin day <3