#God his regrets are so palpable in every chapter

[myfandomprompts]

𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐞 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟐

Summary: Your life is threatened by Alys, and you see Aemond fading away. What will you do?

Warnings: angst, mention of blood Masterlist (Part 31 - Part 33)

A/N: I apologise for the wait,I have been dealing with things on my own, and it's not fair to you that I slowed down so close to the end. You will find this chapter unbalanced, I’m not very happy with it but hope you’ll enjoy it all the same.

You knew your father had been angry of late, and that it had nothing to do with the upcoming peace council, but everything to do with you, or rather, with Aemond.

The Prince had a beautiful daughter you have given him, yet he had never seen him in her company once. He had a wife that had fallen ill, yet he had not inquired about her. But what irritated him the most was the rumours, the looks, and the dishonour over the fact that a wet-nurse spent this much time with his daughter’s husband. It was bringing shame to his family, his house, to you.

He had said nothing out loud, or in public for that matter, but all the Greens knew, but did not act. All the efforts were concentrated on the fragile peace that had been so hardly won and was close to its outcome, shoving every other matter in the background.

However, matters of the war were not what you cared for at the moment, the pain in your chest and the blue spots you had started to appear in your vision the second Addam had forced you back to your tent after your encounter with Alys your utmost concern. Nonetheless, you still had to act.

But what could you do?

“I need to talk to him, reach him somehow. She wouldn’t let me, it had to mean that she sees me as a threat, and that there is hope,” you said with difficulty, trying to ignore the way the pain in your lungs shortened your breath.

“There is, but I fear that it is too dangerous, my Lady,” Addam pointed out, lowering you gently so you could sit on a cushioned stool. "You are in no state to act at the moment, you need care. Rest. The Gods know what spell she has inflicted upon you.”

“But what would you have me do, Addam?” you said in frustration, unsure of how much your friend had heard from your conversation with the witch. “I can’t rest and let her threaten me, threaten my family and most of all let my husband under her care while she… she…”

Addam’s walked closer as you struggled to say the words, understanding how hard it must be for you, to feel helpless and alone.

“I won’t risk your health or your life,” he said firmly, before his tone became bitter. “Witches are not to be played with. I know of it first-hand.”

You raised a curious gaze to him, sensing his… regret?

“What is it that you know?” you asked, careful, and you saw Addam hesitate.

“I… come from a land where old traditions, traditions that were here before the Targaryens came have remained. Some of the ways of the Andals and the First Men are not lost here north of the Stoney Sept,” he began, drawing all of your attention to his words, and away from your pain. “I have heard of a witch in Harrenhal, but I only assumed that she was long gone, tales of her craft spreading around since before I was even born. With all of what happened here, I did not expect to find one so close to the nobility, even less to act among them with such impunity.”

You frowned, both in frustration and in pain. Addam’s resentment was clearly palpable.

Good, you could use it.

“However deep a wet-nurse is with some Lords of the Riverlands, I will not sit idly by and let her manipulate my husband. I simply cannot.”

“My Lady, you should not take it lightly. Witches gain loyalty from the people around them through their skills and services, they inspire fear among the common folk, wariness. This is how they make people owe them. We will find very little support if we wish to fight her, none from her peers at least.”

“So what do you propose I do?” you inquired louder than you had meant, making him arch a brow. “I have nothing. No powers, no magic, no ways of tricking her as she did with me. No knowledge of her craft...”

“But I do.”

And then he told you about his mother, how she had fallen gravely ill when he was only a boy and the maesters had remained inefficient, only for his grandsire to call on a woodwitch of the Whispering Woods to treat his daughter, desperate. It had angered his own father, Denys Vance, who had no trust in witches and their reputation, and even less in those that were rumoured to practise blood magic.

“My mother survived, but she became only the ghost of herself. Later, my grandfather began to fall ill and died a short while after. It was so sudden, my father did not hesitate to accuse the witch for this disaster, executing her before she could do us more harm, blaming my grandfather for his eagerness to save his daughter. Even in death."

Then Addam said something that made you fear for your husband more than for you.

“My father believes that if blood magic is used, you still lose in the end. Even if somehow you have a glimpse of what you wanted. It is a curse, something only bloodmages of old had managed to master, or so they said they had,” he had continued, stern and in contemplation.

“I am… so sorry Addam. I didn’t know any of that.”

“My father did well at hiding my grandsire’s actions,” he stated, eyes drifting to something you could not see. “He had heard of this 'witch of Harrenhal’, one people around were loyal to, and did not wish to anger her. So he kept it quiet.”

“You mean…” you asked, name lost on your tongue, bitter.

“Yes. I believe we have found our witch. Hidden among lords and babes. This is why I cannot let you endanger yourself if she has you as a target as well my Lady. She had partisans here, people that are obliged to her. She may not have deceived Daemon, but she apparently found other ways to achieve her misdoings after this time."

Your head painted you again, your vision becoming blurry from time to time. You would not be intimidated by this, whatever threat loomed over your own life.

“You sound like I should remain inactive, that I have already lost. You know that I won’t settle for that,” you assured gently, ignoring how the prospect of not succeeding sickened you more than you already were.

Addam bit his lips, pondering as if he regretted disappointing you. But Addam’s weakness for you was greater than his common sense.

“I apologise, I did not mean to make you lose hope, only to preserve you from magical demise, but I now realise that unless something is done, far worse might happen, and not only to you,” he stated, maintaining your tiring gaze. “I will help you. I only heard part of your conversation with the woman, and for now, you must tell me what happened. She spoke of magic having a price, that you had granted the Prince a longer life. What does she mean by that, my Lady?”

You told him everything, from your first encounter with her, to the eye-patch, the ritual, and about your suspicions about the vials, of the way Aemond had been distant the moment you had approached him on that cursed field. How the witch had threatened you and assured you that you had played a big part in your husband’s recovery, even though you hadn't known it was at your own expense.

When you ended your story, Addam did not even let you a moment to breathe, starting to pace around the room agitatedly. 

“She talked of visions, dreams? Of the Prince taking the throne for himself? Surely it would put the peace at risk.”

You nodded, feeling like vomiting, one hand on your stomach. You told yourself that it did not ache for you, but for Aemond.

All for him.

“Where is your daughter at the moment?” he continued, abruptly stopping his pacing to look at you.

“She… is with Queen Alicent,” you answered faintly, confused at his question. Addam approached you once again, sitting on the stool before you.

“My Lady. With my little knowledge of bloodmagic, and I believe that this is what Lady Rivers uses under the cover of nursing and healing, I think that her goal is far more dreary than I thought at first.”

“Whatever do you mean, my Lord?” you spoke, starting to grow very worried since your daughter had been brought into the conversation.

Addam paused, mustering his words as if he was delivering you terrible news. “Blood magic is not only about using blood for spells and rituals, but using a great amount of it. The more blood they have access to, the more powerful they will grow. Only, not that many people are willing to give away their blood, and in the same way, witches do not settle for any kind of blood.”

“But…” you started, remembering that night. “She did not have any. Not Aemond’s at least, she only took an item that belonged to him…”

“But I believe that she did my Lady,” Addam said mournfully, still careful with his words. “Tell me, in Essos, before the Doom, who were considered the most powerful, what blood was regarded as strong, magical, even?”

You widened your eyes in slow understanding. “Valyrians…” you whispered, unconsciously. “It is said that a single drop of blood of Old Valyria is more powerful than any others.”

“Indeed my Lady. You might know even more than me on that matter. House Targaryen’s words are Fire and Blood, both magical ingredients. Powerful in the hands of a woodwitch.”

Then it hit you.

“Naerys! She had her for days, cared for her…”

“Yes. I believe that it is how she had performed the ritual, using Targaryen blood to bind the Prince to herself. Daemon Targaryen would not bleed, not until he would battle, and once he did, he died. On her volition, that is.”

Your heartbeat quickened in your chest, hard. If that wet-nurse had hurt your daughter, she would gain more than your wrath, she would have the whole of House Lydden’s too.

“She used her blood… My own daughter’s blood, so she could take my family away from me? I…” you said in disbelief, finding it hard to contain your anger, but you had to remain calm, to think. “But why not keep her? She gave her back to me. Why not use her blood again?”

“I believe it to be a matter of purity. She had both your blood, father and mother in one, and she made sure to use it to her advantage, without your knowledge. But it would not be enough for her. Even though your husband is the product of two different Houses, he is closer to the blood of Old Valyria than your daughter is, purity being a proud tradition within House Targaryen,” Addam stated wisely. “Moreover, Aemond Taragryen possesses something your daughter does not have.”

You were watching him intensely, impressed by his intelligence and deduction. You pictured the boy, crying for the loss of his mother in Atranta, an experience so unfair that his anger had been directed on one thing only, exactly like his father was: on the author of his mother’s and grandsire's demise, a blood witch. If you had experienced that kind of loss, surely you would have done everything in your power to learn what you could about what had brought you such sorrow, to ensure that it would never happen again.

“Magic itself, in his truest form,” he continued, answering his own question. “Dragons. You see, war and death have potential for magic, one that witches can use, but what is potential when you can have the most powerful magical beast in the world?”

“Vhagar is bound to Aemond,” you stated, almost in disbelief. “She is an intelligent creature as well, and she is no slave. I doubt that she will be able to even approach her.”

As you said that, you pictured Aemond bringing Alys close to the green-scaled dragon, dragging her by the hand as Vhagar cooed, as she had done with you. Shivers dressed your skin again, and with a throbbing pain in your stomach, you felt something wet come out of your nose once more. You grabbed a cloth immediately to wipe it, seeing blood when you looked down at the fabric.

How in the Seven Hells would you be able to come up with a plan in your state?

“She does not need to, for only the mere presence of a dragon, born in the depth of the Fourteen Flames, cared by bloodmages of Old Valyria, is magic, pure. I cannot be sure of what her craft allows her to perform with such creatures, but the prospect of war alongside a Targaryen is an explanation to her deeds, her greed.”

You tried to breathe properly, all of the things you had just discussed sinking in.You felt like you had little time, and fewer options. If you could not reach Aemond, maybe a more drastic solution would work, even if it iced the blood in your veins.

“Then I know what I must do,” you stated, the firmness of your voice barely overcoming the shakiness of your breath as you pushed yourself up. “Or I least try to do. She wants blood to flow, maybe I’ll give it to her.”

Addam saw the darkness in your eyes and realised what you meant instantly, trotting toward you.

“My Lady, this is too dangerous, we’ll find another method, the vials… My Lady?”

You felt like your body was waging war against your thoughts, your murdery intentions, failing you as you tried to reach the entrance of the tent.Your head first started to throb violently, and each breath you took was fire in your lungs. You felt your body fail you, battling against your intentions as you clutch your chest and faintly heard Addam calling you.

Then your vision went black.

Aemond’s mind was focused on only one thing this morning, only one purpose. It was magnificent, and the only thing filling his spirit. He could see it, touch it as if it was real.

Today would be the day he would claim the Iron Throne.

He would show them all, show to all those lords and ladies of the realm that he was born for it, raised for it, and suited for it. Above all, he was meant for it, body and soul, and nothing could impede his plan now, he was certain, for Alys had seen it, and something inside him knew that she always saw true.

He would rule the Seven Kingdom, and curse those pitiful lords that believed that peace was an option.

He could picture, landing on Aegon’s Hill, like the Conqueror himself, force his way in, put Baela and Rhaena Velaryon in a cell, a long due punishment for instigating the fight where he lost his eye all those years ago, and claim the throne. Then he would lock the city and gather those loyal to him, before flying back to Harrenhal crowned with Valyrian steel and make them bend the knee.

For now, he took his first steps outside since he had been stuck in that cursed tent for days, courtesy of the Rogue Prince for almost cutting him in half.  But now he was strong, not even feeling the wound at his chest any more, only the scared looks he was earning from the people outside finally seeing him free, standing tall and proud at the entrance of his previous prison. He was stronger than ever, and he understood why they all looked down as he passed. They were right to fear him, because he had been the one that ended up cutting the Rogue Prince in half.

He wondered why he had been this blind before, why he had settled for peace once,considered it back when he thought his armies too thin, too famished, and their dragons too few. But it did not matter, now he would claim the throne, surprise all those pitiful High Lords that believed him weak and show them what it is to rule as a true Targaryen.

But for now he would tell no one, for the only master of his destiny was him, and it was near. Lady Rivers had seen far and true, all that would come to pass, all that he will be, all that he desired.

He felt her hand snake around his arm at his side, like a reminder that he had only some steps to take and the realm would be his.“How are you feeling, my Prince?” she asked, her voice honey in his ears, her tone of adoration vibrating to his core.

“Fine,” he stated, looking straight ahead where the melted towers of Harrenhal loomed over the camp, remnants of what happened when lesser lords tried to cross Targaryens. “Let them brew some sort of peace. Soon they will see.”

Then he turned around and went straight to the direction of the form of Vhagar laying near the trees at the other side of the camp, her wings the only thing he could decipher over the tents ahead.

Alys Rivers, the wet nurse he had spared all those moons ago, walked at his side, the first and truest of his devoted followers.

He grunted when Ser Cole made him come to a stop in the muddy path. Vhagar was within reach. His glory.

“My Prince, glad to see you this strong looking,” he announced after a slight bow of his head, coming to rest his hand on the hilt of his sword, but his expression was nothing but relaxed.

“Would you have expected otherwise?” Aemond asked, chin high but the ghost of a mocking smile on his lips.

“Of course not my Prince,” the Knight answered, a flash of pride passing through his eyes at his reply, but he still bore a stern expression. “I came to meet you, I’m afraid I bring ill news.”

Cole glanced at the woman at Aemond’s side, his already dark eyes turning even darker, and Aemond began to lose his patience.

“Speak then,” he snapped.

“Your wife, Lady Lydden, had just collapsed, her condition had worsened it seems. The maesters are tending to her but they are unsure of what plagues her.” Cole finished quickly, as if expecting a surge of irritation from the Prince at any moment.

Only, Aemond did not feel irritation. In fact, he had not even been informed of his wife’s condition beforehand, not aware that there was anything to worsen in the first place. What he felt, however, was a pang somewhere inside of his body, something travelling through his blood, the flow of the warm liquid trying to whisper unshaped words to him.

But the murmurs quieted quickly, replaced by the grip of Alys on his arm, and his senses came back to him.

“Hm…” he let out, looking at Cole unphased before addressing him. “Take care of it, and next time be faster in your information delivery.”

Aemond strode away, passing by the knight to make his way to his mount, where he was truly needed. Meant to.

“Will you not go to see her?”

Cole’s voice was a little too bold to his taste. It was not a way to speak to a Prince, even less to a king. So why did his words sound so true to him? Bitter? He turned slowly, assessing the knight who bore a dismayed look.

“I’m afraid the Prince has other matters to attend, Ser Knight,” spoke Alys, drawing Cole’s gaze to her, and it lingered there for so long that Aemond thought he was debating whether he would let her speak to him that way or arrest her.

Apart from his mother, Aemond had not always been sure if Cole truly regarded women as 'an image of the mother to be spoken with reverence', as he had once put it. His mentor reported his attention back to him. "My Prince?”

Aemond was about to agree with the black-haired woman, but from afar he glimpsed the shape of a man he instantly recognised coming out of a tent displaying the Lydden coat of arms and froze.

Addam of fucking Atranta.

He felt Alys pull on his arm a little, encouraging him to continue their walk to his undeniable glory, but she was a mere force to his will, unable to stop him as blood rushed uncontrollably in his ears, even though something inside of him screamed for him to follow her.

But right now he felt like fighting, fighting him, without really knowing the reason, like a faint memory in his mind coming back to poke him. His steps led him straight to your tent, making Alys lose the grip on his arm in the abruptness of his movement, Cole hot on his heels as he walked toward the Vance Lord.

The latter was conversing with a short priest with a seven pointed star sewn on his robes, and the lord, sensing his approach, reciprocated the dark look Aemond was already bearing, not sparing Alys as he saw her trotting behind him. He could already feel the vile words on his own tongue, ready to be spoken to the boy he barely tolerated, but he was stopped.

“Thank you Ser Criston,” he heard his mother say as she exited the tent with a little smile, happy to see her son. “Lady Rivers,” she curtsies briefly when she saw the wet-nurse, the one who had tended to her son so carefully.

However, Aemond, who had managed to put Addam in the back of his mind, saw no warmth in her eyes. Instead she reached for Aemond’s hand, the one that had not been captured by Alys as soon as she had caught up with him after his striding. “I sent for you as soon as I heard. I am so sorry Aemond, nothing we do seem to work with her, it is this dreadful place…” Alicent continued, squeezing his hand lovingly. “But please come in.”

Aemond froze again. He didn’t know why, but as he slowly came to the realisation that you were behind those drapes, he found himself more unsure than he had been in the last few days, since he had been granted a glimpse of his destiny by the woman who had saved his life.

Why did he fear now?

But he followed his mother inside nonetheless, mouth closed and lips in a thin line, leaving no expression appear on his face. He recognised the maester that had been so useless for him lately standing over the bed, next to Lord Donnel and a maid who were rearranging the vials the maester kept using. When he caught the eyes of Lord Donnel Lydden, your father, he saw him flinch and his expression harden, but he stepped aside like the rest of them when Alicent announced him, letting a husband come closer to the mother of his child.

You were lying under the furs, face evidently in pain as your skin glowed with sweat. Your brows were slightly knitted, and you would move from time to time, wince or breathe sharply. However, your eyes remained closed, unresponsive, far from reach. Something inside of Aemond boiled, but he shut the feeling down. These kinds of reactions were futile right now. Surely they were.

However his fingers reached for your side without his permission, and the familiarity he had not felt since too long came back at your touch, like it had been erased but still remained somewhere, ready to wake. His state of daze and contemplation as he looked down at you was broken by the new light that came through the opening of the drapes of the tent to let pass Addam Vance and the priest, realising that he was watched by the few people around and that Alys had found her place next to him once again, hard features on her face.

He found her much more tense than ever, but it was nothing compared to how tense he found himself to be, particularly seeing a low lord enter his wife’s quarter without shame, as if it was natural for him.

But then Alys squeezed his forearm gently, the one that was touching your skin so tenderly, and images of him on the throne flashed through his mind. He would have to indulge the people around him for now, to put on a good show.

