#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.

[miupow]

UNDER THE MOON

★ pairing。lee felix x fem!reader genre。⧼ 📖 ⧽ smut , comedy , pwp warnings。minors do not interact! demon!felix , witch!reader , magic , breeding kink , unprotected sex , sub to dom , oral (f. rec) , vaginal fingering , cowgirl position , mating press , creampie , overstimulation , dacryphilia , squirting , breast play , marking , size kink , monster cock felix lol , dirty talk , praise kink , degredation kink , name calling , power play , bulge kink , orgasm control , strangers to ???

★ synopsis。you accidentally summoned the wrong demon , but you won't let that get in the way of getting what you want.

a/n ⸝⸝ not proofread lol. let me know if there are any mistakes! this is my second longest fic to date, wow... i hope you all enjoy ! [ 5. 5k words ] ⸝⸝ [ m. list ]

any respectable, well-to-do witch knows that the perfect time to summon a demon is during the full moon. that was when the boundary between the living and the otherworldly was at its most blurred, and a person's magical ability was especially potent– you could feel it thrumming through your body just under your skin, concentrating at your fingertips, just begging to be released. accompanied by your excitement and nerves, you felt simply alight with power.

even then, you still couldn’t believe you managed to summon a demon.

the force of the summoning makes him fall flat on his ass, thick black smoke filling up your bedroom and snuffing out your ritual candles– you can only get a good look at him once the smoke clears out of your open window, the moonlight illuminating his form in the darkness. the first thing you notice are his mismatched eyes, wide and wild as he takes in his new surroundings; one was a deep dark brown, the other an icy steel blue, his pupils slit like a feline’s. his otherworldly beauty takes your breath away, a smattering of freckles across his high cheekbones, heart shaped face framed by curled black horns and platinum hair that cascades down to his shoulders; his inquisitive gaze travels to the summoning circle he was laid out on, ancient runes etched into your hardwood floor, and then to you, peering down at him from the edge of your big pink bed.

“h-how did you do that?!” the demon finally asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence. his thick aussie accent surprised you— you didn’t think demons could have accents other than whatever one they have in hell. “where did you learn how to do that?” 

“hello to you too,” you retort, rolling your eyes. “i summoned you here with my family spell book.”

“spell book?” he echoes, taking another look around your frightfully girly bedroom— he’s quick to spot a rather old-looking tome left open on the floor near where he sat in the summoning circle, propped up with a beady-eyed stuffed animal. 

“it’s been in my family for generations.” you stand to pick the spell book up off the floor, dusting the smoke residue off the pages. 

the demon blinked up at you, odd eyes raking over the lacey little nightgown you were wearing. “you, um, don’t really look like that kind of girl...” 

“the kind to be a witch?” you laugh. “i just summoned you here, didn’t i? listen, i need your help.”

“my help? with what?” he moves to stand up as well, patting down his crumpled leather vest— he’s much, much taller than you expected him to be.

you hide your gulp with a dramatic scoff. “i want to make a deal with you, idiot; what else would i have summoned you for?! that’s what you do with demons, isn’t it? and, like, sign over your firstborn or whatever.” 

the demon stares at you in abject disbelief for a moment before dropping his head into his hands. “you humans are so stupid…” he mutters under his breath. “i’m not even that kind of demon. i can’t make any ‘deals’ with you.”

“bullshit! what do you mean you can’t make deals with me?!” you retort, crossing your arms. “the spell specifically said it would summon an entity that would make all my dreams come true!”

the demon blanches and stutters, his freckled cheeks turning pink. for some reason, you didn’t think that demons could blush. “um… well, about that…” he laughs nervously. “i’m an incubus. not the kind of demon you’re looking for, i think… i’m not even that good of an incubus, to be honest with you…”

you cock your head, watching as the demon shuffles his feet, his pointed black leather boots scuffing up your floor. “why do you say that?”

“i’ve never been summoned like this before, by a mortal…” he admits softly, his blush deepening. “i’ve never been in the human realm at all before; i’m supposed to be using you mortals to strengthen my powers, prey on you in your sleep… but i’m just too nervous! you humans frighten me… the other incubi make fun of me for it. i’m a terrible demon, you probably need to summon someone different…”

his sad pout was so cute for a demon from hell, and you can’t help but giggle a little meanly at the incubus’ plight. “you’re a virgin incubus? i never thought there was such a thing…”

the demon scowls, his pretty face screwed up in a way that wasn’t intimidating in the slightest. “don’t laugh at me.” he whines petulantly, “i could kill you right now if i wanted to.”

“sure you could, loser virgin incubus.”

the demon’s scowl deepens, trying very hard to keep his odd eyes from wandering their way down to your breasts, pushed up in your nightie by your crossed arms. “shut up. don’t call me that.”

“what should i call you then?” you snicker. you can’t help but revel in the way the demon’s eyes eat you alive— while he seems gentle and harmless, the way his mismatched eyes seem to glow with something dark and venomous when he looks over you leaves you shivering. something darker seemed to be hiding just under the surface of this seemingly innocent incubus… and you yearned to discover just what that was.

“felix. my name is felix.” the demon— felix-- mumbles to his shoes. he seemed to have noticed that you’ve caught on to his staring, anxiously avoiding eye contact. cute.