“What is with her?” he asked, tone flat, already thinking of his flight to King’s Landing. 

“Her collapse must stem from an extreme state of fatigue,” the master answered him, solemn expression on his face. “Her slumber is now due to the herbal concoctions I have provided her, but none of them seems to have any effect on her affliction.”

Aemond repressed a scoff. If there was one soul here that was competent in healing people, it was not this old man, but the woman standing next to him.

“Can nothing be done?” he found himself asking, face slightly turned toward Alys so she would know he was directing his question at her as he kept his gaze on your suffering face.

He was sure that, even from his position, he had seen something red flash through her eyes, even though he was not looking at her. But he heard her inhale and came closer to you after a while, taking your hand and examining you briefly.

He did not miss the way Vance had moved forward either at Alys Rivers’s contact with you, as if ready to pounce. Aemond raised his gaze at him to see him bite the inside of his cheek, his gaze fixated on the wet-nurse.

Aemond felt uncertainty come back, like a foreign sensation.

“Nothing,” Lady Rivers declared, putting back your furs higher on your chest. “Her sickness is her own, she must fight through it on her own as well.”

They all looked up at Aemond, expecting to see his face decompose but they saw nothing of the sort, instead they narrowed their eyes in order to better hear what the woman was now whispering in his ear.

“My Prince, we must go now, we had delayed for too long,” she murmured inside of his neck, and he nodded, taking a little too long to withdraw his gaze from you for his taste and turning to leave.

But Alicent, who had been the closest to them, had overheard.

“Go where?” she asked, voice high and eyes searching for his. “Are you leaving? Has something happened?”

All looked at him now, Addam particularly decided not to give Alys any rest, and he almost felt trapped. Almost.

“This is no concern of yours. I will be back in a short time, and we will be all celebrating.”

And like this he was out of the tent, feeling Alys relax at his side, determination in his heart.

“Prince Aemond, a word?”

Aemond gritted his teeth as he was reluctant to turn around, to indulge the boy that dared address him. But he did, finding himself amused at his boldness.

“Certainly,” he voiced as he advanced toward one of the brazero next to the tent.

“Alone,” the lord demanded, eyeing his seer clutched at his arm, and Aemond was almost tempted to make him understand his disrespect by burning him to a crisp by Vhagar, if his own gaze did not have that effect before he would have the chance to.

But he chose to allow him that request, now intrigued at his courage, his irritation quieted by his sentiment of power. If the boy had the wits to stand before him alone, to fight him, Aemond would be the first to draw blood, and glad to. Man to Man.

“Addam Vance of Atranta,” Aemond greeted sarcastically, after leaving a frustrated Alys behind. “Always avoiding battles I see. How’s your brother?”

Aemond knew perfectly well that his brother was still in the hands of the Wayfarers, another branch of the boy’s family, provoking him on purpose with that cruel smile of his.

“Better than your wife, I assume.”

Aemond’s smile instantly disappeared. He had not expected that in the least, and he wondered who of the two of them was angrier at the moment. He could feel the way his fingers itched for his blade.

“Will you not stay beside her?” he continued, not impressed by the way Aemond’s eye shot daggers at him. “Do you not see what is happening?”

“Why do you care?” Aemond asked coldly, shortening the distance between his fingers and the dagger at his belt. “She is not yours.”

“If she is yours, as you so claim, you should be able to see the plague that is inflicted upon her. To understand.”

“Please refrain from speaking like a child with half-formed sentences," he accused, still furious, but the damn doubts of his finding their way to his head again. Why could he not focus? He had to concentrate, his destiny was so near, Alys had promised him.

The young lord dared scoff, glancing at the answer to all of his desires behind Aemond, like she was nothing but a low woman.

“You truly are blind then, if you truly cannot see, or are so lost and deep into the lion’s den that you cannot reach the light any more,” Addam said with disgust, eyes digging into Alys. “I assume that you must have important matters to do with your new acolyte, if you are this eager to abandon the mother of your child to perish. Very worthy of you, Prince.”

Aemond stepped into the Lord’s personal space in a flash, towering over him and holding the steel of his dagger he had drawn with dexterity between their two faces.

“Careful, Vance, or I will have more than your tongue. You have played around with Y/N long enough, and only for her sake have I allowed it. Do not play with me too or I swear you will have what is coming for you.”

Addam had jumped at the sight of the dagger millimetres from his skin, but now that Aemond had threatened him and that they both heard Alys come closer, alarmed by Aemond’s sudden outburst, the lord had nothing but loathing on his expression, not an ounce of fear left. 

"Open your eyes, and maybe you will see, even with one eye. I am not the one playing you,” he said with disdain as Alys came to pull at Aemond’s shoulder, giving Addam the opportunity to free himself from him and take a few steps back. “Maybe it will be for the best if you leave after all, far away from her,” he said, backing away from them.

“You truly don’t deserve her,” he spat at last looking at Aemond dead in the eye before turning away and returning under the tent.

Aemond felt awful, torn between following him and spilling his guts onto the carpet of the tent or giving in to an urge within himself he could not grasp the meaning of, the same one that had been bothering him since he came out of his own tent earlier.

How dared he? And why did he feel like his muscles were not obeying him?

“Aemond, look at me,” he heard next to his shoulder, the voice of Alys drawing his gaze away from the spot Addam had disappeared to and into her eyes. “Leave him be, he is not worth it, he is nothing, only a boy ignorant of what is to come,” she said, words firm and true. “You, on the other hand, is everything, and he will see it. Soon, they will all witness. You know what we must do." 

Aemond looked into her eyes, hoping to find the grounding he was desperate for, maybe see the visions she promised him in those green irises. But as he looked, he could only notice how different her eyes were from yours, colder, unreachable, with a hint of black yours did not possess.

No. He had to concentrate.

“I know,” he finally spoke, voice hoarse as he sheathed his dagger at his belt and found his way to Vhagar again, feeling his anger deflate as Alys walked beside him.

Why was he still so upset?

No one was around but the few soldiers that Vhagar had grown accustomed to, but they departed as soon as Aemond passed near them, eager to step away.

Being close to his dragon again felt like breathing was easier somehow, like being reunited with a part of himself, gazing into her yellow eyes for the first time since his trial with the Rogue Prince, and when he touched her snout, smelling the flaming air she breathed out, he could feel the power, the glory, his destiny within reach.

But he could also feel the uncertainty, the sadness, echoing within his own blood, for Vhagar and himself were one. He also felt wariness, as well as a strong feeling of loss, one he had previously associated with being apart with his dragon, but the feeling in his blood told him otherwise. He couldn’t decipher what, and he took a moment to truly sense her. 

Could these feelings be his own?

He had almost forgotten about the woman behind him, still several steps away from Vhagar’s long neck as she watched with awe the most beautiful dragon in his eyes, the mightiest of all, his ally. Vhagar had now set her big eyes on Alys, and he felt the emotions from before enhance. He let the green dragon show a single menacing fang to Alys before grabbing her hand and flattening it on the spot below her eye, keeping it there under his palm. Vhagar let out a strangled sound, but put away her fang at last, eyeing her rider who was content to have the wanted effect out of her.

Alys’s eyes were wide with excitement, and Aemond could even see satisfaction in her expression. He observed her for a moment before letting his thoughts fly out of his mouth, the presence of Vhagar giving him somehow more poise with her than he usually had. 

"What did you mean when you said her sickness was her own? What plagues my wife, Alys?”

The woman turned her head toward him, letting her hand placed on the warm scales of Vhagar fall at her side and the creature instantly shifted in order to face them, not liking having them on her weak side, growling.

“I only meant that nothing can be done, even from my hand. Do not let her cloud your path, this is only the order of things, my Prince. You are above it all." She assured, taking both of his hands, as if her words were supposed to make sense.

“You are the most capable healer I have met, the ‘order of things’ does not frighten you. Yet, you assure me that your powers are useless?” Aemond tried again, without really knowing why. He had been told you needed rest, and Alys had done the same. So why did he feel the need to insist?

She looked at him with pity, as if he was a child asking for something impossible. “Nothing, except for nature to do its work, in the same way that you are meant to sit on the Iron Throne and rule, Aemond. You of all people know that sacrifices must be made to reach what others desire.”

Vhagar emitted a low growl beside them, Aemond feeling himself frown at her words, uneasiness flowing through him as something in his mind stirred.

Leave.

“Sacrifices? I have sacrificed enough. My brother, my sister, my blood… I am entitled to the throne, nature has nothing to do with it, only my will and your visions. I will not let it take from me again.”

He was beginning to be very annoyed by the way his mind worked at the moment. All he had to do was mount Vhagar and take King’s Landing for himself, and he would have all that he has ever wanted.

Didn’t he?

“Not all is set in stone, my Prince,” she said, coming to place a hand on his cheek to caress it. “But my visions are true. Do not let your efforts go to waste, our efforts, we must choose our fights and they are not here, where your family tries for peace, but in King’s Landing, where your ancestors claimed the land and ruled it as their own for the first time. Isn’t that what you want?”

Aemond reached for her hand on his cheek, more as a reflex than a need for touch, and Vhagar rumbled again at the same time his throat turned dry. He hated that feeling of doubt, the sense that a fear he was not in control of had taken hold of his body, and the way he could not withdraw his eyes from Alys’ enticing ones, searching for something he could not reach in her words.

You don’t deserve her.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, tone harder, less forgiving. “You know more than you claim to, do you not? Otherwise, you would not have talked of sacrifices when I talked about my wife.”

Aemond saw slight alarm pass into her green eyes at his words, taking a step away from Vhagar in the process before eyeing the beast warily, as if she was seeing it for the first time, surprised. She, however, quickly recovered, putting her hands on his chest gently, but it was too late, Aemond had seen, and he could feel his blood whisper to him again.

I am not the one playing you.

“Aemond, my Prince, you are the heir to the throne, the only one worthy of-”

He caught her wrist placed on his chest and squeezed, just enough so that she would hear him properly this time. Her eyes went dark in a flash, before turning into that panic he had a snippet of earlier, pupils searching his frantically, and Aemond could almost see the gears turning in her head, looking for something.

“You have visions, dreams,” he kept on, the feeling in his guts becoming stronger as minutes passed, leaving a sour taste on his tongue, the comfort he had felt with her in the last few days fading away. “Tell me what you saw, and don’t lie to me.”

You don’t deserve her.

Aemond saw her confidence drop for a fleeting moment, saw how her brows knitted together, as if suddenly realising something.

“My Prince, did you take the medicine I gave you last night?” she asked, and Aemond refrained a scoff, irritation growing inside of him at her reluctance to answer his questions.

“Why would I? I have no need for it any more, traces of what my uncle did to me are gone, I am strong again.”

Now he could clearly see it, how the black-haired woman bit her lips, evidently at unease, and Aemond had never seen her so unsure. He, on the other hand, sensed his doubts falter.

I am not the one playing you .

“This was a mistake. You still need them, even though you have gained your strength back,” she stated, finding her sweet tone again. “Please my Prince, you must drink-”

Vhagar breathed steam behind her as he abruptly took a step closer to her, her sentence dying on her lips as he towered over her, not liking the way she was commanding him. “Answer my question.”

He had talked so low, so close, that he could see her expression still and her jaw clench in frustration, disappointment apparent on her features. But he saw it quickly shift into resolution as he bore his flaming gaze into her own, awaiting her answer. Then she did something he did not expect. 

Helped by his grip on her wrists, she pushed herself on her toes and kissed him, her mouth entrapping his lips as he let her go in shock and bewilderment, feeling her now free hands slide behind his neck to force him down to her. His own mind was blank for a moment, her lips moving against his unmoving ones as he tried to find his senses again, taken aback by the woman who had promised him so much, saw so much, for him. But he took too long, and while he felt her fingers tangle in his hair, desperate for more, he sensed her teeth trapping his bottom lip, and bite. Hard. Like out for blood.

He grunted and instantly recoiled, bringing his fingers to his lips at the stinging pain, wincing as he made sure that he was not bleeding. Alys was not letting him go, eager to reiterate the experience, her breath hot on his skin, and he inhaled sharply, grinding his teeth. One of his hands had levelled with her neck, fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing, but still gentle.

For now.

You don’t deserve her.

She didn’t gasp as she felt his hold on her, but her gaze was still on his now swollen lips, disappointed to not find them reddened with blood.

“Enjoying yourself, perhaps?" he said, furious. "My patience is running thin Alys, and I don’t like people taking liberties with me,” he seethed, tone cold as ice as he kept his face at a safe distance from hers. “Now tell me what you saw.”

Her eyes closed momentarily, bracing herself, and he was tempted to let her go, but she had crossed a limit with him, and he could feel his blood running wild in his veins, as finally awake. The heat from Vhagar’s form comforting him in his anger, his certainty.

You should be able to see the plague that is inflicted upon her.

“I saw you on the Iron Throne…” she whispered raggedly, and Aemond guessed that his fingers would mark the skin of her throat. “I saw your sword red with the blood of your enemies, I saw your dragon flying over the land like a sigil in the sky."

“I know all that already,” he snarled, taking a step forth. “But at what cost? What are you not telling me, Alys?”

She wetted her lips, and Aemond knew she thought about kissing him again, the glare in her eyes unmistakable. He squeezed harder, drawing her eyes on his once more. Vhagar menacingly stomped a claw of her wings closer to them, and Alys visibly swallowed.

“I am devoted to you Aemond, and I would do anything for you. And I have,” she breathed, hands wrapping around his wrist at her throat, the other travelling to take his free one. “Your path has been cleared, and the ones who love you have made their choices. It is too late now. I am yours, always.”

Aemond felt his grip falter as he processed the words, your illness appearing less and less natural with each of her claims.

Deep into the lion’s den.

“What did you do…” he said in disbelief, his eye widening as she looked at him with renewed confidence, bringing his hand to her chest.

“You know of my powers, my Prince. I removed all of the obstacles on your path to glory. Why do you think Daemon Targaryen wanted you dead at all cost? Because he knew what you were, what you were meant to be, and was afraid. So I ensured his death, and that no harm would come to you, by any means necessary.” She was slowly unclasping his fingers from her throat as she sweetly talked to him. “And I am not afraid to do it again, all for you.”

He could sense Vhagar restlessness beside him, but he only stared at Alys with dread, feeling her heart beating beneath his palm she had placed on her chest. His blood was running wild again.

You truly are blind.

Then he watched as she slowly drew a knife from her skirts, and brought it to his other hand, inches from his skin.

“If you let me, I can do so much for you. Let me perform my craft, and you will have all of your enemies suffer and fall. Do not let your wife’s sacrifice be in vain,” she coaxed, the blade of the knife coming closer to his skin. “Give in to me and be the most powerful man in all Westeros. Create a dynasty that competes with Aegon the Conqueror.” 

Aemond snapped out of his trance as quickly as he was to draw his own dagger, making Alys’ knife fly away from her hand before it could be tainted with any of his blood.

“Heal my wife, and I will forgive what you call ‘necessary’,” he snarled, his blade pressing to her throat. It was an admission, that it was her doing, and it made him burn inside. 

Still, her chin was high, unimpressed. “I told you, it is too late. The board is set.” 

“I don’t believe you.”

They watched each other for a moment, all of the events of the past few days passing between them, how Aemond had put his trust into her hypnotising green eyes, letting them make their way into his soul. How her visions had made him realise his worth, so evident to him at the time, her words music to his ears. But mostly, how he had forgotten his duty, his family, his wife and daughter.

No more.

“If you choose her, you won’t sit on the Iron Throne. If you choose her, you’ll dishonour your brother, your sister, your ancestors. You have put your trust in me this far, and I did not fail you. I won’t stop what I have begun, and you have no desire to do so either, I know,” a smile crept on her lips. “What will happen to your family if you let those Lords decide of your fate in the name of peace? If you don’t fight? You are Aemond Targaryen.”

“I’ll protect them, as I always did,” Aemond responded in coldness, breathing on her temple. “Protected them from those who wish to harm my blood, and from those who intend to wield it as their own. And especially,” he paused, taking a step closer to her, the steel of the blade painfully immobilising her. “From those who underestimate it, and by extension, me.” Aemond saw her swallow, making him smile. “Do you really think I need you?” 

“You do,” she answered, her eyes cold, bored even. “You need my visions, my Prince. You are linked to me.”

Aemond’s smile widened, bringing the point of his dagger closer to her carotid. She didn’t know him, she never had, her confidence was nothing but delusion, that would soon crumble under his foot. Now, in the enormous shade of his most trusted ally, he understood, and saw clearly.

“Unlink us then,” he simply said. “Or would you rather have Vhagar do it?”

The woman’s face finally displayed fear, her eyes widening slightly as she glanced at the dragon behind her, fangs out as if waiting for the signal.

“Make me yours,” she said defiantly after pondering her next lies, pushing the blade against her throat and reaching for his forearms. “Make me yours and you will never need anyone else again."

The quickening of her pulse and faint pleading in her voice made Aemond cruel and satisfied smile reappear, acknowledging her fear and most of all, her deception. “So if you die, so does your magic,” Aemond concluded wickedly, and he saw how hard she tried to hide her surprise at the discovery of her secret, mouth opening as she finally drew her last cards.

“I will give you sons. Targaryens that will rule and keep your power strong.”

Aemond inhaled sharply, tired at her incessant game. “I have no need for a breeding mare, my children will be legitimate and from the woman I have chosen. Now, heal that woman, and I’ll spare you, for your visions might still be useful for me.” 

“She won’t give you children, she is useless to you,” she stated, her lie making him furrow his brow and flare his nostrils. “Make me yours, and she won’t suffer. Make me yours, and I’ll serve you, Aemond.” 

Aemond thought about snapping her neck right here and there, her calculating gaze when talking about you making every muscle of his body tense with violent intent. But as he observed her, something in his blood called him to calmness, to trust his newly retrieved instincts and he found himself relaxing, exhaling as he stepped away from the witch. She seemed surprised at the sudden coldness his departure caused to her body, her neck free of his blade which had almost drawn blood, and she slightly frowned, watching him step away further.

Maybe he had felt tenderness for her, once. Likeness, or something more primal, but as he recalled the last few days he had spent with her, all he could feel now was disgust, guilt, betrayal. What had he done?

“Give me one good reason not to kill you, Alys." His voice was strained, almost sad, his anger gone with what he was about to do. He would grant her one last chance, for everything she had done for him. How she had forced her way in his soul for the briefest of moments. 

The woman before him lost her puzzled expression instantly, realising that she was standing between Aemond Targaryen, on whom she had no hold on to any more, his blood away from reach as her blade laid in the grass, and the mouth of the most ferocious beast alive, ready to breathe fire at his command.

“Aemond, if you lose me, you lose everything," she panted, fingers curling as she tried to move toward him. "You will always feel that emptiness, that missed opportunity. You need me, and no one else. Make me yours and I’ll ensure your wife won't die."

Aemond stared at her from a distance, the grip on his dagger becoming stronger as his mind, now his own again, ran wild. All he wanted now was to retrace his steps, to find you, to smack the boy that had made him realise his mistakes in the face, even. But not King’s Landing, not Alys. Never.

His next words came as a hoarse whisper.

"I don’t believe you.”

Vhagar snarled behind her, and without any command from him necessary, Aemond turned away and let the other part of his soul do what he could not, muting the screams from his mind.

When he reached the tent, minutes later, he felt whole again.

-0- Part 33

Thank you so much @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan for beta reading

@let-love-bleeds-red@crazylokonugget@jeyramarie@ephemeralninon@mrswhitethornbelikov@dudfahsn@missusnora@queenofterrasen418@honeytrapsblogp-graham@heathclifftragedyy @discowizard88@ivartheblessed@xceafh@bubbletae7@omgkatherine01@tzipora-art@signyvenetia @ml0103 @nsainmoonchild @lonadane @skythighs@bietchz@samnblack@mariaelizabeth21-blog1@projectcampbell @ripdragonbeans @caribbeangal@polireader@zillahvathek@moni-cah @literishdegree99 @a-beaverhausen @thekinslayer @maniccrystalhippie @princessofdarkwinter @isaxbella749@claudie-080102@ebaylee422@hydrationqueensworld@crumblychunksofheaven@officiallyunofficialperson@grungegrrrl@stargaryenx @dark-night-sky-99 @notanenthucutlet @saeselkie

#aemond #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond imagine #aemond x oc #aemond x you #smut #angst #prompt #fanfiction #aemond one eye #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond x original character #aemond x female original character #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #ywawm

[bhaalbabebardlock]

~Snippet Sunday~

Tagged by @astarionfreak and I'm gonna tag @mellybaggins and @grilledcheesd

(but no pressure ofc)

From a WIP Tandem chapter. VERY. VIOLENT.

Kill her. Render her flesh from her bones and spill the light of her holy goddess across this safe haven she has created. Rain down chaos in his name, wrench from the lips of anyone who would pray to any other god their wretched pleas for mercy that will go unanswered- for it is too late, because you know little of mercy.

For you are carnage made flesh, death given form with the sweetest of faces, and murder sings to you like a lullaby soothing you to sleep. A lullaby that you sing to those who fall before you. They all fall before you. They always do.

Her disgust was palpable, even to her. It was a wonder how she had smiled wide enough, her voice high and sweet enough to convince the druid that she just wanted to be helpful, that she regretted slaughtering those simpering tieflings. There was some truth to that at least. There had been just the briefest of seconds as she stood in that grove with them, pleading for mercy. She turned that word around in her head again and again, tasting it on the tip of her tongue.

The bard had asked that too, hadn't she? There was only the smallest of flickers into that night, when she had awoken and her hands had been drenched in blood, her fists sunk into Alfira’s chest up to the elbows as she pulled them out, sinew underneath her fingernails. She had sat there for so long she didn't even hear him approach, flinching when he crouched down and gently grabbed her shoulders. Lili. She had asked for mercy, she must have. Anyone would have, with the way her flesh had been torn into over and over. Dozens and dozens of jagged cuts lining every inch of her torso, her instrument smashed into pieces, her heart torn from her chest. Mercy.

She did not know that word. Astarion had not stopped her as she slaughtered each and every one, leaving not a single druid or tiefling alive and lighting the grove on fire behind them- and he was no less hungry for her as they sipped on sour wine and listened to the goblins in their revelry.

The only thing she questioned, regretted, and didn't like was this god. This all consuming fervor that Minthara hadn't shut up about. She held no loyalty to the god she had supposedly killed them for and if she ever saw Minthara again, she would make sure that was entirely clear. The Absolute. An absolute sham.

The point was the slaughter, not empty gods and empty promises and the worms they stuck in her head to make her obey them.

She obeyed only the urge.

She obeyed the call to reap bodies with her blades.

A cleric of the moon goddess. She was so good, brimming with light, a shining beacon in the darkness of the cursed shadows they were all trying to hide in. She'd offered her protection, and Lili smiled as she stepped forward and plunged her dagger through her soft stomach, sinking between ribs.

The bliss. There was almost nothing sweeter, nothing closer to absolute rapture, than listening to the sound of a heartbeat slowing, slowing, and stopping.

It was a beautiful symphony, a cacophony of carnage that she wished she could listen to again and again. Thump. Thump. Silence.

“Lilith, for gods-” He yanked her back, his voice almost as warm in her ear as that damnable clerics blood between her fingers.

“We need to go, now,” he hissed in her ear, dragging her back. She couldn't help the small bubble of laughter as he tugged them down the stairs, trying to avoid anyone stopping them. But that would have been too easy.

“I knew you weren't to be trusted. There is something about you, I know not what it is. Something in your eyes.” Lili turned to the old druid, arching an eyebrow and quirking a smile.

“Did you decide that before or after you tried to douse me with truth serum? I'm sure the ghosts of all those tieflings could have told you not to trust me.”

“Well, shit,” Astarion sighed, pressing his back against hers. “Now we have to kill all of them Lil, they aren't going to let us just leave.”

“Kill them all,” she giggled. “Isn't that just the best thing?”

#snip #lili

[hyuckkaiji]

to dream of the sea in all its cruelty - ominis gaunt x f!reader x garreth weasley

chapter one; "so I close my eyes to old ends and open my heart to new beginnings." - nick frederickson

summary; "What you want is of no consequence. Do not be foolish. You will marry the Gaunt boy, or you will learn what it means to be truly alone."

word count; 3.3k

warnings; chapter; none // series; mentions of death, child death, blood and gore, physical violence, depression, suicidal thoughts, forced marriage

note; this is a slow burn, angsty fic. I'm a slUTuh for angst, and love triangles, ominis gaunt, and weasley's. The reader is romancing our favorite ginger in the beginning, but best believe ominis comes swooping in and steals her away. reader is NOT mc. uni!hogwarts. following the game plot over and extended amount of time and from reader/ominis pov

The soft patter of rain against the roof sounded through the silent carriage in place of voices. The windows littered with droplets that slightly obscured the view of the deep green bathed in dreary grey light.

Your eyes trailed the passing trees, catching on every glimpse of orange or yellow in the sea of swaying emerald leaves. Autumn was coming, it’s cool breeze already taken over the Scottish country side. Replacing the comforting warmth of the summer with a chill in the air.

The door of the carriage swung open, a frantic looking ginger boy the culprit. He rushed in, closing the door swiftly behind him before ducking down. “Don’t say anything, yea. I am not here.” He looked up at you, eyes wide but a smile playing at his full lips.

“You’re dead, Weasley! By the gods, I mean it Garreth.” The look on the girl’s face alone made her anger palpable, her eyes were scanning every visible carriage window, searching for, presumably, the boy before you. Garreth Weasley, the name fit. The girl's white cotton shirt was drenched with an odd purple liquid, it had clearly splashed on her face as well from the streaks left after she has wiped it away.

You opened your mouth to speak, to say what, you weren’t sure but the boy shushed you before any words could escape. “Please.” His eyes were quite lovely, a soft green like a field on a summer day. You opted to say nothing, only watching as the girl stormed off in her search.

“She’s gone.” Garreth let out a breathy laugh, letting himself collapse. “I owe you one, she is a woman of her word. She would have killed me.” He had evidently been afraid enough to hide, but that didn’t stop the mischievous smile that played at his lips, the glint in his eye that told you he didn’t regret his actions.

“What did you do to her?”

“It was just a potion. Merlin, I told her not to touch it but Imelda only listens to Imelda.” He picked himself up off the floor, deciding to sit on the seat directly across from you. His posture comfortable as he leaned forward, arms resting against his knees.

He was looking at you with a gaze that playfully predatory, tracing your form, consuming you in a way that made blood rush to your cheeks. You looked away from him with a small cough, “Excuse me.”

“You’re new.”

“That obvious?”

He hummed in response, “I would certainly remember you. Besides,” he leaned back, still watching you, “You’re American.”

You laughed, “I suppose that will give me away every time in a place like this.”

“I’m Garreth. Garreth Weasley.”

“I caught that. From … the girl.” You waved your hand awkwardly in the direction of the window. “I’m y/n. Asturias.”

“Pretty.” He smiled at you, the first full smile since he’d come before you, sweet and inviting. Muggles have a saying, the devil is beautiful, evil can be welcoming , presenting itself to you dressed as all that you desire. The logical part of you is pushing at your fluttering heart with a stick, trying to catch your attention, trying to make you see logic but all you see is his smile.

Garreth pulls a watch from his pocket, slightly frowning at it before shoving it back where it came from. “We should get changed into our robes, we’ll be arriving soon.” He stood making his way to the door, pushing it open but not leaving before turning back to you once last time , “I’ll see you around.”

Those words were the last solid thing you could grasp, the last rock you try and catch yourself on before being swallowed up by the rushing water whisking you away to the treacherous drop of the waterfall ahead of you.

It was a blur of voices, fluttering robes, and your own anxiously beating heart. You had not been afraid at Ilvermony, you’d known many of the faces around you, known them since you were just a little girl. Only eleven, eleven and the embodiment of excitement as you had started your schooling. But this was different, you knew no one, you were alone in a place you never thought you’d be.

Torn from the life you knew, your home, and tossed in the lions den of the Scottish highlands. You could only focus on your breathing in a failing attempt to ground yourself, in and out, in and out, in and- “Asturias.” You caught the end of your name, breaking your trance. You looked up to see the red-haired professor watching you, waiting for you.

You rushed forward on unsteady feet, trying to make amends for making her wait. Taking a seat on the worn old stool before you, in front of a sea of watching faces, all eyes trained on you.

“It’s all right dear, we do not bite.” The older woman whispered in an attempt to soothe you. You didn’t respond, eyes still scanning the crowd until they landed on the ginger with the pretty green eyes, Garreth. He smiled at you encouragingly, giving you a small wave.

The woman set an old hat on top of your head, the voice enveloped your mind. Whispering to itself as it rummaged through your thought, searching for the information it required. “Hufflepuff.” The voice of the hat carried through the hall, followed by clapping and a few whistles from the hufflepuff table.

You made your way to the table, eyes searching for a spot to sit when a girl called out to you. “Here.” She waved you over, scooting to make room for you. She was a small girl with golden hair tried back into a bun though a few wisps escaped, framing her round face. She smiled at you, giving you a quick once over with eyes the color of a stormy sky. “Adelaide Oakes, it’s a pleasure.”

The blur continued. Countless voices overlapping and filling the hall to the brim with an unmelodious symphony. Every scrape of a utensil against an emptying plate setting your nerves on edge. Adelaide prattled on about anything and everything that came to mind, a sweet girl, but you were too lost in your own head to be of any use to the conversation. Only nodding, humming, and sparing a few sparse replies so she didn’t feel disregarded.

“And then my uncle-“ Adelaide’s voice fell silent as so many others did around you, she turned searching for what had caused the disturbance, you followed suit.

A girl trailing behind the headmaster, her robes yet to hold a house color. Her dark hair fell in an intricate braid to the small of her back, a few strategic strands framing her face. She was tall and slender, holding herself with an air of elegance, her steps smooth and graceful even following a pace she did not set.

The same red-haired professor has pulled the old stool back up to center stage, waiting with hat in hand. The headmaster motioned with an irritated hand. “Welcome, have a seat.” The woman greeted warmly as the girl sat where you had, all eyes on her just as they had been on you. You felt bad for her, worse for contributing to the sea of stares but you watched on nonetheless.

“Slytherin!” Cheers broke out only quieting at the Rosen hand of the headmaster.

“It has been quite the night, welcoming two new fifth years alongside our incoming first years. I’m sure you all must have plenty to do before classes begin tomorrow.” His voice was clipped, impatience dripping from every word.

“I said, I’m sure you all must have plenty to do before classes begin tomorrow!” The students muttered but complied, leaving their seats in groups, dispersing and finding their friends as they made their way out the great hall.

“Come along, I’ll show you the way to our common rooms. The boards show who rooms with who. And who knows, maybe we’ll be put together.” Adelaide looped her arm with yours.

♡･* ﾟ ﾟ*･♡

“Set it there.” The young boy motioned with a loose hand to the wooden table before him. You scurried forward, small hands grasping at the flickering candelabra, setting it where you’d been instructed.

The soft orange glow of the swaying flames played over the boy’s olive skin. He was looking around, though you could see nothing but the table and him. You scooted closer to him, taking his hand in your own. “Are they here?”

“No sister, you’re safe.” He turned back towards you. Trying to maintain a soft smile but you could see the fear in his brown eyes, the window to the soul as muggles say.

“Are you safe?” His smile faltered but he shook his head, letting dark waves fall into his eyes. He cupped your face, bringing you closer before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Do not fret sister, you are safe.”

“What about you?” the candles flickered out, leaving you in darkness. A cold empty feeling settling in your stomach. Your hands shot out to grab hold of your brother but only meeting empty air.

“Isaiah!” You lurched forward, hands grasping for him, panting uneven breathes.

“Are you alright?” You opened your eyes to see one of your roommates coming towards you, the others already having left for the morning. Her hands encircle one another, twiddling away nervously, concern etched into her soft features. Poppy, that’s her name. Poppy Sweeting.

“I-I’m fine, thank you. I apologize for disturbing you.” You muttered the words, raking a hand over your face in embarrassment. She didn’t look convinced but nodded anyways, “No worries.” She paused, looking you over, “You should get ready. I’ll show you to our first class.”

You freshened yourself up and dressed quickly, following poppy through a labyrinth of stairs and halls in awkward silence. Your mind still running circles around your dream as you tried to focus on memorizing your current path. “Charms class.” Poppy motioned with a introductory wave of her arm.

She gave a quick smile before scuttling off to sit next to a curly hair Gryffindor girl. Most of the students were already seated and chatting animatedly with their friends. You stood, searching the room for a free place to sit, though there were a few you were not met with friendly faces.

“Here! Behind you, there is an open seat here.” A dark skinned Gryffindor with a foreign accent called out, waving you over to sit beside her. “Hello, I am Natty. So you’re one of the new students? Have you met professor Ronen yet?”

Before you could respond the professor cleared his throat, demanding the attention of the class. “Shall we begin.” He chuckled, beginning his decent down the stairs. “Welcome to year five of charms. Now, this will be a crucial year in your education on the art of charmwork, but I am confident that we will take hold with the passion and rigor requisite of such a challenge.”

He did a small hop off the last step, slightly crouching as he motioned enthusiastically. A jolly man certainly. “Right! Now, everyone please open your textbooks to page five one seven.” He strolled over to his desk, standing before it to face the class. “But. Before we begin. Can anyone tell me the difference between the incantations of the color change and growth charms?”

There was a few groans, many students dropping their heads on the desks. No one raised their hands, not ready to fully transition from summer to class time just yet. “Anyone?” Natty slid her book over to you, pages open to the information you’d need to answer his question.

You had all but glanced at the page when professor Ronan noticed. “Ah, ah, ah. I’m afraid it is too late to study now.” He pulled out his wand, summoning the book to him with a wordless spell. Natty gave you a sheepish smile in turn.

Professor Ronen hummed, stepping down to walk between the desks. “My, the summer months must have really taken a toll on you all.” He chuckled. “By the looks of it, you all spent your holidays practicing Oblivate on one another.” He gave a hearty laugh to his own joke though the merriment did not resonate with the students.

The rest class was quite enjoyable, the professor’s enthusiasm was almost contagious. He even ended the class with a friendly competition of summoning, calling you and natty to compete against one another. Natty won by ten points.

“Gods, you are good.” She laughed patting you on the shoulder, “You may well give me a run for my title in summoners court. If you care to join.”

You spent the rest of the day being escorted to your next classes by those willing to help you. Though the more time went on the less sure you were that you would ever memorize the paths you needed to take in the vast castle. Even worse when you had received an owl from professor Weasley to see her after classes were finished, in the transfigurations classroom, as if you were just expected to know your way there. But nonetheless you persevered.

“You trust me with her?” A laugh deep and soft could scarcely be heard through the wooden door.

“I trust that you’ll do as I ask you.” Professor Weasley’s voice was stern even muffled and distant.

“You watch over me like a hawk. I can do nothing without your scrutiny and now watching from a distance is no longer enough for you? You must take my time and make it wholly yours!”

You couldn’t listen any longer, feeling more guilt over your unintentional eavesdropping than over interrupting this private conversation. Besides, you were asked to be here.

“What are you doing here?” The question startled you, yanking your hands away from the door before you could even open it a smidge, as if you had been caught, as if you were doing something wrong.

The girl stood there arms folded over her chest, it took you a second to place, the other new fifth year transfer. “Arabella Davis.” You let out a nervous laugh. She eyed you with suspicion, did she really think you were doing something wrong?

A beat of silence passed as she watched you, eyes raking over you like a beast stalking their prey. Her icy blue gaze bit into you, tracing you like the serrated edge of a blade, making goosebumps rise in her wake.

“I asked you what you’re doing?” You couldn’t help the awkward laughter, it was a bad habit. Your parents had spent years trying to correct it, it was improper they said and yet you never failed to revert back to it. In countless situations, the noise bubbled up and out of you on its own accord, especially when you were at a loss for words.

“I’m uh, I’m here to meet Professor Weasley. I have something to discuss with her.” Arabella sneered as if she didn’t believe you, “You’ll have to come back another time. I have a scheduled meeting with her.”

“So do I!” You were never quick to write people off, never quick to pick them apart and find what you disliked but in the face of that which should be your peer, the tides were turning. You snapped at her, mirroring her stance defiantly. Who does she think she is?

“Enough! You will take the girl!” Professor Weasley’s voice was loud enough to be heard clearly, snagging both yours and Arabella's attention, your heads turning towards the abrupt noise simultaneously.