“that’s not a very demonic name.” you remark playfully. “i like it, though. it suits you, felix.”

felix huffs and rolls his eyes, but you can see the beginnings of a shy smile tug at the corner of his lips, his sharp, vampire-like teeth poking out in an oddly endearing way. you won’t let his cuteness distract you, though— you took all this time and effort to summon him, and you were determined to not let it get wasted.

“so… do you have any cool powers or anything?” you press, “like, could you maybe… make somebody fall in love with me?”

felix blinks owlishly down at you. “um… what?”

“listen, there’s this guy on campus i like, right? he’s my roommate’s best friend and he’s just so dreamy… but he’s in love with this girl i can’t stand. it’s like he’s obsessed with her, it’s disgusting.” you huff, curling your lip. “i just want him to forget about her and see what he’s missing! can you make him fall in love with me or something, like cupid? make him obsessed with me instead— you can do that, right?”

“er, well, kind of—”

“you can? perfect!” you clap your hands excitedly. “do i just need to tell you his name, or—”

“wait, wait—” felix interjects with a flustered stutter, “hold on a moment! w-what’s in it for me? i don’t go around doing favors for free, you know.”

you think for a moment, an ingenious and devilish idea quickly forming in your head as you slide your gaze down felix’s fit body. you never expected hell’s demons to be so drop-dead gorgeous, but you supposed it made sense with him being an incubus and all… slowly your lips pull into a devious grin. sure, you summoned the wrong demon, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do your bidding anyway.

“you want to be a better incubus, right? want the other demons to stop making bullying you?”

“well, yes…”

“i can help you.” you offer, taking a step closer to the nervous demon in front of you. “i can teach you everything you need to know about pleasing a human… if, in return, you use your little demon powers to help me out.”

it takes felix a second to process just what you’re proposing, his eyes widening comically and his mouth dropping open in a gape. the blush on his freckled cheeks now burns crimson red, all the way to the tips of his pointed ears. “wh- wait, really, you— with me?!”

you nod with a sensual smile, taking another slow step forwards; just close enough to reach out and run a finger down his chest. “you help me and i’ll help you, okay?”

felix’s eyes flicker down to your lips, his adam’s apple bobbing with his gulp, and you can see it on his face when his flimsy resolve crumbles. “you’re lucky you summoned one of hell’s nicer demons, no other demon would ever agree to something like this— mmffh!”

you grab him by the lapels and pull him into a kiss in the middle of his sentence, his last words smothered on your soft and persuasive lips. he returned your kiss with reckless abandon, whimpering into your mouth. he was far too good of a kisser to be as inexperienced as he claimed, the tenderness leaving your knees weak and your thoughts spinning. a thin string of spit connects your wet lips when you pull away for air, snapping when felix darts a forked pink tongue out to lick his bottom lip in a daze.

“wow…” he whispers in awe, his sparkling eyes gazing at you through lowered lashes. “kissing humans is so much better than i thought it would be…”

his lips recapture yours, more demanding this time as that sinful forked tongue coaxed your lips open and explored the recesses of your mouth. the savage intensity of it sends a shock wave through your entire body, your senses short-circuiting— you tear your lips from his, quickly turn him around and push him onto your pink floral mattress. once again, you nearly succumbed to his distractions.

felix lets out a huff when his backside hits the bed, confusion paralyzing him just long enough for you to begin slowly undressing.

“woah, a little impatient, are you?” felix laughs, “you humans can never take anything slow…ly…”

he grows quiet as you slide the straps of your nightgown off your shoulders, the thin lace fabric pooling around your ankles. it left you completely bare except for a pair of tiny cotton panties, a little wet spot already visible in the white fabric. he ogles at your tits, round and perky with your nipples beginning to harden in the cool air.

his hungry gaze roamed over your figure, taking in your soft curves and tummy, dropping to follow your hands as you pull your panties down your thighs. they join your nightgown on the floor, and felix gets his first look at your pussy as you step out of them and kick them to the side.

“wow… you are so… beautiful.”

the sincerity in which he says it makes both your heart and your pussy flutter. you can’t hide your eagerness as you saunter forwards and begin to climb up on felix’s lap. “are you ready for your lesson?” you purr into his ear, your hand sliding up his thigh towards the growing bulge in his pants. just the size of the bulge alone makes your head spin— and he’s not even fully hard yet.

“h-hold on,” felix whimpers, grabbing your wrist, “you’re so small and, you know.. human sized… shouldn’t i, um, prep you? i don’t want to hurt you, i’m not one of those kinds of demons.”

you look back down at his bulge, just out of your reach with his fingers around your wrist. “that’s probably a good idea…”

you slide off his lap, positioning yourself in the middle of your bed; you rest your head among all your pillows and stuffed animals, all cute and cuddly and nothing at all like the dark energy that filled the room, the wicked smile on your face as felix crawls up the bed and in between your parted legs. he stares enthralled at your pussy, spread open all for him to admire— his hands come to grasp at the meat of your thighs, seemingly trying to ground himself as he takes everything in.

“oh, fuck,” he croaks, mismatched eyes glinting in the moonlight, “you’re already so wet, it’s dripping all over the sheets… it’s beautiful. have you been wanting me this whole time?”

your words get stuck in your throat, shuddering in arousal as you nod coyly down at him. he screws his eyes shut and lets out a deep, pathetic groan. 

“god, you’re so fucking sexy… i never thought i could get so aroused by a mortal.”

“i’m sorry, whose name was that?” you joke, still feeling mischievous even as your heart rattled in your chest. felix shoots you an irritated glare.

“oh, be quiet.”

he shuts you up with another searing hot kiss, demanding and passionate, and his stout fingers moved to tease at your wet, sticky folds. you gasp against his lips, squirming beneath him; the gentle stroking of his fingers sent jolts of pleasure through you, your pussy clenching around nothing but air.

“i’m not sure what to do…” felix mumbles, breaking your kiss to graze his lips across your jawline. “i’ve never done anything like this before… will you show me how to make you feel good?”

“just touch me,” you plead. “i want your fingers inside of me, please—”

felix starts with just one, short but deliciously thick as he slowly pushes it into your fluttering hole. “fuck, you’re so tight…” the stretch makes you cry out and claw at his shoulders, finally having something inside to ease the ache after being so needy for so long.

felix freezes with his finger buried inside to the knuckle, glancing down at you nervously. “did i hurt you?”

“no, no, feels so good—“ his hesitation would be cute if you weren’t so worked up, desperately grinding your cunt against his hand. “now move it in and out, nice and slow…”

he follows your directions dutifully, his movements slow and unsure, and despite his inexperience and anxiety, he quickly found a rhythm that flooded your shivering body with dizzying desire. waves of ecstasy crashed through you as you bucked your hips to meet his finger, whimpers and whines of delight falling from your open, panting mouth. his fingertip brushes your spongey sweet spot, electricity rippling under your skin and sending shockwaves through your core as you moaned in sweet agony.

“am i doing good, little human?” felix breathes shyly against your ear.

his eagerness to please made your pussy throb around him, sucking his finger in deeper—he was a quick learner, paying special attention to your sweet spot as you gushed slick all over his hand. “i think i am, you’re even wetter than before, it’s so noisy,” he accentuates his claim with a curl of his finger, the obscene wet squelches of your pussy ringing in your ears. “just look how well you’re taking it…is it okay if i add another finger?”

“yes! yes, fuck yes, please—”

he slides another fat finger in along with his first, his big eyes watching as he stretched your tight pussy out even wider for the cock you all but ached for. you sob in pleasure as he quickens his pace, curls his fingertips harder against your sweet spot. “wow, you can barely take two of my fingers..” the demon above you murmured in faux concern, “i don’t know if my cock will fit.”

you throw your head back with a lustful moan.

“tell me what you want from me.” he continues in a deep rasp, his accent only adding to the desire in his voice, “tell me what to do to make you cum.”

“t-touch my clit!” you hiccup, pretty manicured nails tearing at the fabric of his shirt.

you expect another finger, maybe his palm—what you don’t expect is for felix to trail soft kisses down your chest and belly, lower and lower until his plump lips were hovering over the curve of your pussy.

“wh-what are you doing?!” you squeal as felix kicks your legs over his shoulders, “do you even know what you’re doing down there?!”

“no.” felix shakes his head with a grin before diving his head between your thighs.

he attaches his lips to your swollen clit, his long tongue dragging up between your folds to circle the bud with shocking precision. he sucks gently on your clit while his fingers pump deep inside of you, his pretty moans and groans muffled with his face pressed against your squelching pussy. “you taste so good,” felix mumbles, his wide, mismatched eyes blinking up at you to take in every one of your reactions. “fuck, i love this pussy so much… think you can take another finger?”

he presses in a third finger before you can even respond, pussy stretched past your limits as you sob out in pleasure. it’s overwhelming in the best possible way, his fingers quickly pushing you closer and closer to the edge as he licks your clit and slurps up your juices. the flames of passion raged through your very being, and you abandon yourself to the knot tightening deep in your belly. you haven’t felt pleasure like this in ages, yelping as felix sucks particularly hard at your clit, and without thinking your arms dart down to grab ahold of his twisted black horns. the growl felix lets out against your heated skin is obscene, dark and beastly as he buries his face farther into your cunt, quickens the pace of his fingers against your sweet spot. “fuck yes, nasty girl, that’s it— grab my horns and just take it!”

you use your grip on his horns to buck wildly against his face, the knot in your belly threatening to snap as felix pulls his fingers out to grab your hips tightly. his clawed fingers dig painfully at your flesh, but it only heightens your sense of pleasure as he shoves his tongue deep into your wet hole. he tongue fucks your pussy with vigor, his groans and growls growing deeper and more demonic as he fucks you to your climax. “pussy’s so fucking good, can’t get enough…”

“felix!” you squeal when the forked tip of his tongue brushes against your sweet spot. “felix, i’m close, i’m gonna cum--!”

“say my name again, scream it!” felix crows with his face still buried in your cunt, the dark, powerful boom to his voice that hadn’t been there before making you finally hurtled you past the point of now return.

you scream his name as you squirt all over his face, nasty and wet as you ride out your high on his tongue— you’re quickly catapulted into overstimulation, tears pooling in your lashes as you whine and attempt to push him off you by his horns. if anything, that just seems to spur him on more.