You didn’t wait any longing, stepping away from your catty classmate and pushing open heavy wooden doors. “Professor?” Though you had called out to one person your gaze caught on another. Of course you couldn’t have known who your Professor had been arguing with but you hadn’t expected him.

Garreth’s eyes caught yours for only a moment before looking away, raking a rough hand though his curls, an exasperated huff passing his lips. It shouldn’t have hurt your feelings, really, you knew that.

You had one conversation with the boy, one conversation where he was decently nice, you should not be bothered by his reaction. You don’t know him and he doesn’t know you, but you are and you can’t stop the way your heart tinges in your chest.

“Miss Asturias, Miss Davis. I’m so pleased you’re both here.” You give the Slytherin girl a triumphant glance, though you’re not sure if she even saw it. “Mr. Wesley will be escorting you Miss Asturias and Mr. Sallow you, Miss Davis.”

The slight tinge all but turned into an ache. The confirmation that it had been you he had been so angry about hurt. Had you done something wrong, made a bad first impression? Maybe you just need to stop latching onto people that show you an inkling of kindness like they’re your lifeline. A bad habit, one you’ve been no more able to break then your badly timed laughter.

You looked over to the other boy mentioned, Sebastian Sallow. He had been in your defense against the dark arts class, he had dueled Arabella on Professor Hecate’s order. It had been a fair match but the brunette boy still won in the end.

How awkward it must have been to have a front row seat to a family squabble, you felt for him. But he didn’t look too off put by what he’d been witness to as he stood, smiling at Arabella. “My new charge.” He laughed, “Seems you cannot escape me.”

The lot of you had been sent off to Hogsmead for some supplies and other essentials. Arabella had quite the list, seemingly having nothing she required, not even a wand of her own. It made you wonder, she is a strange girl and not one you were sure you wanted to be around. Your list was much shorter only needing to get a few things.

The two Slytherins had broke off from the group almost immediately, and without a word to you or Garreth. Leaving the both of you to walk in a heavy silence, though the view made up for the lack of conversation. Your mother often told you sometimes the only way to truly appreciate the beauty of nature is without the stain of words.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was soft, quite and almost reluctant as if he’d been forced to say the words. “You have nothing to apologize for.” You glanced at him to find him already watching you, making a blush crawl up your neck.

“I do. This,” he motioned awkwardly around himself, “has nothing to do with my you. My aunt is just,” He sighed, “My time has not been my own in five years, and I know she means well. She does. But Merlin.”

You waited a moment for him to continue, when he didn’t you responded, “I get it.” The silence fell over you once again but this time comfortable and warm like a blanket on a chill winters night.

You understood his plight, much to your displeasure. You understood it all too well. You had lived your life like a porcelain doll up on the shelf, safely behind the glass of your parents watchful eyes for far too long. That was exactly why you where here now, near a witch grown and still being dragged along by your parents like you were a child.

You suppose that’s the way they see you, still the frightened little girl clinging to your mother’s skirts. Still the sobbing hiccupping child trying to wash away the blood, trying to revive that which had long been dead.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy series #hogwarts legacy imagine #hogwarts legacy angst #hogwarts legacy x reader #garreth weasley #garreth weasley series #garreth weasley fanfiction #garreth weasley imagine #garreth weasley angst #garreth weasley x reader #hogwarts legacy x you #garreth weasley x you #ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt fanfiction #hogwarts legacy fic #garreth weasley fic #ominis gaunt fic #Ominis gaunt series #ominis gaunt imagine #Ominis gaunt angst #ominis gaunt x reader #ominis gaunt x you #sebastian sallow x mc #˗ˏˋ꒰ 𖹭 my work 𖹭 ꒱ˎˊ˗

[daisynik7]

♯ 𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊. by @/jabamin | [nanami/ fluff] this is one of those fics that just makes me love fluffy and kind of domestic settings, especially with a character like kento because man can’t catch a break actually 😭 but for some reason, this fic has been one that gave me a palpable sense of comfort in his comfort and relief, is that crazy idk?

if i could bring you anything, i swear to god i'd bring you peace by @/haikyuuhoo| [geto/fluff] i know my pretty wife is keen to nanami, but this is such a sweet geto fic i simply couldn’t keep this to myself!

nanami’s gym routine by @/callm3senpaii (deactivated) [nanami/smut] lastly kind of a curveball 😭 but i just thought about this post you made in response to this fanart of nanami lifting weights and this just further confirms your genius brain

how it'll be by @/kentomilk | [nanami/ fluff]

so i've been contemplating this since it was posted but this is something i wrote and published and have been debating how to bring it up to you, which should've been easy considering how supportive you've been but anxiety lol 🥲 truth be told you are a key figure in inspiring me to write this because of the fanart of nanami shaving you tagged me in :)

if this is something i continue i'd definitely seek to fine-tune and calibrate my writing style so it's not just word vomit 🫠

but i'd like to thank you for tagging me in that which kickstarted me actually writing and not contemplating as well as for your endless kindness and support of course 🥹

as for my wishlist, i have no preferences! whatever you want to boost/ promote I'm open to it regardless of fandom/ character if you're up to that! 🫶🏼

thea. THEA!!!! I'm screaming, I'm YELLING! I'm going to read and reblog every single one of these fics, thank you so much for participating in the fic swap. I am SO EXCITED to read each and every single one of these, and I am especially excited to read your fic! thank you for sharing, I am thrilled to know that you are writing now and I want you to know that I will continue to be your biggest cheerleader. AHHHH I'm gyrating in my seat, this is the best thing to come home to!

OKAY, enough of my screaming. here are some fics I'd like to recommend to you! I'm going to give you a little bit of everything, so hold on to your damn horses, here we go:

Attack on Titan:

DTF Only by @/mochimooon (nsfw) - this is a completed series and every single part of this is a BLAST. It features a different aot man in each chapter and mochi writes each of them SO WELL. It's smutty, delicious, laugh out loud funny, our reader is fabulous, and just an utter joy to read. Highly recommend! Mochi is a fantastic writer, please go check out their other works in their masterlist, each one is a treat.

Gossip! by @/bloompompom (Eren x f!reader, nsfw) - another fantastic series that is on-going. I think you may be following her already, but if not, bloomy is an incredible writer and I recommend each and every single one of her works (binge her entire masterlist whenever you can, you won't regret it)! This series has me by the fucking THROAT. It's rockstar!eren x pop star!reader, enemies-to-lovers, need I say more? I don't want to give too much away because I think it's better if you just read it for yourself, but I am in LOVE with this series. Constantly on the edge of my seat, salivating for the chapter!

method acting by @/seeingivy (Eren x f!reader, sfw) - yet another fabulous series by another fabulous writer. ronnie always amazes me with her talent. it's an actor!au (can you tell I love my aus?!) full of angst, drama, FLUFF, everything you want in a series. I absolutely love the world-building in this. When you get a chance, please do check out her masterlist because it's a goldmine full of treasure.

Jujutsu Kaisen:

Office Crush by @/todorosie (Choso x f!reader, nsfw) - CHOSO CHOSO CHOSO!!! I love this fic so much, I cannot stress this enough. He is so shy and sweet in this. And I love our reader because she is gentle with him. This is peak romance, it seriously made my heart flutter when I read it. also, spoiler alert: car sex 🤭. IT'S A MUST READ. You may be following her already, but if not, check out Sorin's other works because they're all spectacular.

I mean, I could go on and on with other recommendations, but these are just a few that come to mind that I think you'd enjoy! also, shocking, but I didn't include any Nanami bc I'm trying to change it up a bit lol. Also, apologies if you've already read these!

love you thea!! ♥️ thank you for participating in this!

nikki's first annual fic swap!

#nikki's first annual fic swap #my lovely thea #lovely moots

[morallygreyvillain]

TOTCF FIC (WIP) [Cale × Choi Han]

"Slacker Life. Right?"

———————————

- Chapter 1 [Beta V.] -

×××××(Its a little saucy)×××××

Finally, The white start defeated, the Demon God sealed and everyone is safe and back home. It was finally time to begin that peaceful life Cale had always dreamed of.

Just the final step left... finally address those deep, scorching feelings that have been bubbling below the surface.

Cale has taken advantage of his patience for far too long...

Despite everyone else already being aware, constantly sharing knowing looks and sighs.

Thinking that he was blind to them. Cale doesn't regret waiting and holding back until this moment. Now that all the big obstacles were out of his way.

He's proud that he was able to keep his true feelings a secret (tho perhaps some had figured him out). He could imagine how much more teasing he would've endured had he not been so inscrutable (so he thinks).

He already got enough of it when his friends and family thought he was oblivious to it. Mostly noticeably from the kids who weren't so discreet.

On, being more mature wasnt so blatant about calling him a "foolish human"; but Cale was tired of the way she would stare and him, sigh, and then shake her head as if to say

"Ah, he's so poor/pitiful that he fell in love with this fool who doesn't know anything".

It's not like the other person made their feelings blatantly obvious. But for those close to him, his real feelings were as clear as glass. And once you did, you couldn't unsee it.

His devotion, his admiration, his frustration, and his complete trust that Cale has no idea how he's earned. His family and friends must have truly thought him to be an unfathomable idiot to have not noticed. (Not even mentioning how terrible of an actor he is)

But...

he thought it better to be seen as a dullard than as cruel...

And he did feel cruel.

Because despite how palpable those feelings were and how clear it was to each other, more so than anybody else...

no matter how much they were reciprocated...

they couldn't be acknowledged.

At least not in the usual sense...

Locking eyes, understanding each other without needing words, casual touches, praises, admonishments, and countless times depending on one another, protecting each other, sacrificing themselves for the other.

That ineffable feeling was always present, never absent.

Never unseen or unheard in even the most mundane of expressions or words...

Yes, he felt cruel, he felt guilty.

He was the one forcing them to hold back. There were too many risks, his attention was too divided; there wasn't enough time.

There was too much at stake.

Cale was at fault.

Those weren't valid reasons, none of that mattered in the face of each other. 

all that was just excuses, external issues that distracted from the real reason inside himself...

Fear.

Cale was simply afraid,

afraid that the world would take from him again.

Constantly making excuses to play oblivious.

"It's simply a whim, a cliche, he's just confusing his sense of duty, it's just because I'm the closest thing to his home, it filial"

"Because he feels independent to me, if not, why would he... I'm trash? He could do so much better, he's the protagonist.

"I don't deserve it..."

But above all that, Cale was greedy and not even his cowardice and pessimism could win over that. His avarice grew and now he not only wanted his peaceful life...he wanted to have him as well...

No, his peaceful life wouldn't be complete without him

So he planned and schemed and stole, blowing up every physical obstacle that was in his way,

their way...

Cale would flip the whole world upside-down if he had to.

And they were always there.

Patiently waiting and never far from his side but never taking that step over their boundary. Just waiting...

Knowing him he probably never expected to stop waiting, never daring to hope for anything more, content with what he had.

What they had.

But it's not enough to satiate the darkness inside him. Cale knew deep down they weren't as pure as originally thought. There was the voracity of a beast somewhere locked away, shackled by his intense devotion.

Holding back his true feelings, his greed, his...

Desire~

An insatiable feeling that made what they held towards each other distinct, unmistakable. The possessiveness, the jealousy...

The lust

It was scorching him

That instinct, that desire was the only thing they pretended not to see,

or feel.

They had to. Once experienced, it couldn't be swayed away by reason or excuses. Cale truly had to acknowledge what this "affection" was at that moment and that it was more than simply...affection.

Ravenous eyes, causal contact that seemed to last just too long because he didn't want to let go. How was Cale supposed to not notice all these things...

Or how they made him feel.

Even before when he was Roksu he had never experienced that type of desire, always far more concerned with surviving. Even being surrounded by several unparalleled beauties after transmigrating he hadn't felt... attracted to them in that way. Even with his beguiling appearance, the attention it got was appreciated but never reciprocated.

At least until now...

His words were always laced with intention and actions designed to distract him. He began to linger in touches of his own. Cale was better at masking it than he was. Those around them always catch his passionate stares, but not Cale's.

Cale was much more subtle with his...

appreciation...

His usual attitude and aloofness made him harder to read in general. But though friends and family had seen through his" uncaring" exterior, they hadn't caught on when he'd admire the curves or took the opportunity to feel his muscles or appreciate his handsome face.

When Cale would tilt his head ever so slightly, shifting his hips or loosen his clothes deliberately because he knew he was being intensely watched.

Sure it made him feel bad, knowing what he was doing to him, and how others would pity and tease him after. Thinking Cale was oblivious to his effect on him.

But it felt so~ much better to watch him squirm~ and bite to keep that beast-ial part of himself at bay...

But now...

All those things that had been in the way, shackling their inclinations, were blown away.

He was far too powerful for any sort of social propriety to affect him (not to say that it ever had).

So finally he would claim the final piece needed for his leisurely life...

"No need to delay this anymore..."

_________________________________________

Ok this is the draft of the first chapter

Link for info post HERE

I haven't finished the first Season yet [I got to the way to the part where Alberu is a Lion (I felt that was the least spoiler detail) > its also been over a year since I binge read the series so I'm a little foggy on certain details so if I've left some characters out or missed some stuff thats why but I'd appreciate it if no one spoiled anything for me!!!!

Anyway since I'm posting them all at once I'll attack the next chapter's draft HERE!

***Chapter 2 Beta link***

#tcf #trash of the count's family #lcf #lout of the count’s family #trash of the count family #lcf fic #totcf fic idea #lotcf fic #fic incoming #cale #cale henituse #lcf choi han #tcf cale #tcf choi han #choi han #cale x choi han #mutual pining #totcf ficliet #wip #from my notes #totcf #chapter update #wip for ao3 #ao3 works #kim rok soo #cale and choi han #agnst #love confessions

[defxserpentine]

Evermore.

Pairing: Morpheus (Dream of the Endless)/OC Female

Reader Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 5.77k

Update Frequency: Fortnightly (flexible), could be late or early. I’ll try to stick to schedule. No promises.

Genre: Fantasy, Romance, Slow Burn, Adventure

Warnings: Violence, Surgery, Blood

Disclaimer: I do not own The Sandman story or its characters. I do however, lay claim to my OC Juniper Scurlock and this Fan Fiction.

A/N: This chapter was super fun to write and I finished it over a week earlier than I intended. I had much more material to work with than the first chapter so, it just kept flowing. I’m only two chapters in and almost at 10k words! Woohoo 🎉 Note: I changed the title from ‘Withered and Wilted’ to ‘Evermore.’

Masterlist | Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Chapter 2

A Lord’s Return

I’d learned that the Lord of Dreams went by two names, Dream of the Endless and Morpheus. Deciding to play it safe, I chose to address him simply as Dream. I wasn’t one of his subjects so, I didn’t feel the need to call him Lord or Sir as Lucienne did. I secretly called him Morpheus in my head however, thinking it was cool that he also went by his Greek title.

To add to this, Lucienne also mentioned that he was essentially the god of dreams or as dream himself would say “Lord of Dreams, King of the Nightmare Realms,” or something else along those lines and just as long winded.

He certainly had the formidable presence and otherworldly detachment of a god. However, I didn’t expect him to feel as heavily and wholly as he did. He often looked on the verge of tears.

We now found ourselves within the main hall. I sat upright against a pillar, exhausted from the walk to the palace. Fortunately, the bleeding had stopped. But, the pain remained. I felt bad for having bled on Lucienne’s tailcoat which was already patched a million times over. I’d asked her about it once and she said that because it was a part of the Dreaming, it too would fall subject to the realm’s decay.

Morpheus stood before his ruined throne room. The look of pained disappointment still plastered on his face. Lucienne held back to give him some space.

“I kept a journal for a while.” she began. “A chronicle of everything that happened in your absence. But slowly, the words began to fade.”

I remembered the day it had happened. I’d visited during my first year at university, hoping to search the library for tomes on Hermes Trismegistus, the then subject of my studies. Only to find that every book I picked up was missing chucks of text. Lucienne was devastated when I’d told her. She was positively crestfallen.

“Sometime after you left, all the books in the library became bound volumes of blank paper. The next day, the whole library was gone. I never found it again.” she finished. She’d struggled in those times. What use was a librarian if there was no library? Though I doubt she’d bring that up to Morpheus, when it would only prove to further his regret.

“And yet you remained while others fled, the royal librarian of an abandoned kingdom.” Morpheus spoke.

“I never felt abandoned. I knew you would return“ Lucienne assured him.

He then walked towards the throne and crouched down to pick up a shard of glass, the sorrow palpable in his eyes.

Turning then towards us, he raised his arms as the rubble began to lift into the air, his coat billowing in the wind. He tried with what little power he had retained to repair the damage but, it was clear that he was still too weak. It was then that he collapsed and I gasped in shock, turning away. Surely, he wouldn’t want someone unknown to him, to see him in such a state of powerlessness. I didn’t want to rub salt in the wound after already witnessing his vulnerable state whilst imprisoned within the sphere.

“You need rest, my Lord…and food…and perhaps a bit more rest, and then you'll be back at full strength.” Lucienne said hurriedly.

“No,” he objected. “Not without my tools.”

“Your tools?” Lucienne questioned.

“My sand, my helm, my ruby.” he revealed, breathless from the overexertion of his powers. I had had visions of a ruby and wondered if they were one and the same. As for the other two tools he was referring to, I knew very little. They did however, sound of great importance to him.

“Why? What happened to them?” Lucienne asked in confusion.

“They were taken from me. By my captors. And then taken from them. I know not where.” he paused and, with a lost look, continued “Nor what I am without them.“

It seemed I would constantly feel both sorrow and pity for this man I’d just met a little over an hour ago. He truly seemed unable to catch a break.

I then decided it was time I interjected.

“I hate to interrupt,” I began with a scratchy and weak voice. “The bleeding’s stopped but, I really think I need medical attention or at the very least, a glass of water would be nice.” I finished.

“My God June! I’m so sorry, I forgot you were injured.” Lucienne said, rushing to my side.

I was looking to Morpheus for his response and watched as he gave a slight wave of his hand and before me appeared a glass of water. He seemed able to manage that much at least with his diminished powers. I gave him a thankful nod and gulped it down. Morpheus then sat upon the staircase as exhaustion took him over. I turned next to face Lucienne, who had crouched beside me to inspect my wound.