“fuck no, i’m not done,” he growls, a dangerous edge to his voice frightening you and making your spent pussy throb all the same. “i need more, can’t stop— need to make you cum again, and again—”

he devours you like an animal, otherworldly strength keeping him flush against you even as you thrash and push roughly at his head. he doesn’t stop until you cum again, soaking his face and your sheets in sweet sticky slick— your pathetic cries seem to snap him out of it, hastily tearing himself away from your trembling little pussy to look up at you in worry and alarm.

“i-i’m so sorry, i don’t know what came over me! i just.. lost control— that was good though, right?”

his pretty pink lips and swollen and wet with your arousal, his freckled cheeks and chin smeared with it, even his nose; he gazes at you with big, watery doe eyes, the opposite of how he had been looking at you when he had his face between your legs. you babble incoherently, scrambled brain unable to string together a single sentence, your chest heaving with the aftershocks of two back-to-back orgasms.

felix smirks. “i’ll take that as a yes.”

his odd eyes snap back to your spent pussy, the primal hunger in his eyes making you throb despite of how spent you already were. “you look so pretty like this, all spent… can you take more? i need to be inside of you, now.”

your own hazy, unfocused gaze lowers to the straining bulge in his leather pants— the size of it makes you dizzy, a little frightened, but your overwhelming need for more outweighs any fear, and you slowly move to prop yourself up. “can i ride you? it’ll be easier for me to, um… take it.”

felix nods excitedly, as obedient as ever as he moves to take your place on the mattress. his platinum hair splays out around his head like a halo, his pretty face so angelic despite the fangs, tongue and horns… the imagery makes you snort.

“alright, you can get on whenever you’re ready— ooh!~”

you swing your leg over his waist without hesitation, straddling him as you begin to tug recklessly at his clothes. you pull his vest and shirt up to his chest, revealing twitching washboard abs that made your mouth water, and loosened his belt and fly. tugging his pants down to his thighs, his red swollen cock slaps wetly against his abs, rock hard and drooling pearly precum from the fat tip. you moan at just the sheer size of it, long and thick with the prettiest pulsing veins— you’re barely able to fit your hand around it when you reach down to take ahold of him, relishing in the low whimper felix lets out. you slowly slide your hand up and down his shaft, watching in rapture as more precum leaks from the head and slicks up your hand. it aids in the slide of your tight fist, felix groaning out pathetically as your other hand slides up your belly to pinch and roll your budding nipple.

you slide his cock between your pussy lips, your slick and his precum mixing together to make a sticky mess. you let his cockhead brush against your clit, the sudden shock of pleasure making the both of you moan— felix’s hands are shaking when they shoot up to take ahold of your waist. the lust on his face makes your tummy turn, the tenderness and sincerity in which he gazed up at you. “if it’s ever too much, tell me, please?” he breathes, his thumbs stroking the flushed skin. ”forget about the deal.”

you open your mouth to answer, but find yourself unable to speak; his tip catches your entrance, the sheer size of it pushing against your hole leaving you breathless and stuck in a silent scream. it feels so much bigger than three fingers, more than anything you think you’ve ever taken, and you freeze in a confusing mix of frightened and aroused.

“shh, don’t be scared, human,” felix coos, his steady hands keeping you firm against his cockhead. he squeezes your waist reassuringly. “i’m not going to hurt you, i promise.”

his tip slides inside with a pop, the gummy walls of your pussy gripping onto him like a vice as he steadies himself and slowly starts pushing in— the burning pain of the stretch is quickly overshadowed by a flood of pulsing red hot desire, drawing you to a height of passion you had never known before. never had any lover made you feel this way, trembling with ecstasy as your greedy pussy sucked in more and more of felix’s demon cock. “you feel so good, you’re so warm, so tight— such a good girl, taking all this cock!” felix keens, eyes rolling back into his head as you take him all the way to the base, his shiny mouth falling open in a desperate string of moans when his cockhead kisses snug against your cervix. “oh fuck, you took it all!”

you both take a moment to relax and adjust, catching your breaths as you pant into each other’s faces; felix waits patiently until you’re breathing goes steady and you unclench your pussy around him, begin to squirm needily in his grasp. “okay, you can start whenever you’re ready—"

like a woman possessed, you start bouncing on his cock before he can even finish his sentence, his fat tip hitting so dizzyingly deep inside of you with every movement of your hips. felix throws his head back with a broken cry, his hands flying down to grip harsh fistfuls of your ass as you ride him. “oh fuck, you should have warned me! fuck fuck fuck, slow down!”

you’re deaf to his cries, unable to focus on anything other than the explosive pleasure that coursed through your core; you plant your feet on the mattress to help strengthen your bouncing, so fast and rough nasty wet slaps echoed throughout the room every time your ass met his pelvis. “you’re so fucking big, so deep inside of me!” you whine.

“you’re just using me like a toy… are you feeling good, baby? yeah?” felix whimpers, voice weak and wavering, “n-naughty little girl likes being full of big, fat demon cock? o-oh god, you’re going to ruin me…”

you answer him with a wail, crying out his name once again as you claw red scratch marks down felix’s taut, muscular chest and abs. the sting just seems to make him harder, his cock twitching inside of you as he moans in pain and pleasure. his noises border on animalistic, deep snarls and growls that go right to your pussy. his mismatched eyes lock onto your chest, your perky tits bouncing obscenely in his face, and he licks his lips with that dastardly snake-like tongue.

“perfect girl, perfect pussy, perfect little tits— do you want me to play with them? suck on them? tell me what you want and i’ll do it.”

“please,” you sob, “please make me feel good!”

felix pulls you down so your body is flush with his, his hands leaving your ass to pinch and roll your nipples. his grip on your breast is bruising as he squeezes and fondles, pulling one into his wet hot mouth— the combined stimulation of his fingers and his mouth on your puffy nipples sending your senses into overdrive, the new angle making his cock feel even deeper inside of you than before, carving out space in your tummy as you moan in delight. he bites down gently on your nipple, pointy teeth teasing your bud, his plump lips and talented tongue caressing as they slowly move from sucking your swollen, peeking bud to trailing down the swell of your tit. he kisses a searing path up your sternum, leaving dusky purple marks in his wake as his hands continue their onslaught on your tits, massaging and groping with tantalizing ferocity. “why do you taste so fucking good? every single inch of you is delicious…” felix murmurs against your fiery skin, his canines ghosting over your collarbones, “you marked me up, pretty girl, now i have to return the favor… i could just eat you whole.”,

“fuck me!” you squeal, dripping pussy spasming around felix’s fat cock as you crash your hips down onto his. “fuck me, please, need it harder!”

“fuck, don’t say things like that— it’s taking everything i have to stay in control, baby, pussy’s so good! i-i’m being gentle for your sake, if i could have you how i want you i’m afraid i might break you—”

his words go straight to your cunt, lighting a fire of need inside of you; with an evil little smile you suddenly stop bouncing, your ass flush against his hips as you begin grinding tight little circles. felix tears himself away from your spit-soaked chest, utterly debauched as he gazes up at you with wide, desperate eyes. “n-no, wait, why are you stopping!?”

“i want you to break me, felix,” you purr with a sharp glint in your eye, teasing over his scratch marks with the tips of your fingers. “i want you to lose control and let me have it, please—”

in an instant you’re thrown across the bed, your back hitting your mattress knocking the wind out of you, and he’s on top of you before you can catch your breath. his claws snatch ahold of both your legs and tosses them over his shoulder, folds you over as he resheathes his throbbing cock back inside your gaping, drooling pussy. with inhuman strength he takes complete control over your body, trapping you beneath him and leaving you helpless, unable to do anything other than lay there and take it as he rams his cock inside of you. his bulbous cockhead knocks against your cervix so hard you fear he’ll push through, such a witty girl brainless and fucked stupid split open with his cock nestled deep in your tummy.

“you never wanted it slow and gentle, did you angel?” felix goads, his deep voice gaining an echoing, demonic edge. “you wanted me to treat you like a slut from the very beginning… such a nasty little witch.”

his mismatched eyes catch on the little bulge his cock makes in your tummy, disappearing and reappearing with every thrust; he presses down on your tummy with a devilish grin and a moan, able to feel his cockhead pounding up in your guts. “you feel me right here, don’t you baby?”

“s-so d-deep—!” is all you can manage to whimper, your teary eyes threatening to spill from the overwhelming pleasure.

felix coos at your fucked out face, his sharp nails digging into the meat of your thighs in a disorienting mix of pain and pleasure. “so cute, taking my cock so well… will you let me cum inside? i want to— i need to fill you up with my cum.”

“yes, yes— god, i’m gonna cum, please!” you beg, any last shred of dignity leaving in favor for your impending climax. your need for release clouded your mind, unable to think of anything except for creaming around felix’s cock as he shoots a hot load inside of you.

“who? god’s not here, baby.” felix crows, mirroring your own joke with a chuckle. you don’t have the energy to even get mad at him. “just us— now tell me how badly you want this demon to cum inside of you. be a good girl and beg for it… maybe i’ll give you that firstborn you want so badly?”

your tears finally fall as you surrender completely to uncontrollable ecstasy, sobbing for felix to breed you as his hips grow sloppy. he’s so close to the edge, just as much as you— you can feel it in the shuddering of his body, his broken whimpers, the tightness in his heavy balls as they slap against your ass. you grab fistfuls of the bed sheets to ground you, keep you from floating away entirely as you lose yourself in pleasure.

“cum together with me, angel,” felix pants above you, thrusting as deep as he could inside inside your pussy, “cum on my cock as i put a baby in you—!”

you cum all over his cock in a rush of exalted endorphins, your pussy spasming violently with your third and most powerful orgasm of the night. your gummy walls clamp down around his shaft, trying to push him out and suck him in deeper at the same time; you can see a foamy white ring formed around the base when he pulls out to thrust back in, a sticky and creamy mess down his balls and thighs. finally, with an animalistic grunt, felix stills inside of you to add to the mess, hot thick ropes of seed flooding your womb until you overflowed. you’ve never felt so full in your life, slick and cum oozing out around where felix’s cock stayed buried deep inside of you. you ride out the aftershocks in each other’s arms, falling into an intimate embrace as you both work to catch your breath.

“fuck, look at that…” felix whispers after a long moment of silence, his hips moving gently to thrust loosely. more cum leaks out from where you were joined, the both of you moaning at the sight. “there’s so much cum it’s leaking out… a-are you okay? was that good?”

“good?! that was the best sex i’ve ever had in my life—” you reply, moving to prop yourself up, but felix pushes you back down with urgency.