“It’s okay Lucienne. I’m sure I’ll be fine, I just wanted to let you know I was still here.” She looked down, embarrassed that she’d done just that. I took her hand to reassure her that I wasn’t upset with her. I understood that she would be thrilled that her Lord had returned and forgave her distraction.

I felt much better after finally having something to drink. Lucienne, had returned to stand before Morpheus after she’d assured me that I’d be attended to, soon.

“There is only one sure way for me to find my tools. I must summon the Three-In-One.” Morpheus stated.

“Surely it hasn’t come to that.” Lucienne responded with slight disdain.

I knew of who they spoke. The triple goddess, Hecate. I’d done my fair share of research on her as she was the matron Goddess of witchcraft and magic.

“The Fates see past, present and future…and they know all.” he pressed.

“Yes, but they speak in riddles. They never tell you what you want to know…only things you should never know.” Lucienne desperately tried to reason with him. It was clear they’d had dealings with Hecate in the past and it hadn’t ended well.

“Perhaps just this once you could ask one of your siblings for help. Destiny would certainly know where your tools are, or Desire...” at the mention of Desire’s name, Morpheus’s expression darkened.

“My siblings have their own realms to attend to, I have mine. We do not interfere in each other's affairs.“ he said, trying to shut that possibility out.

“You may not, but they've certainly been known to.” Lucienne added. “Perhaps just this once you could tell them what happened to you.” she tried again to persuade him.

“I am quite sure they know what happened to me. And not one of them came to my aid.” Morpheus sadly confirmed. They were starting to sound like the worst siblings imaginable if they were willing to ignore their brother’s capture.

“The Fates aren't cheap, you know. They cost a bloody fortune.” Lucienne said softly, giving in at last.

“And at present, I cannot muster power enough to summon them, let alone pay that cost.” Morpheus admitted.

“Unless... Is there anything of mine that remains in The Dreaming? Something that I created?” He spoke, with hope in his voice.

“You created all of this.” Lucienne provided.

“No, something that remains intact. That might retain some fragment of my power within it. Something I can absorb.” He interrupted with urgency.

“There is one thing.” Lucienne said grimly. I knew by the look on her face that whatever followed wouldn’t be good.

•}{•

Although my wound had coagulated and I was no longer at risk of bleeding out, it didn’t make the journey any easier to the Houses of Secrets and Mystery. Lucienne had assured me, before we left, that this was where we would find both the creation Morpheus was seeking and someone who could provide me treatment.

I knew of only two others, aside from Mervyn, that had remained within the realm. Lucienne simply referred to them as ‘the brothers’ and said they weren’t to be disturbed. She’d neglected however, to mention just how famous these brothers were.

The houses were two towering cottages on a secluded island accessible by a lone bridge, a truly beautiful place. We, of course, crossed the bridge but, as we approached I heard the call of an animal, unlike anything I’d ever heard before. I looked up and saw what looked like a grey horse, if horses had the wings of a bat, spiked tails and talons, that is.

At first I felt fear but, that changed quickly when I saw the way the creature interacted with our hosts.

“Cain. Abel” called Morpheus to the brothers, as we passed through the front gate. Surely, he didn’t mean the Cain and Abel, right? Though, after all I’d seen, the idea wasn’t entirely implausible.

“Lord Morpheus.” began the man on the left, astonished.

“You've come back.” the man on the right, followed.

“At last.” continued the first man.

“I told you he'd return.” spoke the second.

“I never doubted it.” said the first with great relief.

“Come in, my Lord. And you, Lucienne. And your guest. To the House of Mystery.” offered the first man.

“Or to the House of Secrets. I have tea.” interjected the man on the right.

“I have tea and biscuits.” the man on the left said in competition. These two were starting to sound like tweedle dum and tweedle dee. It made my head hurt.

“Gentlemen, I'm afraid this is not a social call.” Lucienne spoke at last.

“What's happened?” the first man questioned.

“Is something wrong?” asked the second.

“What is it?” again, spoke the first.

“For the sake of The Dreaming, I must take back a gift I gave you long ago.” Morpheus stated. He sounded reluctant in his request. I looked to Lucienne, her expression mirrored that of her Lords. I was beginning to worry.

“Yes, my Lord.” said the second in confirmation.

“What's ours is yours.” the first assured.

“Anything at all.” specified the second.

“Just ask it.” concluded, the first.

The brothers seemed utterly devoted to Morpheus and I was glad. I didn’t know much about the Lord of Dreams but, this at least confirmed that he was highly respected by his subjects. Which is always a good sign.

Lucienne then kindly informed me that the first man was Cain and the second Abel. And that the creature, a gargoyle, was called Gregory and had once been a nightmare that Morpheus had gifted the pair centuries ago. Making our way towards Gregory’s miniature homestead, my heart began to sink as I realised the reason for our visit.

“Surely there's another way.” Abel pleaded, mirroring my own thoughts. Watching the gargoyle play with joy made my heart break for what was to come.

“I wish there were. But The Dreaming must be restored.” Morpheus said, trying to persuade the two.

“You say that as if we're the ones that destroyed it. As if we disappeared for over a century.” Cain spoke is disdain towards his Lord.

“Cain.” chided Lucienne.

“You forget yourself, Cain.” warned Morpheus.

“No, my Lord, you forgot us. Do you have any idea what we've already lost waiting for you to come back after all these years?” Cain continued, unable to hold his tongue.

“What you have lost?” Morpheus responded in challenge.

“The answer is no.” Cain withheld.

“I have not come here to ask you. I've come to ask Gregory.” Morpheus stated. I had begun to worry that he would take Gregory by force. However, I was relieved when he revealed the choice was Gregory’s. As it should be.

Gregory then rolled a ball to Morpheus, inviting him to play. He reached down to pick it up and slowly approached the gargoyle.

“I need your help.” he said softly to the creature, who had calmed down and stood before Morpheus.

“Gregory, stop. No” pleaded Cain, moving to stand between him and Morpheus, Abel at his side.

“Take me instead. Or Abel.” Cain offered.

“Yeah, take me, Lord Morpheus, please.” Abel seconded.

“I cannot. I can only reabsorb that which I have created, and Gregory began as a Nightmare.” Morpheus explained gently.

“Yes, but he's one of us now. It's not fair.” Abel spoke, his voice cracking.

“No... it's not.” empathised Morpheus, stepping back to give the brothers time to say their farewells.

It became clear to me then, that this entire situation was painful to us all. I regretted thinking that Morpheus would exercise force in the face of rejection, I’d entirely misjudged him. He probably felt the worst, given that he was taking away not only Gregory’s life but, Cain and Abel’s beloved pet.

“You're a very good boy.” Abel whispered softly to Gregory as he planted a kiss upon his beaked snout. Gregory then moved to rub affectionately against Cain’s shoulder.

“You don't have to do this, you know.“ Cain spoke with barely contained tears, he then backed up and turned away, followed by Abel, to which Gregory bleated. They couldn’t face what was about to happen.

I myself was trying very hard not to cry but, a few tears had already escaped. Lucienne placed her hand on my shoulder in comfort.

“Why must he do it?” I asked her.

She looked to me and spoke after a deep sigh, “Sometimes we must make necessary sacrifices. However hard or unfair they may be.”

“Lord Morpheus is no stranger to these sort of decisions. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make them any easier.” she finished.

I thought then, that it must be incredibly difficult to be a ruler. I couldn’t imagine the constant pressure Morpheus must be under. Even more so, now, that his kingdom had turned desolate and he was desperate for even a smidgen of power in order to restore it.

“You have served this kingdom with great honour. You will be missed.” he spoke in gratitude to Gregory. Cain, Abel and Lucienne looked away but, my eyes remained transfixed as Morpheus raised his hand to the gargoyle.

I watched as Gregory slowly faded, turning to sand. The sight was, hauntingly, both beautiful and tragic. I’d been unable to stop myself from crying now and just let the tears fall. Morpheus made his way back to us, stopping before Lucienne and I. He seemed composed but, as his gaze met mine, I knew that he was shaken by what he’d done.

“As you may well know.” Morpheus began. “Our hosts, Cain and Abel were the first murderer and the first victim. Meaning, Abel is well equip to treat your wounds. Now, if you will, please follow me and we shall see to it you are adequately attended to.” With that, my suspicions were confirmed. How the brothers had come to reside within The Dreaming, however, remained a mystery.

“Thank you, Dream. It is alright if I call you that, right?” I got out, awkwardly as we walked towards the house of secrets.

“That is…acceptable.” he answered with a slight smirk. Lucienne had already excused herself, returning to the palace in wait of our return. In her absence, I wasn’t sure how to act around Morpheus. Luckily, Abel, had graciously accepted his Lords request and we weren’t entirely alone. I probably would have melted into an anxious puddle if that were the case.

It seemed I’d spoken too soon, for around the corner appeared Cain, a large shovel in his hands. I didn’t think much of it at first until I saw the wrathful expression on his face. I thrust my arm out in front of Morpheus and stepped slightly in front of him, believing Cain to mean him harm. He had just taken away his friend.

Placing his hand on my shoulder, Morpheus drew me back to his side.

“I am not his target.” he spoke. “You need not defend me.”

“I don‘t understand. If not you, then…?” I began and was taken back to what Morpheus had said earlier about Cain being the first murderer and Abel the first victim.

I stepped forward to warn Abel but, Morpheus held me back again. “No. You must not interfere.”

I trusted Morpheus’ word and held back. Cain, had reached Abel now and, with a bone crunching crack, whacked him on the head with the shovel. I audibly gasped and looked to Morpheus in shock.

“It is the way they began and the way they shall remain.” he stated.

“How awful! Forever trapped in such a brutal cycle.” I exclaimed.

“Yes. I suppose it is awful.” Morpheus responded, looking at me out the corner of his eye.

Cain had now lugged Abel’s body into a shallow grave and was burying him. I watched on as the man that was supposed to treat me now lay in a temporary death state. It dawned on me then why Abel would be best suited for the job, seeing that he had to constantly deal with injuries inflicted by Cain. The question remained however, from whom would I seek help now?

Morpheus had come to the same conclusion. Sighing, he turned to me.

“It seems that your treatment has become solely my responsibility.” he began. “I had hoped to leave you in more capable hands however, things are rarely so simple.” he finished.

“Please, there’s really no need! I’m sure I can work something out. How hard can it be? You probably have much more important things to do.” I blurted out, feeling guilty to have pulled him away from his restoration of the realm.

“I am indebted to you, Juniper Scurlock. I shall see to your recovery.” he said with finality. “Come now, to the house of secrets we are bound.”

“But—“ he cut me off with a sharp look that said he wouldn’t budge on the matter. I pouted stubbornly and gave in, following him towards the cottage.

We entered into what appeared to have once been a servants kitchen. It’d clearly not been used for quite some time. I reached out my hand to open a cupboard out of curiosity but, was stopped as Morpheus spoke, “Sit. I shall inspect the severity of your injury. Then, I shall find what we need.”

He stood before two dining chairs, waiting patiently. I clambered over, first placing my satchel upon the table, then lowered myself slowly onto one of the chairs. I expected him to sit on the other but, instead he knelt beside me.

“May I?” he questioned as he placed both hands on my lower leg.

“Oh, sure.” I said a little flustered at the sudden contact.

He then lifted my leg so it rested upon the adjacent chair. Pulling aside the slit in my skirt, his expression turned grim and I too grimaced at the sight. The tourniquet I’d fashioned was completely drenched in blood, that had dried and crusted to a deep burgundy. The rest of my leg was almost entirely painted red. I was deeply embarrassed by the state I was in.

Morpheus carefully unraveled the necktie and I sucked in a sharp breath. He looked up at me, pointedly, a flash of what might have been worry in his eyes.

“I’m alright.” I assured him. He stared at me for a moment longer then, silently inspected the bullet wound.

“The bullet is still inside.” he observed. “I will have to remove it.”

“I shall return.” he rose, retreating through a door that appeared to lead to a laundry or bathroom of sorts. I assumed he was looking for a first aid box but, didn’t expect him to return with an array of old medical tools.

He laid upon the table; a long pair of forceps, a scalpel, a hooked needle and thread and some bandages along with a box of matches, a candle and a bowl filled with rags.

“What are the matches and candle for?” I asked, “It’s the middle of the day.”

He reached for the box and struck a match, holding it to the candle he said, “It is how I shall sterilise the tools.” I could see the ghost of a smirk as he spoke. I blushed because, of course that’s what it was for. Now I felt like an idiot.

He raised the scalpel to the flame. My face contorted in concern. I’d mistakenly thought the scalpel was to cut the thread but, that didn’t appear to be the case. I began to bounce my other leg out of nervousness.

Morpheus place two fingers on my knee to stop my fidgeting and questioned, “What is the matter?”

I didn’t want to ask, lest I look dumb in front of him for the second time. But, my gaze, fixed worriedly upon the scalpel, gave me away.

He looked me in the eyes and said, “The bullet is imbedded deep. I must cut in order to remove it.”

I placed my hands on both sides of the chair’s base and said “Very well.” resigning to my fate.

Morpheus, after sterilising the rest of the tools and filling the bowl with warm water, returned to kneel beside me again. It felt strange seeing a god kneeling before me and stranger yet to have him tend to me.

“Brace yourself.” he warned. “There will be pain.”

I gripped the chair, until my knuckles turned white, as he cut into my already wounded leg. The pain was sharp, not searing like a burn or aching like a bruise. I lifted one hand to my mouth and bit down on my palm to subdue a sob. A rogue tear rolled down my cheek.

Morpheus glanced up at me and gently unfurled my hand from the chair, placing within it a damp rag.

“It’s easier if you distract yourself.” he said and so, I did just that, beginning to clean away the blood.

He finished reopening the wound and reached for the forceps in order to remove the bullet. It was more painful than the scalpel and I was now sobbing, unable to hold back.

Luckily, he was efficient and in no time at all had deposited the bullet into the bowl. By then, I had cleaned most of the blood from my leg. All that remained was to stitch and dress the wound.

He held the needle to the flame, wearing an expression of determined concentration, then got to work. I held my palms to my eyes, awaiting the last of the pain. I was still crying and felt like an emotional mess because of it.

I was distracted and didn’t realise he had finished until I felt him pull my hands gently away from my face.

His hands lingered upon my wrists as he said, “You will be alright. The worst of it is over.”

I looked down to see I had seven neat little stitches, I thought however, that he may have gone a little overboard on the dressing. My leg was almost as stiff as a cast.

I noticed then the look he wore. I’d been blind to it until now but, he was clearly disturbed. I felt foolish to have been so focused on myself that I’d not thought about how he must be feeling about Gregory.

“Are you alright?” I said suddenly without thinking.

Morpheus dropped his hands from my wrists, taken aback. He turned from me then and curtly said, “I am perfectly fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.” I pushed, although I knew it wasn’t my place. I couldn’t stop myself, he’d just helped me after all.

“My well-being is of little concern.” he concluded. I opened my mouth to say something further but, quickly closed it instead, opting to offer my thanks.

“Thank you, Dream. For helping me that is.” I said sincerely, he turned stoic and I couldn’t read what he was thinking.

“Come, now, June. We must return to the palace.” he spoke. My cheeks flushed red as I heard him say my name for the first time. I quickly turned away to hide my face and started for the door.

“I guess this makes us even now.” I said as I stepped outside, trying to act nonchalant. Morpheus grabbed my wrist for what felt like the twentieth time that day and turned me to face him.

“You freed me, a then stranger to you, from a cage I was confined to for more than a century. A million deeds could not amount to the service you have done for me.” he said with more emotion than I’d ever heard from him. It was a baby step but, I was glad he was beginning to open up around me.

He graced me with the slightest of smiles and we turned to begin our way back to the palace where Lucienne awaited us.

•}{•

Morpheus returned to the spot he had previously occupied upon the stairs. I tentatively sat sat down as well, leaving an appropriate length of space between us. Lucienne stood before us both, hands clasped behind her back.

“What going to happen now?” I questioned, my hands fidgeting out of nervousness. “Will you- send me away?”

“Absolutely not! Don’t think such a thing!” Lucienne said, moving forward to take my hand in hers. I gave it a squeeze and smiled at her.

“Thank you. I was worried I’d outstayed my welcome.” I breathed out.

“Lucienne.” Morpheus began. “You are free to do as you wish. For now, there are matters I must discuss with our guest.”

Lucienne bowed, looked to me with a look I couldn’t read and left in the direction of where the library had once been.

Morpheus reached out to stop my knee from bouncing nervously again. I hadn’t even realised I’d been doing it.

“I had not expected you and Lucienne to be acquainted.“ he stated. “I would like to know how it is that you came to enter this realm.”

I told him everything from when I’d first came here in my dreams to when I was here just last week researching the Order of Ancient Mysteries. He listened attentively and waited until I was finished to speak.

“So, that is how you came to be at the place of my imprisonment.” he observed.

“Yes. I was there to interview Rodrick Burgess’s son about the order.” I said then laughed nervously. “I never actually met Alex Burgess. I didn’t even knock on the front door.”

Morpheus looked at me then with a furrowed brow.

“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t make a habit of breaking into mansions or- basements or- possible occultists headquarters.” I blurted out. “I was there purely for academic reasons.” I continued in my defence.

“It matters not how you came to be there. I am just glad that you were.” he spoke. “When I heard Rodrick Burgess speak my title, Dream of the Endless, I knew then that I was doomed to my fate. Confined to the prison of an amateur.”

I looked at him and said offhandedly, “I think I still would have helped you. Even without the visions.”

“Visions?” he questioned.

“Yes. Four months now, I’ve been plagued by them.” I answered.

“What did they contain?” he continued.

“The first was the mansion. Next, a pied crow-.” He whispered to himself a name, that I didn’t quite catch. “A ruby and lastly, a sphere.”

His gaze turned sharply to me when I mentioned the ruby.

“What do you know of my ruby? Who possesses it now?” he pressed.

“All I saw was a ruby around the neck of a man. His face was shadowed. I could not identify him.” I said solemnly, disappointed I couldn’t be more helpful.

“Thank you, June. I now must take my leave. Lucienne will see to it that you are returned safely to the waking world.” Morpheus said, rising to his feet in a hurry.

“Are you going to see Hecate?” I asked.

“You know of the three-in-one?” he answered with a question of his own.