“no, no baby, don’t move, you gotta keep it all inside! stay still while i push it in deeper…”

before you can protest felix begins to wildly pound into your spent pussy again, his cock still rock hard and throbbing against your walls— you cry out in surprise and overstimulation, more exhausted and drained than you’ve ever felt before, yet your greedy pussy opens up for him with ease. he shushes your sobs and hiccups, his caresses gentle but his eyes wild and dangerous… he’s gotten drunk on the power of your love, lost all control to the beast that had been hiding inside of him for so long..

“i don’t think that’s going to be enough… i’m not stopping until i’ve bred you proper, just how you want it, right? we’re not done.”

[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 | Part II

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.

[starsofang]

Dear Angie I think I have scared a lot of people today because of the shriek I made when I saw the update and all the other ones I made through reading the chapter while I was standing in line with my friend so she could have a book signed by an author, some people lokked at me with funny faces and my friend now has a bruised in her arm because I gripped it so hard to shake her.

But we'll to the important part the chapter, first, I fucking hate Graves your description made me freaking gag I hope he dies a horrible death the one that Price said seems fitting.

Now, I can not talk about this chapter without going through it chronologically because so much happened in it. “Dove, it’s okay. Just listen to my voice, alright? I’m right here.” Gaz, being the first one to talk to her, makes so much sense because to me, he seems the most love struck by her. “The telescope,” Ghost said, voice low. “He’s talkin’ about the telescope.” How did Ghost know? Does he know what the poem means? Has he told Price or not? Or maybe Graved talked to him in his head earlier? I hope it's the last one. “Don’t fuckin’ talk to him,” Soap hissed, scowling. You say it to him, Johnny, defend your boyfriend. You instantly shifted your eyes to look at Gaz, ... You knew why he was having a hard time—you gifted the telescope to him, ... It was something he treasured, something he didn’t want to let go of. My poor Gaz, I can't, I'm going to steal it from Graves just to give it back to you, my baby boy. “Attagirl,” he praised, calming your nerves. Price you call me that again and I'm going fucking feral I'm a sucker for that pet name. “It’s my fault she’s marked. So long as she gets fixed up, I could care less about bein’ thrown into a cell. I’m with Price,” he finished. GOD, I'M A SUCKER FOR THESE INTERACTIONS, MY FAVOURITE EMOTIONAL CONSTIPATED BABY IS TRYING HIS BEST GIVE HIM A GOLDEN STAR.

Now now now now the Price kiss is just the best, I cant stand it, all that dialoge, how you described the kiss (I supposed that it was her first so I missed that it wasn't awkward but it was amazing best). “I am not an emotional man,” he murmured quietly, seeming just as unsure as you were. “I make very stupid decisions and take paths I shouldn’t take. One of them is tellin’ me to kiss you, and I’m not sure if that’s alright.” Well, man, let your intrusive thoughts win already. KISS HER PLEASE I'M BEGGING YOU. “Gaz tried to when I gifted him the telescope,” yeah... try... I don't know who fault that was right, Angie. “I hope that is okay.” Darling it is, they are all fucking each other. Price broke out into a smile, huffing out a breathy laugh. “So long as he did not beat me to it.” Angie, I know you remark this so many times, so we remember what we could have had, but that you take it away, and I don't know how to feel.

I hope that Gaz and Soap are the first thing that Y/N sees when they wake up. I need some time with them because he haven't had time with the reader.

Now, this fun fact is accompanied by an image of how I imagine Price's quarters. So the fun fact is that the beds in any ship are built in the walls so they don't move because imagine being in a ship with a normal bed, it would end in the other end of the room, so that way is less dangerous. And from the medieval era to the early 20th Century the closet bed (witch is just a bed built in a closet) was surprisingly popular across Europe. I suspect that the fact that the beds in the ships are built like that comes from the closet bed, but I haven't really looked into it or researched it.

This is what a bed in a ship used to look like.

They were normally individual, even the captain's one. But because Price is fucking massive (like the other three) and for future parts of the story 👀 I changed it for a double bed with a more intricate wood work (I headcanon that his ship is his pride and that even if it is small it is really beautiful and gorgeous). So this is the one that I imagine.

And for the layout of his quarters, I imagine it like this.

The bed would be at the right of the desk, and the rest for me is perfect for him. At this point, I'm just going to make a Pinterest board with all my references photos because they are a lot.

To finish, thank you for the early chapter. You feed us extremely well, and we appreciate it, love you so much 🩵💖🩵

PLSSS DON’T TRAUMATIZE YOUR FRIENDS (that’s so me tho, i do exactly that when a fic i love is updated LMFOAOS)

i said this in another ask, but i had to make graves a nasty freak because unfortunately, his game character is one i like even if he’s a bad guy 😫 had to do it for my sanity

gaz is 100% the most lovestruck and much more open about it, he’s a very gentle lover imo. all of them (ghost is a progress) have a very special feeling thing going on, it’s all different but in their own lil ways.

my thought process with ghost knowing about the telescope is that he knows the prophecy like the back of his hand, given that it’s detrimental to him. the verse in the prophecy about a looking glass for ocean eyes is 100% what he first thought of graves wanting, and the telescope is pretty important in the prophecy. it was more of a ‘he immediately knows’ kinda moment since he has the prophecy engraved in his head.

“they’re all fucking each other” goodbyeeee that line had me on the floor

y’all were mad about the almost gaz kiss but price got it instead 😜 a win in my books

the BED!!! hello, i absolutely can envision his bed/quarters looking like. i 100% agree with you on the fact he takes pride in his ship, because that’s ALL he has, that’s his entire life, and hello they’re pirates obviously there’s thievery going on for them to have the funds to do it. UGH those pictures are so pretty, i’m absolutely going to imagine that now every time i write about it. if u make a pinterest board i HAVE to see it.

MWAH I LOVE YOU, THANK YOU FOR YOUR LOVE AS ALWAYS POOKIE

[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.

Tags Info.

Tags: @alexxavicry / @b3autyfuldisast3r / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 / @jc-winchester / @justagirlinafandomworld / @katbratsupernaturalwhore / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library / @lyarr24 / @mrswhozeewhatsis / @nancymcl / @shanimallina87 / @stoneyggirl2 / @waywardbaby / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior / @pank0w / @kmc1989/ @deans-spinster-witch / @spnbaby-67 / @roseblue373

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.

[fengforhire]

This is a bad idea. She knows that it's a bad idea, with every internal alarm and voice of her ancestors screaming that this is the wrong path. But as Jac stares down at the faded piece of parchment in her hand, she has to wonder what makes it so bad. Because she's not asking permission? Because it's "forbidden"? Jac knows that all magic comes with a price. It's a lesson that was drilled into her from birth. Before, she never understood why some witches threw caution to the wind, to gamble everything on the chance that things might improve but now...

She uses wood ash to mark the circle on the ground, making a mental note to clean everything up before Lara gets home. It should be quick. A few muttered words, a brief trip to the astral plane and back again, and then her magic could be something other than a bargaining chip for other people to use against her.

If she repeated it to herself like that, then there was no time for the anxiety to creep in. Jac hurriedly lights the candles that she's gathered. This sort of ritual is not in her wheelhouse, though she's read up on plenty of them. She understands that the precise locations of each component of the spell has ramifications to how things play out, so she checks and re-checks each item. A piece of gauze weighed down by a quartz rock. A handful of salt and sand, grains tumbling against each other in a shallow bowl. The petals of a chrysanthemum, floating amidst a goblet of water.

Shakily, Jac pulls out a small silver dagger that she had taken from her mother's study, and she stares down at her reflection in the blade. She barely recognizes herself, between her recent fashion changes and the way the metal warps slightly, but she wonders if maybe she is just grasping for signs wherever she can find them. A reason to listen to those warning bells that she is so accustomed to hearing.

She slices the edge across her palm and yelps, surprised at how much it hurts even though she had been expecting it. Jac freezes, waiting for someone to come barging into her room even though she had confirmed with her roommate that she would be working tonight. Blood drips messily down her hand and the young witch rushes to make sure enough gets onto each of the necessary items, before dropping a few droplets into a mug that she had grabbed from the kitchen. After she wraps the wound haphazardly, Jac looks dubiously down at the mug that holds a non-insignificant amount of her blood. Her nose scrunches, imagining that she can smell the iron that makes her stomach roll.

"Come on, Lara does this all the time," she reminds herself under her breath. And it couldn't be worse than the Chinese herbal medicines she'd had to endure while growing up. Jac screws up her face and downs the contents of the mug.

Nope, no, definitely worse than the Chinese herbal medicines.

She gags and fights not to get sick, afraid that it would ruin all of her preparations thus far and she does not want to have to do this again. Instead, Jac forces herself to lay down in the center of the circle she's drawn and closes her eyes, counting backwards from thirty, but she doesn't feel anything, or hear any changes. She tries to fight off the disappointment that rushes through her body. What did she think? Some ancient spell buried in the back of a book no one has read in a hundred years somehow had the perfect answer to all of her problems? Even if the world worked like that, Jac knew she wasn't so lucky.

With a sigh, Jac opens her eyes and is taken aback when she sees nothing. She forcefully blinks several times, even nearly poking herself in the eye. Then she realizes she no longer feels the ground beneath her, or anything around her, and her body jolts in the nothingness. Like a dream, or a nightmare, Jac isn't sure yet, and she tries to steady her breathing as best she could. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't this, but there was no turning back now.

While her consciousness delves deeper into this new unknown, her body remains on the floor of her apartment in Port Leiry, blood still sluggishly oozing from the cut on her hand. A sudden gust of wind swirls through the room, scattering the spell components about and it disappears just as quickly, leaving nothing but a mess and an unconscious Jac behind.

[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.

[ceratopsiangirlfailure]

Gale Noceda-Blight (she/her) (18)

GALE!!!

Azzy's twin, Gale is an interesting case. Due to a childhood encounter and a curse, she is unable to use any form of word based language. This includes speaking, writing, typing, signing, etc. She can rely on body language and emoting, and when texting she uses emojis - but generally she cannot use words.

As a child, before her curse, Gale was much like her sister, though a little tamer. But at the age of five, after Azzy found her collapsed in the woods crying, she never spoke another word. From that day forward, a star shaped mark was etched into the place between her collarbones.

In the absence of language, Gale turned to other means of expression. She paints - and she's quite good at it, she sculpts, she even did dance for a little while. In an attempt to stand out more, she even picked up Grudgby and even learned yo-yo tricks.