“Of course! I would be a horrible occult historian if I didn’t. The triple goddess does after all preside over the practice of witchcraft.” I said proudly.

He looked to me out the corner of his eye and said, “You may prove to be more useful that I had originally thought, Juniper Scurlock.”

With that, he walked away in the same direction Lucienne had taken. I felt a strange feeling in my chest as I watched the retreating figure of the Lord of Dreams.

•}{•

Lucienne had returned shortly after Morpheus’s departure. She’d informed me that Lord Morpheus had instructed her to accompany me on my return to the waking world and that he had said another portal could be opened from the same place I had entered earlier that day.

We stood now, just outside the gates of Horn and Ivory. I’d just begun to make my way into the vast desert when, Lucienne grabbed my arm and thrust me behind her.

“What? What is it?” I said, looking around in a panic. Then I saw it. What appeared to be particles floating at first, slowly formed into a man. I could have sworn I’d seen teeth where his eyes should have been but, quickly dismissed the thought.

“Oh, good. You've returned. And just in time too. His Lordship will be pleased.” Lucienne began. I could hear a slight strain in her voice as her hand tightened on my arm. Whoever this man was, Lucienne didn’t want him anywhere near me.

“Where is Dream?” he questioned. I couldn’t see where he was looking because of the dark shades he wore.

“He's away. Again. For the moment.” she provided.

“He's out there looking for his tools, isn't he?” he asked.

“He will be coming back.” Lucienne said adamantly. I admired how she fearlessly she faced down this mystery man.

“And who might you be?” he asked as he finally acknowledged my presence. My heart rate spiked and I drew back further behind Lucienne. I had a deeply unsettling feeling that there was something horribly off about this man.

“Don’t be shy. Come on out so, we can see eye to-…eye.” he pushed with a smirk.

“Who she is does not concern you.” Lucienne spat firmly, moving to obscure me fully from view.

“Aw, come on. I was just being friendly.” he said in his defence. Nothing about his tone however, radiated even an ounce of what I’d call friendliness.

“We both know where your version of friendliness leads.” Lucienne interjected.

“Very well, then. I'd better get a move on.” he said as he straightened up.

“Where are you going?” Lucienne asked, he turned back.

“Back to the waking world. To freedom. You should try it sometime.” he said gesturing to her.

“Dreams and Nightmares do not belong in the waking world.” Lucienne stated.

“Oh, turns out I fit right in.” he said smugly.

“Have you no loyalty to your creator?” asked Lucienne in annoyance. With that I knew this man must’ve been a nightmare Morpheus had created, who had escaped into the waking world during his absence.

“Why should I? He has no loyalty to us.” the man said in disgust.

“You misunderstand him, Corinthian.” spoke Lucienne.

“Oh, no, I see him for what he is. He doesn't give a fսck about you or me. He only cares about himself. His kingdom. Well, he can have it. 'Cause I am leaving and I am never coming back.” said Corinthian with great disdain, slowly stalking back to stand before Lucienne.

“He will come after you.” she warned.

“Well, then, if he does, he won't be coming back either.” he threatened, leaning down as he spoke.

“You can't change him.” he said, waking away. “You can't save him either.” he finished as a gust of sand spirited him away.

I moved to stand next to Lucienne. She was worried and so was I after meeting the Corinthian.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” she said.

“It’s alright.” I assured her, “I just hope I don’t see him ever again.”

Lucienne’s expression was grim as she said, “I fear that just may be the case of you were to return, alone, to the waking world. The Corinthian took an interest in you and you will not be safe there without proper protection.”

“How could you tell he was int-“ I started, Lucienne cutting me off.

“Trust me, I know.” she said with certainty.

“With my Lord gone. You’ll have to look to other means in order to secure your safety. Do you know, perhaps, of anyone that could offer you aid?” she questioned.

I thought first that I might return to stay with my parents in Wales but, immediately discarded the thought, not wanting to risk anything happening to them. Then I considered asking Professor Crowley for help and realised that I wouldn’t be able to explain my situation without sounding like I’d gone completely mad. Then it clicked.

“Ah, I know.” I began, “I have a friend who’s an exorcist, surely she’ll be able to help me.”

Lucienne gave me a strange look.

“What?” I said, “I study the arcane arts. It’s only fitting that I should be acquainted with those who practice it.”

“Very well then.” she started, as a portal opened where the Corinthian had departed, “Get into immediate contact with this exorcist friend of yours. Ask her to procure for you an amulet of protection. It should hide you, for the time being at least, from any nightmares roaming the waking world. It was nice to see you June, although I wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances.”

“I’ll see you soon. Thank you for everything, Lucienne, I mean it.” I spoke sincerely. She smiled at me and nodded towards the portal.

It felt like days had passed as I appeared before the elm grove where I’d stashed my sedan earlier that morning, when in reality it had only been a few hours. The feeling of being pulled and squashed wasn’t as prominent as the first time I’d entered the portal so, I wasn’t feeling any nausea as I entered my vehicle.

I placed the keys in the ignition and backed out onto the lane. A difficult drive awaited me, seeing that my left thigh was stiff as a stick in its bindings. Taking off my satchel, at last, I noticed that Morpheus had placed within it extra bandages. He must have done so when I’d been sobbing from the pain of being operated on without anaesthetic. I smiled then at the gesture. The Lord of Dreams was sweeter than he let on.

Chapter 3

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[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One: Fathers and Sons

Chapters 58: The Dark One’s Assistant

They didn't really have time to spare, but he'd seen the importance of taking time to let Belle calm down. She was his motivation. She was his family. And family had always been his core motivation for everything he'd ever done. It was hard to believe that his original plans had been to make a proposal so that declaration would be recognized by all the world. But it didn't matter. Ring or not, he saw her as so much more than a wife. If today was his last and the prophecy came to pass, the fact that he hadn't gotten to ask her formally would certainly be one of his biggest regrets. But to do it now…

It wasn't the right time because there wasn't any time. Her heart rate had stabilized minutes ago. She was calm, girded, he hoped, for what was to come. What was to come was here, or at least it would be the second they left.

"We can't stay here any longer," he finally suggested sadly.

She gave a small nod before finally picking her head up off of his shoulder. He was nearly pushing himself up when he felt her hand along his cheek, and she drew him close and kissed him. It was deep and enticing. And if he had a choice, he'd seal them off in this room and lay her down and make time for-

"We're going to fix this," she muttered when she broke away all too quickly. "And we're going to come back here, and finish that!"

Gods, yes. That was the motivation he needed.

"I love you," he nodded in acknowledgment before kissing her forehead.

"And I love you, too," she echoed perfectly. And before either could say anything else, they rose from the bed. They each finished their dressing, though he had yet to acknowledge that he'd done it just so that he could keep busy while she did it. Then he took her hand, walked her out of the bedroom, picked up the bag he'd left at the bottom of the stairs, and left the house to drive to the shop. He was vigilant as he drove, checking left and right for any sign of Pan in Henry's body or the Shadow. Nothing appeared in the dead of night, and he parked as close as he could to the Shop instead of his usual spot.

He told himself he'd feel better when he had Belle safe in his shop, and he was serious about it. The shop had every protection he could afford it, more than the house did. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that the shop was safe as it could be. But it was empty. No one was waiting out front for them when they arrived. They weren't the only ones who had taken advantage of some time, it seemed.

"Do you need anything?" Belle asked him as he began to spread the items he'd brought out on the back table.

"No," he sighed, placing the bag under the table. "There are a few things I need to remind myself about concerning the Curse and the Black Fairy's wand."

The moment he mentioned it, there was a palpable pause between them he'd not shared with the others at the grave. They didn't know. They didn't need to know. Dealing with one of his parents was enough for one day. But Belle…Belle knew what it was to him, what it would mean.

"Are you okay with what you have to do?" she finally asked quietly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"After the last time you met…and your relationship being what it is-"

"I won't be upset if that's what you mean. This is hardly a time for petty childhood grudges."

"It's hardly a grudge, Rumple. She's…she's your mother! And after what she did to you, are you really okay using her wand to-"

"Of course," he interrupted, managing to keep his voice calm. "It's one of the perks of our relationship, why I can use the wand for this spell. Blood recognizes blood."

"No, Rumple…" she gave a frustrated sigh and tugged on his arm, pulling his attention away from the book in front of him. "If you do this, will you be all right?"

He let go of a breath and released the frustration that her interrogating had built up. She wasn't questioning because she doubted his idea. She was questioning it because she was worried about him. Even with her fear of her own sanity at risk, she was worried about him. She was worried what effect this brief interaction between him and his mother, no matter how round about it was, would have on him. Hell, given his feelings on the subject, he understood why she was worried. He was worried. But given the trouble with one of his parents, stopping him using the other was almost too deliciously ironic to pass up.

"I'll be fine once my father is under control. And so long as you remain at my side."

She smiled as she nodded. "I won't leave," she promised, then lifted herself up on her toes to give him a quick kiss. That assurance had him feeling relief.

"You should rest," he urged when she settled back onto the floor, and he noted the way she swayed. It had been a long night. The sun would come up soon. He didn't need sleep, but she did, and she should really get some while she still could before the others showed up. But Belle shook her head.

"I don't know if I can."

"Just try. I'll be here all night, and it's hard to tell when you'll get an opportunity to again."

She considered that. He could see her consider it as she glanced at the cot, but he knew even before she said it, just from the way her eyes roamed over the shop, that she wasn't going to do it.

"I think I'd rather clean something…"

His breath hitched at the notion. It was a silly reaction, especially given their situation and that every time she cleaned, his life did seem to shine a little brighter. But cleaning and busy work from her in a time like this…

"Don't worry," she chuckled, looking back at him. "I won't move anything, and I won't leave the shop. I just need something to do with my hands."

Another involuntary hitching of breath. Despite the emergency at hand, his mind knew exactly what he'd been hoping those hands would be doing tonight, and if he didn't focus his attention on something else immediately, then he'd begin to show it in a very private place that he'd regret if the others came bursting in. It was a good time to get back to work.

"I trust you," he excused before turning to look at the book he'd brought with him.

The spell of the Displaced Soul was not complex. It required the paste, an identifier, and a blocker all at once. In theory, so long as Pan's body contained that paste after Henry's soul left his body, it would draw Pan's soul back to it and prevent Henry's from reentering the body. It was meant to be more of a torturous spell, used to expel a soul from its body and then keep it from returning, but in this case, it worked in their favor. Of course, the second that Pan sensed the paste upon him, he could always wipe it off, but…he had an idea for that too.

Belle was in the outer room when he fetched something he hadn't thought he'd have need of for quite some time. Cora's cuffs. If his ability to scent magic was correct, then Regina had a pair of them used on her not too long ago, and there was a reason for that. They were effective. The vindictive bitch, much to his pride and regret, had been a formidable sorceress. Cora had invented several of these beauties, designed to repel outside magic and keep the magic one possessed trapped in the body. Once Henry was gone from Pan's body, they'd need some way to make sure that he couldn't use his magic. And once it was on, Pan wouldn't be able to remove it himself, which meant that if he put the paste on the underside of it, then that should be all that was necessary to trap him.

They'd get Henry back. Regina would destroy the curse. And they…

They'd go home.

He hadn't thought of that until now, not really. He hadn't perceived it for the imminent event that it was, but if all went according to plan…

He looked around his shop, his warm and cozy little back room. Yes, it was small. Yes, it was filled to the brim with objects both helpful and unhelpful. Compared to his tower in their world, he should be happy to see it go, and yet-

A bang from out in the front of the shop had him jumping and nearly lunging for Belle. But when he heard her steps calm upon the floor, he knew better. The others had arrived. There would be time for wallowing about the destruction of Storybrooke later, preferably when he was back at his castle before a fire in the Great Room with Belle imagining all the wonderful things his son would be doing with Emma and Henry. It wasn't how he'd thought all of this would end, but if that was the image he needed to conjure in order to do what needed to be done, then…so be it.

"Sorry we're late," he heard Emma state as he felt Belle open the door and she rushed into the space. She appeared in the back room only a few seconds later with Henry, still in his father's body, Mary Margaret, and Regina. "Regina thought of something, and we had to check it out. Gold, Felix is gone."

There was some shock with that sentence, but no more than the realization that before the night was up, they'd be back in the Enchanted Forest. When he really stopped to consider all that had happened and all that would need to happen, it was a natural thing that Felix should be missing. After all, nothing meant more to his father than loyalty. And Felix had been the most loyal of them all.

"Well, of course, he is, Miss Swan," he sighed, looking back down at the book and considering how much time it would take him to make the paste; five minutes if he stirred by hand, two if he used magic. "The question is: has her Majesty explained to you why that is?"

He wasn't looking, he was too busy and uninterested, but he did feel the weight of attention in the room shift away from him.

"I assumed it would be you he came for!" Regina stated, sounding almost annoyed that he hadn't. "What with your…history and all…"

"Not likely," he corrected. "Felix was always the far more suitable candidate. Though your concern is touching."

"Wait, what are we talking about?" Emma pressed. "Why is Felix missing?"

Regina sighed. "The Curse requires the heart of the thing the caster loves most," she explained.

He looked up at the small intake of breath that Mary Margaret let out. "That's why your father isn't in Storybrooke!" she exclaimed.

"You killed your own father?!" Emma balked at the news.

He had to admit, he was impressed that they'd put that together as fast as they had.

"I did what I had to do, that is not the point now!" Regina snapped. "The point is what or who Pan used to cast this Curse! I assumed…"

His former pupil made a motion in his direction that made assumptions perfectly clear, not that they hadn't been before, but still, they were irrelevant. He wasn't the one his father would have chosen. He'd been a thorn in his side since he'd been born. The Shadow, in fact, would have been the most likely candidate, but since it didn't have a heart, then Felix or one of the other Lost Boys would have been next on the list.

"Well, Felix is gone," Emma said into the silence. "We've accounted for all the other lost boys…Gold, what do we do."

"There's nothing to be done, Miss Swan!" he pointed out as he fought not to roll his eyes. He knew that she liked to save the day, that her instinct would be to go out there and find Felix, to stop this from happening, but if they could do that, then they wouldn't have opted for the plan they were currently in the middle of carrying out. It had taken him more than a hundred years to get the Curse to align in the Enchanted Forest, and now she was about to learn the hardest part of that plan…waiting. "Felix is gone and there is no chance of stopping Pan from casting the Curse. Our only hope now rests with Regina and Henry. We remain here until the others retrieve the wand, in the meantime, everything that can be done has been done.

"I know your skill in the art of patience is minimal, but I think you'll find now is the perfect time to practice."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence in the shop as they all stared at one another. Then Emma let out a sigh, and sank down onto the cot, holding her head in her hands.

He knew that feeling well.

"Henry!" Regina called, bringing his attention to the boy striding back through the curtain into the shop. To do what he didn't know but Regina followed after him, leaving the pair unsupervised in the shop.

"Let her take care of it," Mary Margaret said to Emma. "You have enough on your mind at the moment."

So did he, not the least of which was Regina in his shop when he had to make this paste-

His eyes fell on Belle, and for one brief moment, he knew that she was entirely aware of every thought that he had. She offered a small smile, then a slight nod, and followed the pair of them out into the shop with her broom. It wasn't ideal, but he trusted her. If he couldn't be in two places at once, he was fine with Belle being his representative. As for him, he had a paste to make and a bracelet to coat.

#Rumbelle #Rumpelstiltskin #Rumple #Dark One #Mr. Gold #Belle #Emma Swan #Savior #Regina Mills #Evil Queen #henry Mills #Peter pan #Mary Margaret Blanchard #ouat #ouat fanfiction #fanfic

[lightasthesun]

Kenobi Novel: [Obi-Wan offering Annileen advice about her kids]

Annileen had kept closer watch on her son since the Tusken massacre. The boy wasn't out of control but for some reason Jabe wanted her to think he was.

Ben seemed to share her concern. "When people show you signs it's important to read them", he said.

ow ow ow

#the clone wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #kenobi novel #star wars #This hurts #This book hurts #He would know #God his regrets are so palpable in every chapter

[mandoinevarro]

WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 1

Words: 8.4k 

Rating: E

Warnings: shooting, non-descriptive death, SMUT, fingering, mentions of masturbation, AND masturbation now that I remember, penetration, creampie! just general filth, gambling?

a/n: SO literally nobody asked for this, but I decided to turn NO REFUNDS into the prologue of a short series (you don’t really need to read NO REFUNDS, it’s only for context.) Anywayyys heavy feelings, heavy plot, heavy smut. Have fun. 

……………

Maker, you need to start cheating. That way you wouldn’t be in the middle of a staring contest with your cards, like you can change their colorful drawings and numbers if you only glare hard enough. You’ve never been particularly good at sabacc, but a little luck wouldn’t hurt, especially since this is the third round in a row you lose.  Duma deals the last couple of cards across the coal black table and stacks the deck, signaling the start of the game.

Well, you suppose it doesn’t really matter; you doubt your sabacc buddies have better hands. These days, everyone in Nevarro is short on luck. Luck and food and water. Others are less pessimistic: As soon as Greef Karga glances at his hand he leans back on the carcass of a cantina booth and slaps his belly. “Ha!” he bellows, “by the end of this round, you filthy gutter womp rats will have to borrow from your womp rat mothers to pay me.”

“Quit bluffing, Karga. We know you don’t have shit,” Cara mutters. She picks up her cards and pulls a face like she bit on lemon, but still the veteran goes all in, pushes forward a couple of stabilizing coils, an identity beacon you could’ve sold at a decent price some months ago and—maker—even a pouch of nova crystal dust. Nobody here is stupid enough to gamble with food, but you’re surprised that even nova has lost its worth and been demoted to casino chip status. “This place smells like shit.”

“Bad bluff, piss-poor trash talk too,” you taunt. “Looks like all that time doing business with Imperials smoothed your brain, Karga.”

“Ex-Imperials,” he corrects. The ex-Guild leader slides a few more credits to the center of his ex-cantina’s table. “We live in a jolly Republic now, didn’t you hear? You’ve been liberated.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Duma turns her head, spits on the melted floor. “Can’t eat liberation, can I?” She throws a few more worthless credits onto the growing pile of nothing. At least, for now, it’s nothing. Credits and ship parts and every other type of currency haven’t meant anything but props in Nevarro for five months, when the siege began. That whole mess with troopers and Greef and Cara was bound to bring some repercussions—aside from making Karga’s cantina look like a volcano erupted inside. For five months, Imperial forces have surrounded the planet, and for five months, food and resources haven’t been allowed inside. They won’t let up, rumor has it, until they find the culprit: one particular Mandalorian with a valuable asset. They think he’s still hiding somewhere in the planet, but you know better. You watched the Razor Crest’s fly off-orbit and leave everything behind. Everything and everyone.