Gale is silly, first and foremost, whether it be a way to cover up her deep inner turmoil or just another way to stand out, who knows. But she's silly and smart and so cool! Her hobbies include binge shopping and reading.

People frequently forget to check in with her, and kind of subconsciously assume she doesn't have much going on- and therefore they kind of. vent to her a lot. She struggles to shut them down (bcus she has a weak sense of boundaries), so she frequently finds herself listening to a lot of different people's problems.

Even Azzy is occasionally guilty of this. Luz and Amity try really hard to be there for their daughter, and they're great parents to her - doing their best to interpret the means of communication she does have. They worry a lot about who cursed her and why. She tends to seek comfort in them a lot, but she is also close friends with Daisy (Willow and Hunter's daughter, I have a post about her coming up).

Also! Gale uses construction coven magic. It's nice to be able to shape the world around her, to mold it in her hands.

I LOVE GALE!! (Also, if you get what her name is a reference to you get 10 dollars. Here's a hint: it's Good Witch Azura related)

[zorilleerrant]

Witch's Dozen

@flashfictionfridayofficial

It’s fine. They’re all magical. Or they’re magical enough to invoke a prophecy, anyway, which should make them at least magical enough to bounce the spell off of. Ficus is leading, because of course it is, because Katie and Nick are the only ones with any remote magical training otherwise, and it’s a witch spell, so it needs a witch to run it. Of course. But they’re a coven, and coven bonded (sort of) witches (sort of) should be enough to run the spell. If they could all sing on key, which they’re mostly keeping to, at least.

Growing up, Ficus thought music classes were pointless, but now it’s very glad that most of its classmates loved them, because they turn out to be necessary after all.

They’ve been practicing as much as time allowed, on their own and together, and everything is just as streamlined as it can be. They measured the circle exactly, marking it carefully by single steps, they marked everyone’s place around the edges. They set the candles, tall and sturdy and matched, they pulled the shades and locked all the doors and windows, set music playing in the front room so no one would find them doing any of this. Anything that can be controlled for has been. The fact that they don’t have a witch’s dozen isn’t one of those things. They could risk looking for one more member to fill out the ranks, but chances are they’d get caught, and there probably isn’t time to get to know them and trust them.

If they even could be trusted. Ficus doesn’t know what it is and isn’t allowed to say, and probably won’t until one of them runs up against an extraplanar stricture on their communication. It wouldn’t have believed someone, with their positions reversed.

It stands at the head of the pentacle, just inside the circle, and tries its best to conduct. Ficus is a fine singer, most of them are, but keeping on time with each other – it should be easier. They should get swept away in the magic of it all. Ficus can’t conduct for shit and couldn’t let anyone else take it over, because whoever’s controlling the spell has to keep time, too, or else it’ll just never take.

Ficus can’t feel the chorus take hold. It can only feel growing despair.

Bangle has been watching from her corner, sitting like she was told, head cocked and ear flicking occasionally to the side as she listens. She so clearly wants to stand by them, and Ficus wishes it could let her, but she’s not a trained familiar yet. No telling how in tune she is, pardon the pun, to Tardigrade, who’s never had a single familiar before.

Ficus sees just the slightest flash of feathers, bright in daylight with no candles to flicker against its wings. Colorful. Vocal. It hears a short snippet of song, a spell just left of this one, but there’s no telling even what kind of bird it is.

Bangle howls, softly.

Tardigrade makes a hand sign, but she hasn’t worked out the details with her familiar yet, and Bangle takes it as a sign to trot over instead of quiet down, and, new familiar and all, she can’t help but pat the dog’s head. Ficus would complain except that, at this point, there’s nothing the clashing magic could do about it anyway.

Bangle begins to take up the song, and Ficus can feel it gathering. Just at the edges, just a little, but swelling in time with the rhythm, moving inwards to the center of the circle. Bangle is keeping time with Ficus, not her own witch, but she howls each note crystal clear, a ringing behind them, like the chime of the bells they couldn’t find and wouldn’t risk.

Ficus had a dream – more than once – of a dog singing. It only had the dream before they’d found Bangle, though, and so… it shouldn’t have been hard to connect the dots at all. It promised her a musically talented dog in the first place. That was practically what got her on board. It just forgot, when possibly this was the key to the spell all along. (The book specifies substitutions, but always assumed you were working with a full coven.)

They’ve been singing long enough that Bangle knows the tune, of course, but it’s the way she leads that surprises Ficus – the magic dips and glides when it wouldn’t know to ebb it. Even the notes in the grimoire are the merest suggestions towards experts who have done all this before so many times it shouldn’t matter anymore. They’re being conducted by a dog.

Ficus, for one, is happy to listen to the suggestions of a familiar leaning on her own magic, for a spell she might even have done before. It doesn’t think anyone else has even noticed they’re being herded (sort of) toward the end product. More time for it to weave together everything else they know they need, every note they jotted down on the paper they’ve carefully glued down in the grimoire so no one loses it.

The spell takes. The candles snuff out. Everyone, even Bangle, falls silent.

A feeling like being walked through by a ghost surrounds them, everything outside dampening as a soundless, sightless, tasteless void surrounds them, fading back in with the smell of smoke and the sound of the radio. They shiver, from either leftover cold, or the end to their exertion. With a pause to check it’s okay, Bangle starts singing along to the radio.

[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 🤗💛

[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.