“This place smells like shit,” Cara repeats.

“Not shit,” replies Duma, “ash.” She picks up a card from the deck with long fingers. “You never did explain how that Mandalorian managed to torch this place.”

Cara’s sabacc face melts. Her fingers tighten and bend her cards as she exchanges a complicit look with Greef. “Never said it was Mando.”

“Who else? I was there in the first shootout. That hunter was fierce.” Duma dons a wolfish smile, because this is how she always wins: She plays with people, not cards. In fact, she abandons her hand face-down on the table and—oh no—gives you a once-over. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” You almost want to show her your garbage hand so she doesn’t bother trying to throw you off your inexistent game.

“Swung by the store a couple of times,” you answer as casually as you can manage and pretend the most interesting book is written on your cards. “But we weren’t exactly chummy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Creeping warmth attacks your face and there’s no stopping it. Shit.

“Funny, could swear I saw him leaving your store more than a couple of times.” You feel Duma’s eyes piercing into your forehead. “Pretty late at night, too.”

“Is that so?” Cara pipes with a lopsided grin.

“I thought you two were…friends,” Duma adds.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you thought wrong.” Friends don’t leave friends to their luck in the middle of a fucking siege. It’s the same prickly thought that’s plagued you since you watched the Mandalorian take off triumphantly. It’s a stupid feeling. He was under no obligation to take you with him. You didn’t lie to Duma, you two weren’t friends. You couldn’t even call what you had a fling, even those require some degree of making-love-below-the-stars, quoting-passages-of-Naboo-Nights-to-each-other romance. Flings are shooting stars. No, your…thing, whatever it was, did not belong to the heavens. It was earthy. Human. It was counting credits and arguing about fuel prices or old modulators. It had weight—too much, apparently, to escape gravitational pull and fly away with him on the Crest. It was doomed to planets, both feet planted on the ground.  

Still, you remember times when earthy was good. There was never anything airy or celestial in the way he’d take you. The shoved clothes, the harsh grunts, the rough hands, the pleasure, it was all palpable and primitive; earthy was dirty. Your furtive encounters had beating heart of their own, and there was always hard evidence left behind in case either of you ever needed a reminder: marks on the skin, ripped clothes, stained bedsheets. The bruises he left always took too long to heal, as if his touch enhanced your mortality, made you more human. Stars, those moments are what you miss the most. Five months is a long time to be neglected of touch—six, actually: five months since the siege, six since he last came to you. Earthy expires.

It’s not like there’s nobody in the planet willing to help you soothe your needs; quite the opposite, actually. Lately, it seems like handjobs are the new Nevarran handshake. Just last week you caught Cara feeling up some pretty market girl in an alley. You saw her, she saw you, you rolled your eyes, she grinned and got back to work. You were almost offended. Everybody’s screwing their time through the siege, while you’re left with nothing but reruns of filthy memories with the Mandalorian. You just know nobody but Mando will do. You replay your moments with him like a sad, mental porno on the nights you spend trying to get yourself off. Trying and failing, like having to put out a fire by spitting on it, because the only person in the galaxy with a hose is too busy playing hero lightyears away.

“Last round. Place your bets,” Karga announces and pushes a few more trinkets forward. Cara follows, and you pat around your pockets for something to lose. It’s all just rusted metal anyways. Only…shit, the last three games drained you. And Duma reads it on your face like you’ve got “BROKE” written all over your forehead.

“All out, huh?” She reaches down the table for her bag and drops a beskar pauldron on the table with a thud. A Mandalorian pauldron.

Cara purses her lips and balls a fist, but Greef shoots her a warning look. As if cantina brawls could make this place look worse.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t take anything that day,” Duma continues, shaking her head. “Regret it?”

“I’ll regret it,” you answer and go fish, as if a new card—the right card—could fix a life’s worth of bad luck, “when you learn how to chew beskar.” That earns you a signature “Ha!” from Karga and a cocked eyebrow from Duma. She can arch her eyebrows all she wants, but that much is also true. You don’t regret leaving the Mandalorian covert empty-handed.

You were the first on scene that day. After the smoke cleared, the remaining imps left to lick their wounds, and the Crest flew away, you went to check on Karga’s child, his pride and joy. You were met with a gruesome scene. The cantina, Nevarro’s most sacred landmark, had been reduced to its black skeleton, third-degree burns all over, gone. It sounds dramatic, but the cantina used to be the closest thing to a place of worship on this planet. God Booze was dead.

You kicked around the bar’s guts, until you found a gaping mouth on a wall, leading down, down, down into Nevarro’s entrails. Finding purgatory would’ve surprised you less than what you stumbled upon: an underground tunnel, an abandoned covert, and a sinister, unguarded pile of Mandalorian armor. Stars, it would’ve been so easy. You could’ve hoarded the spoils and stashed them away for better days. That amount of beskar could’ve bought you a one-way ticket out of this dumpster and an early retirement. But when you lifted a helmet, it stared back. It was blue and definitely not his, but Mando was all you could think of while you studied the helmet’s unique curves and creases. You heard his exasperated sighs when you got on his nerves, his moans when you’d touch him. And you just couldn’t do it. You sat back and watched as this skughole’s scavengers crept into the tunnels to pillage. Easy as that, everyone in Nevarro but you and Cara now has a beskar toy or two. Soon enough, this planet will house the wealthiest corpses in the galaxy if the siege is not lifted before reserves run out.

Karga clears his throat. “Well, ladies first. Let’s see those cards.”  

Duma ignores him. “You know,” she tells you, “I’ve more beskar than I know what to do with. I’ll trade you a vembrance for a couple of ration packs.”

“And what am I supposed to do with a Mandalorian vembrance, play dress up?”

“The cards,” Greef urges.

“You’ll be rich.”

You snort. “The rich don’t starve.”  

“Give me a break, we both know you’ve got portions to spare.”

Elbows on the table, you lean forward and closer to Duma. She sniffs weakness like a Corellian hound, and if you falter she’ll sink her fangs. “I’m not interested in your fucking loot.”

“Cause it’s stolen? You never had a problem with that before.” She mimics your move and leans closer. Karga fiddles with a coinage of calamari flan, like you’re both Canto Bight slot machines and he’s trying to decide where to put his money. “What, did you grow morals all of a sudden? Or maybe, you’re too worried of what your Mandalorian friend would think.” You flinch. She smirks. “Oh my, what would the disgraced hunter, code-breaker, cult member say—”

The tiny noise of Karga’s coinage clinking on the table is not enough to distract you from the verbal beating Duma is laying on you. But his voice—like he got the air knocked out of him—is enough to grab your attention when he murmurs, “Ask him yourself.”

Cara, Duma, and you turn to Greef Karga, who stares saucer-eyed at the window. All three of your heads move simultaneously, guided by the line of his eyesight. Outside the window, on the deserted street, stands a trooper barking orders. It’s one of those in all-black armor, the extra trigger-happy ones with a side of god complex because they think the change of color magically makes their aim less shitty. His blaster is drawn (surprise, surprise), and on the receiving end of its barrel…

Maker’s fucking mercy.

You don’t even see the blaster shot, only smoke snaking out of a hole on the shiny breastplate. The trooper plummets to the ground like his puppeteer cut off his strings: no last steps, no resistance. Now, anyone else would’ve walked away from what’s clearly worm food without a second look, but one does not become the best bounty hunter in the parsec by taking chances. A mountain of unpainted beskar looms over the corpse and kicks the blaster off the imp’s limp hand. The Mandalorian sheathes his own weapon—that blaster you’ve tweaked and polished so many times you know it as the palm of your hand—and scans the perimeter for danger.

You don’t tell your legs to move, but they don’t need the command. You find yourself trailing behind Cara, Duma, and Greef, rushing for the door. Outside, all four of you stumble and stop on your tracks to blink stupidly at the Mandalorian, the way children stare wide-eyed at soldiers on military parades. But this warrior stands grander than any Republic or Imperial officer you’ve ever seen. He’s clad head to toe in silver beskar—except for one armorless thigh that makes his other leg look even bulkier. His old armor, the one you used to shine and buff, is gone. This one you’ve only seen from afar, on that day he crashed the imps’ safehouse, and later when the battle broke out. You know it’s him, but in this new getup it’s easy to doubt. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he won’t recognize you.

The Mandalorian studies each of you one by one, his hand near the blaster in case he spots any enemy faces. The hand twitches when he sees Duma—she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation around here—but she’s shocked and unarmed, so his arm relaxes. To Greef and Cara he gives short nods that they return.

And then you. He actually takes a step back when he spots you, like you pushed him square on the chest. The helmet lingers on you and tilts, shamelessly rakes over every feature like he’s memorizing you. You hold your breath. It reminds you of the day you met, that weight on your chest from knowing you’ve been seen. That’s how you know it really is Mando: Whenever he stares at you, you feel it in your bones.

You realize the moment’s dragged out for too long when Karga clears his throat. The spell breaks.

You and Mando look bashfully away from each other. You squint up at the clouds, your hands stiff on your waist in a forced, generic, looks like rain! pose. He turns to his boss (ex-boss? enemy? You never asked for an update on Mando’s most recent status in the Guild) and mutters a short, “Karga.” To Cara he’s warmer, offers a comradely clasp of hands and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Cara drawls, as she stares suspiciously between you and Mando. You squint harder at the clouds. “Didn’t expect you back during a siege, though.”

“I have to…” he spies a furtive glance at Duma and lowers his voice, “I’ve something to do here.”

Duma rolls her eyes and clasps her bag across her chest. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll leave you girls to catch up on the hot goss.” She strides into the cantina (probably to bag the bets, the asshole), and goes back outside.

She points at the window of a crumbling building. “Careful with snitches.”

You glance back to the window. Nothing. Jerk. Duma’s not above a made you look moment, apparently. You turn back to her but she’s already disappearing into an alley.

Cara waits until she’s gone to grab the Mandalorian by the arm. “Mando, where’s the…” she glances at you and hesitates. You fold your arms and raise your eyebrows at the veteran. If she expects you to leave graciously like Duma she’s got another thing coming. You’re actually very, very interested on the Mandalorian’s hot goss. Especially it comes with an explanation as to why he left you stranded here. Even though he doesn’t owe you one. Technically. “Y’know,” she finally says and drops her hand. “The asset.”

“On the ship. I need to get back.”

“You, my friend, need to lay low,” Greef says with a raised index. “Every imp in Nevarro will be looking for you. Maker—” he spreads his arms “—they already are! And someone must have heard the blaster shot. You have ten minutes or so until an Imperial squadron gets here. The, uh, asset will be fine.”

“The asset,” Cara exclaims, “is a ch—is…is delicate. He can’t just leave it on the Crest!”

Mando interrupts their game of taboo. “Cara,” he starts, “you go to the ship and check on…the asset. Please. I landed where I did last time. I…I’ll lay low in the covert.”

“About that,” Greef mumbles. He looks at Cara for support, but she steps back and raises both hands: You say it. Greef sighs. “They…they found the tunnels, Mando.”

The helmet crooks slowly to study Karga.  “Who’s they?”  

“Everyone. Half of Nevarro is living down there, you…you can’t go back.”

Silence.

You imagine all four of you go through the same checklist: Even if Cara didn’t already have a top-secret assignment with whatever the asset is, she doesn’t have a place of her own yet. Every week, she crashes on one of her sweethearts’ couches. On their beds, more likely. There’s no way Karga is letting him near his house, not after what happened at the cantina. That leaves…

“Stay with me,” you blurt before you can really think it through.

≈

The cramped storage room you call a home sits a story above your store. It’s four walls and only the essentials: a bed, an armchair, a table, a stove, and the only detached room is the refresher. It’s enough for you. But the Mandalorian looks like he squeezed into a dollhouse when you usher him inside and close the door behind you. He stands in the middle of the room, all fighter’s bulk and grandiose armor, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he moves. As if he’s never been here before, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The apartment may be small, but it’s so filled with memories you could turn it into a museum of your dirty escapades with him. And if you look to your right, you’ll see the armchair where he sat while I went down on him on a stormy night.  

“So,” you say and lean against the front door, “business or pleasure?”

He moves to stand to the side of the window opposite the front door and his glove moves the old washed out curtain to the side to peer into the street. The sun is setting, and the last streaks of light paint the beskar with warped yellow-orange streaks that stay as still as an undisturbed pond. So this is how he wants the evening to go: quietly and with a reasonable amount of distance between you. Disappointment knots in your stomach.

“Business.”  

You open your mouth to cut into the silence, but you’re all out of words. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It used to be so easy to tease him, but now…a heaviness seems to weigh down on his shoulders, some heightened sense of duty. But also determination: He stands taller now, prouder, like he woke up one day and knew exactly what he needed to do and why. Whatever that purpose is, you’re pretty sure it doesn’t involve you. You’re a detour, and not even the fun kind, judging by the space between you. Maker, this man used to pounce on you. Has the siege really battered you up that much?

“Been busy?” The sudden question startles you. He’s never been one to break the ice, that was usually your job.  

“Sure.” Nope, not at all. “Store and all.” You closed the store three months ago. Turns out nobody buys equipment for their ships when they can’t fly past the atmosphere. “Plus, somebody needs to keep Karga distracted from his mourning. You owe him a cantina.”

“He told I did that?”

“Just a guess.” You move a couple of steps forward, like you’re approaching a nervous lothcat. When he doesn’t move away, you sit on the armchair, a little closer to him. “You like that flamethrower too much.”

“That what you four were doing in there?” The helmet moves to the side so he can spy deeper down the street. Always careful. “Assessing my damage?”

“No, just sabacc. Different kind of damage.” He’s making small talk. The Mandalorian, whom you’ve overheard have conversations solely based on grunts and sighs, is chatting with you. He’s not just answering out of politeness, he’s prompting you to go on, to keep running your mouth. That’s something he said once between thrusts, perched over you right on this floor: Keep running your mouth, see what happens. The memory warms your neck. Maker, not the point. The point is, before, he always said you had a smart mouth. Sometimes he’d chastise you for it, other times he’d encourage it. And you used to have the suspicion (or, let’s face it: fantasy) that he actually liked it. That somewhere hidden, beyond his pride and honor’s jurisdiction, he enjoyed the teasing and the banter, the challenge of having to deal with you. Better yet: More than once it crossed your mind that he got off on it, too. It’s been a long time, but some of that might remain. Maybe you’ll take his advice: keep running your mouth, see what happens.

You sit straighter, arch your back a bit just in case he’s watching. “You interrupted a round with your little stunt.”

“Yeah?” The helmet doesn’t move, but his hand runs up the curtain, considering. “Sorry. I bet you were winning.”

That makes you smile. It’s a dig at you. Far and wide across Nevarro, your uncanny ability to lose every single game of sabacc you play baffles locals and foragers alike. Yes, you know you suck, but the game amuses you anyways. You like the trash talk, the double-guessing, the bluff-calling. So much so that you forget to actually play. But what’s important is he’s teasing you, and that’s more than charted territory with him, a match you have a shot at winning. Okay. Game on.

“I was, actually.”

He huffs. “Don’t believe you.”

“Then I don’t believe you’re here on business.” Pause for effect. You can almost see a question mark form in a cloud above the helmet. You lean forward and lick your lips, lower your voice. “I think you missed me.”

You’re used to the helmet’s features remaining impassive, so you don’t look for clues on there anymore. Mando’s hands are more telling. You want to believe you actually see his fingers twitch and clutch the curtain a little tighter, that he takes too long to answer. That’s what trying to read him is all about—blind-guessing and wishful thinking.

“Don’t know about that. Six months and two weeks without your cons, I’m almost rich.”

Down to the week, huh? “Okay, if you want to make it about money we’ll bet on it. Twenty credits says you missed me.”

“Last time I was here you weren’t a compulsive gambler. Store’s doing that bad?”

“Last time you were here,” you coo, “there was a lot less talking involved.” You stare into the visor, and pray he can’t see the desperate hope in your eyes.

Your prayers are answered. In a way. Mando ignores you, doesn’t even look at you.  You hear your clumsy attempt at seduction buzz around him like a one-winged bee, crash into the unmoving, unmoved Mandalorian, and fall to the floor in a pointed-lined spiral. You’re so embarrassed you want to step on it. Well, that settles it. Six months is apparently enough for a Mandalorian to lose interest.

“And store’s doing fine,” you lie to try and sway the conversation away from that lame innuendo that missed its mark. He really just wants to talk, then. No big deal. It’s fine. “Nobody gambles for money anyways.”

“Then why?”

You shrug. “Why do you hunt?” He’s never told you, but you saw him chase down a bounty once. He was ruthless, sweating adrenaline and with far too much stamina to only be chasing a bag of credits. “For the risk. The thrill.”

He lets your words float for a second. “You get a thrill out of losing?”

You roll your eyes. “I only lose cause everybody knows my bluff.” That is, except you. “You need to know someone to know their bluff. Greef and the others already know me too well. You, on the other hand.” You smile. “If you and I played, I’d get to keep so much of your stuff you’d think I’m half Jawa.”

And, only then, he seems to tense. That stupid throwaway line is what makes his spine grow visibly rigid and his hand drop from the curtain to his belt, where the leather of his glove creaks with how tightly he clutches the buckle. White and blue streetlights that reflect on his armor glide around like it’s water instead of beskar, and they’re your only indication that he’s shifted slightly. Slowly, so slowly you expect his neck to creak like a door, the Mandalorian turns away from the window to look at you. He holds there quietly, and you feel ants running down your back…stars, you’re nervous. For the first time in a while, he makes you genuinely anxious.

“You’re saying I don’t know you?” he rasps under the helmet. No, not really, but if it gets a reaction out of him…

“All I’m saying,” you start, summoning all your strength to keep your voice from faltering, “is you’ve been gone too long.” You try to make it sound a bit playful, but the words come out tasting bitter when you remember the sharp little edge that’s been digging on your side. He left you here, it whispers, he left you here and didn’t bother looking back. But a heavy boot suddenly drops forward and you’re forced to stop nursing your grudge to try and predict what Mando’s next move will be.

With every step he takes, you’re instinctively swallowed deeper into your armchair, until he’s looming over you. Stars above, the sheer size of him is enough to block out most of the artificial light coming in, and you’re left to squint in the blue twilight. Maker, you don’t remember him this big, this intimidating. Five months ago you would’ve smirked and opened your legs wide. C’mon, I don’t bite unless you ask, you would’ve teased, but now…now you think maybe you are the one who doesn’t know him anymore.

But some things never change, and having him so near still makes your thighs press together. If anything, this new foreignness, the inherent threat of a bounty hunter in your home that never quite poked the right nerve before now pulls on your most sensitive areas. It propels your heartbeat on a sprint. His arm moves, and—oh, you want him to touch you.

Visor trained on you, Mando points to the floor instead. “You hide your credits here.” To illustrate (or just to rub it in that he knows) his boot presses down on the loose tile and shifts from side to side. The sharp sound it makes irritates you less than knowing he found the fox clever hiding spot you used to pat yourself on the back for. “You don’t keep them in the store because it’s too easy to break into. The security panel downstairs is broken, but the one up here works fine.”

You can almost hear his proud smirk under the helmet. There’s a reserved side to him, sure, but bastard can be arrogant when he wants to. And no, you have no idea how he found the spot, but you’re not about to admit it.

“Congrats, boy scout. You can spot a busted panel and you have flat feet. Want a badge?” Your irritation brings back some of your old snark, but you still flinch when he moves closer and his legs brush against your knees.

“You also keep expensive parts inside the stuffing of this—” he takes a tiny step forward and frames  your knees with his legs “—armchair.”  Your blood freezes at his words, but it abruptly runs hot as the city’s lava river when you realize how close he stands now. His legs press against the armchair and there’s nowhere to go. You’re cornered.

A leather glove moves close and you hold your breath, before you realize he’s only toying with the tips of your hair. But his fingers dig deeper, tangle on thicker strands and, without warning, give a short but firm tug. It’s a tiny pull, but maker’s mercy, you feel your core pulse. And then, before you can regain some lucidity, his fingers dip lower, where the tips trace a slow line down your nape. He draws featherlight circles on that spot between your neck and your shoulder that he knows makes your toes curl, and—stars, it’s just been too long—you whimper.

“Still so sensitive here,” he whispers.  

Once, this shielded man knew his way around your body like it belonged to him. You thought that part of him was lost, that he forgot, that he’d truly been gone too long. Those fears dissipate when his palm curls around the back of your neck to hold your gaze on him, while the thumb of his other hand brushes your lips. You know the drill—you open your mouth and give the orange tip some kitten licks. Mando huffs: You can do better than that. Maker, it should be a red flag, how quickly you comply. That urgent need to please him that had never, ever felt so crucial. An O forms in your lips before you can stop them, and his thumb pushes down on your tongue deep and deeper. You should play hard, make him earn it, bite him. But his finger starts to retreat and you panic—no, he can’t change his mind, not now. You seal your lips, trap him inside your mouth and suck. But his grip on the back of your neck grows beskar stiff, and he forcefully removes his finger…only to glide the spit over your lips. Just like that first time.

The visor looms closer to your face, and you catch a ruptured sigh, the pleasured kind that these four walls know so well. If Mando wasn’t holding you down, your chest would balloon with satisfaction and you’d float. His thumb trails down your throat, wetting its path and no doubt feeling the vibration when you chuckle. He cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

“You owe me twenty credits,” you explain, your breath clouding the helmet’s surface. “You did miss me.”

Mando crouches lower, where his helmet brushes your nose, and gropes the tops of your thighs with those wide palms you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

“Yeah? You like bets?” You’ve never heard his voice so coarse, scratchy like week-long stubble. Did he change the settings of his modulator? Or is it just rash, pent-up need? “Then thirty credits says you’re fucking soaked.” His fingers butterfly higher up your thighs, almost at the apex. Your legs jerk.

“That’s cheating,” you gasp.  

He takes one glove off and settles the covered hand on your hip, while the other disappears between your legs until—stars—he cups your core through your pants. You mewl and he hums when he feels the hot, damp fabric.

“I still win.” He presses the heel of his palm right into your clit and grinds it back and forth. Oh, if you thought you were wet before. The pressure, the friction, him—it all scalds you from head to toe like a fever, but you chase it, greedily push your hips into his palm. His fingers flatten along your slit and grope you tighter. “Gonna pay me? Doesn’t have to be credits.” He pushes viciously into you with that wide, hard palm, preening at the little gasps that escape you. Whimpering, you let your eyes fall shut and focus on something sprouting in your belly. Stars, you’re close—how the fuck are you so close already? It must be all the repressed desire, all that time. Fuck, you’re close—

The Mandalorian halts. You’re eyes flash open to see him straighten and step back, take his other glove off to stuff it snug between his belt and his hip, and remain still as a building. Still catching your breath, you study him head to toe, scanning for a sign of what went wrong. He’s clutching his belt, his stance is too smug. This isn’t him fighting temptation, he’s toying with you. Maker help him, you’re going to kill him. Some corner in your brain reasons that it’s kinda fair, as payback for all the times you messed with him. But in the forefront of your mind pulses the climax he just denied you, cast aside and angry.

Before you know what you’re doing, you push yourself off the armchair. “You—”

Mando beats you to it. A hand on your shoulder and a vembrance across your chest, he lunges forward and slams your back against a wall. He hovers over you, tightly pressed against your body. A fleshy, hard bulge covered by his pants throbs against your belly. Of course. You forgot how much he likes it when you look like prey; how much he enjoys the hunt, whether he admits it or not. The hand on your shoulder trails down to cup your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale.

“You need it bad,” he breathes as his fingers massage your chest. The movement shifts the fabric of your tunic, brushing it against your nipple. You roll your hips to try and stimulate him, to show you’re not the only one worked up. His erection twitches and you smile.  

“You—mmm—you’re projecting.” You grind again to prove your point, but he catches on to what you’re implying and retaliates by shoving his hand inside your cleavage. Stars, you have to punch down the moan surges up your throat when he pinches your nipple.

“You missed this,” Mando hisses, and whether he’s trying to convince you or himself, you don’t know. What you do know is he’s plotting to settle this stupid inkling of a bet in his favor. He wants you to admit you missed him so he doesn’t have to. You know, because it’s exactly what you are trying to do.

You sneak your hand down his torso, aiming for the hem of his pants—but before you can get even with him, he crushes his hips against yours and traps your palm between them. And he’s not done—he wedges his thigh between your legs and rubs it up and down, drags your clit just right. Your mouth gapes in a silent moan as white hot pleasure lights up your spine. You want to get away from it but, maker, his forearm is still stiff against your chest. Even when you grab the vembrance with your free hand it doesn’t budge. You’re trapped between him and the wall.

“Can take care of m-myself just fine,” you croak as a last attempt to hold on to your dignity. “At least when I’m alone I don’t have to fake any orgasms.”

Yeah, it’s a low blow. A dirty fucking lie too, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all. Good news is it gets you a reaction—he immediately stops moving, as if your words punched him off balance. Bad news is you hit a nerve—his breathing becomes harsh like a bull’s, so much so that you expect clouds of smoke to come out from under the helmet. The Mandalorian creeps closer to your face and his forearm digs deeper into your chest. There’s a promise of danger in the dark visor that makes your pulse race, and a primitive instinct blasts emergency sirens. Maker, this won’t end well for you.

Just as you’re about to backtrack and whisper you didn’t mean it, Mando lets go of you—only for a split second, before he grasps your shoulders and turns you around to push your front into the wall. You jerk back on instinct, but he flattens a palm between your shoulder blades and squishes you right back against it.

The helmet rests right next to your ear when Mando growls, “You expect me to believe that?” His hands drop to your hips as he replaces the pressure on your back with his chest. His body weight holds you in place, and he rocks the hard outline of his erection along your ass. “That I don’t make you cum, you little fucking—” You curl your back as much as his body allows so he can stroke himself tighter against you. He groans and kneads your cheeks, moves the flesh in tandem with his thrusts. “I shouldn’t let you tonight, t-teach you a lesson.”  

The mere suggestion feels devastating enough to let a pathetic whine tumble from your lips. Before, you could’ve turned this into a game, held out a little longer just to watch him break first. But you’re too pent up, too desperate, too sick of waiting. Your fingers hook on the hem of your trousers and push them down. Mid-movement, he traps both of your wrists in one hand and keeps them pressed against your lower back, while the other one gets your pants the rest of the way down, underwear too. You barely have enough time to step out of them before his free hand reaches between the apex of your thighs. You’re sticky, leaking around his fingers, and pushing back against his crotch like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t fuck you.

“Fucking wet, fuck…” he mutters. His fingers follow the heat and your pussy clenches around nothing. Stars, if he just moved higher, a little higher where you’re hot and soaked and throbbing for him. But he takes his sweet time, molds the inside of your thighs like clay, pulls the flesh, squishes it together, until you’re writhing against him and leaking down your leg. Your vision blurs. “Can—can I…?” He lets his index finish the sentence, teasing at the edges of your outer lips.

Even with the side of your face against the wall, you manage to nod. “Yeah,” you breathe.

Two fingers slide around your folds and you gasp. Mando moves slowly, collecting your arousal and coating his fingers. Your breath catches when the tips finally push into your entrance—only a fraction before they slide back out, so the rest of his palm can cup along your cunt and drag more slick behind it. He’s strategically avoiding your clit, though, and with both arms behind your back and at his mercy, you can’t reach for it yourself. Fuck, you…you only need to hold on a bit more, he’ll get bored of his game soon enough. That’s it, just a little longer. You waited six months, no way he’s making you beg after a few minutes of teasing.

The Mandalorian eventually pulls his fingers away from your thighs and curses under his breath. You hear the familiar rustling of fabric and a divine zip that fills your eyes with tears of relief. Fucking finally. You brace yourself and relax your pelvic floor in preparation, but it’s barely necessary—you’re so ready for it. Your cunt is open and weeping, he can just slide it in. All this time, with nothing substantial inside you, your lower muscles pump and twist painfully with demanding want. Even with his size and in this position, you’re so turned on he might even be able to bottom out. Fuck, he doesn’t have to move much, a few good pumps and he’ll have you cumming, easy. Stars, what’s taking so damn long—

A modulated, battered moan and a wet noise make you turn your head over your shoulder and look for the source. The low light makes it difficult to make out shapes, but there’s no mistaking what you find below you. Hand wrapped solid around his cock, Mando is jerking himself off. With your cum as lubricant. While he treats you like a piece of furniture he’s only gripping for support. A chemical cocktail of lust mixed with fury spikes your blood.

“Is…wh-what are…what the fuck do you think y-you’re…”

“Say it,” he spits between his teeth, “say you f-fucking need me.”

No, no fucking way. As much as the words burn on your tongue and your clit tugs and begs, you’re not saying it. He left, not you. You waited for him. You turn your head as far back as your neck allows without snapping a ligament and look straight into the visor. And pointedly curl your lips inside your mouth, sealed.

Your act of rebellion lasts a good ten seconds.

“You’re so fucking difficult,” he snarls. He stops tugging on his cock, and for a moment you hope he might indulge you, push into you and stop the masochist torment you’ve talked yourselves into. But when it comes to Mando and you, it’s never that easy. Still not releasing your wrists, he grabs the base of his cock, glistening with your stolen juices, and rubs it up and down the swell of your uncovered ass. You gasp, let your lips part and your gaze fall to where he’s rubbing up against you and refusing to push inside.  

He's not going to last long. Swollen and a strangled purple, the head of his cock dribbles warm precum and smears it on your lower back. The veins on his length throb against your ass, and stars, they’d feel so much better inside you. The Mandalorian’s grunts and groans ring more frustrated than lost in pleasure; it’s not enough for him either. He’s torturing you and himself just to prove a point, while you refuse to speak the magic words just to keep your pride. Desperate tears threaten to spill, but you shut your eyes to push them back. Either of you could put an end to it, right now. Maker, it’s on the tip of your tongue: I need you. Spit it out, end it. I need you, Mando, I need you, do whatever you want with me. It doesn’t matter that you abandoned me in this shithole, that you discarded me like faulty equipment, that you didn’t even have the decency to tell me—

The thrusting stops. When you open your eyes, you find the visor fixed on you, cocked slightly to the side, like there’s writing on your face. Mando’s grip on your wrist softens, his frustrated panting slows. Maybe he sees the unshed tears, or maybe your face really is that transparent, because he takes pity on you. Gentle palms on your shoulders, he turns you around to face him.

Night has fallen. Fragments of fluorescent light pour inside through your worn out curtains and give the helmet a fuzzy silver halo. The rest of the armor is shiny black, smudges of light here and there. His head moves around the features of your face, one by one, taking its time. Showdown’s over. He’s not playing a game anymore, not trying to get you to break, he’s just…studying you. Staring his fill of you farewell-style, even though he just came back. It hits you that you don’t know how long he’s staying this time. You open your mouth to ask, but stop yourself in time. If he leaves, he leaves. He doesn’t owe you any explanations.

But when he curls an arm around your waist and holds you against the wall and his cold breastplate, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like old times—pre-siege, pre-battle, pre-everything—when he confidently grabs your left thigh, sinks his fingers into the plump flesh, and hooks it on his lower back. You drape your arms around his shoulders and hold him closer. You’ve always liked the bulk of him against you, it makes everything feel more real. Buried on the crook of your neck, you hear him sigh when he lets go of your thigh and blindly searches your cunt. With your leg around his back you’re completely open for him, so it takes him no time to find your bud. He presses against it and rubs it in slow but tight circles that make your legs cramp.

You push down on him, demanding more. He groans and complies, inserts one finger and continues rubbing on your clit with his thumb. Maker, this has no right to be so good. He’s doing pretty much the same you’ve done to yourself these past months, but with Mando there are never any ghost sensations, no what ifs. It’s all here and now, and you swear you feel the pleasure of his fingers picking up speed in every corner of your body. He has you moaning and rocking your hips, dripping down his hand, and when he starts rubbing you harder and tighter, you finally whine a tiny, “Please.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t need to ask what you want, but he moves his helmet to look at you square in the face, check if you mean it. You stare droopy-eyed into the visor and nod: yesyesyesyes. Mando groans and grips you tighter. Maker, he’s right, you need it—need the bruises, need his cock, need all of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand leaves you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. He moves it around your lips and brushes his tip against your clit as he looks for your hole in the dark. It doesn’t take long for the head to poke right outside where it needs to go. “Fuck, I don’t—don’t think I can hold back, don’t want to hurt you—”

“Stars, please,” you whine, “I want it rough.” You want it more than rough. After six months, you want it fucking depraved, but neither of you is going to last long enough to make it elaborate. Maker, you don’t care. Right now, you don’t care for risky positions or clever techniques, you want him.

He groans and pushes inside—only the head, still testing, but your walls immediately grip him tightly to hinder any attempts to move away. That’s not what you should’ve been worried about. Fingers tight around your waist, Mando pulls you down as he pushes up. Stars. The brutal thrust reaches the end of you and then some more. Fuckfuckfuck. The dull bam of your skull hitting the wall is suddenly drowned by a slicker, filthier sound coming from between your legs. His length begins to pull out, your pussy complains the whole way, and you can almost hear the Mandalorian gritting his teeth through the sweet torture of feeling you squeeze around him…and thrust back up—harder. He likes the pace and sticks to it—fast, rough, deep, repeat—while you make sounds like you’re choking on air. Stars, it has been long. Long enough to partially forget his size, his fucking girth, currently filling you to the brim and punching high little sounds from your throat.

“Mmmando,” you sob.

Mando groans in response, snakes a hand down to your clit and rubs with the same wild abandon as his pounding. Maker, your memory was never this fucking good. No matter how many details you recalled, there’s nothing compared to the real, human meat of his cock pulsing urgently inside you, hitting your cervix, making you whine. Nothing like his fingers around your waist, or knowing there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The pleasure has teeth, carries a painful bite, but it’s exactly what you need. That tangible grit in his thrusts and his fingers is the missing piece. Your muscles start cramping, you pull him tighter against you—Maker, right there, you can feel it. It reaches your head and makes you dizzy, sheds light on some hidden, shameful words.

“Mando, I…”

“I—fuck—I n-needed this,” he grunts and brings his hand down to feel where his cock is inching out of you, like he has to double check it’s actually happening. Thrust. “Used—used to d-dream about you.” Thrust. Three fingers now push into your clit and draw frantic shapes. You clench your jaw, feel the hot tide in your belly rise faster. Thrust. “Wake up so f-fucking hard—cum in my pants.” Thrust—thrust—thrust.

Maybe it’s his words, maybe the rough pace, but something holds a flame to the dynamite building inside you and it explodes. Maker, your head’s going to burst. You moan long and deep into the spot Mando’s ear might be. Your legs shake, your arms cramp. Months’ worth of frustration gush hot and wet around him, as he babbles encouragement: There you go, just like that, make it fucking good. Your walls are still fluttering, your ears are still ringing, you haven’t even ridden out the last of your climax when his hips pick up the pace.

“Let me—let me cum inside,” the warrior pants, “let me f-fill this cunt…I—I haven’t since—fuck, I didn’t—”

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please, Mando, cum, cum inside—”

There’s no space left between you, but Mando finds a way to squish you tighter against him as he pounds into you for a few last moments, until you hear a strangled grunt, and a half-forgotten warmth pools inside you. The extra lubrication drives his last thrust as deep as your body allows. A few more lazy thrusts inside you, short and stunted as you take his load inside you, before he stops. A warm string trails down your leg, and—stars, he’s leaking out. How much did he cum that it didn’t fit inside you?  Fuck.

You take turns panting, whimpering, listening to each other’s heartbeats slow to a semi-normal pace. The Mandalorian moves away from the crook of your neck to meet your glossy eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you think will. You can almost hear his mouth opening, words boiling and rising in bubbles up his throat—

Zium!

It’s your imagination. It’s your ears ringing from that orgasm, your mind making stuff up. But. You could swear you saw a red flash glade right past your cheek. And from the way Mando’s helmet cocks to the side, you know he saw it too. You turn your heads in unison, to see smoke coming out of a hole a breath away from your ear. It takes both of you too long to put two and two together, and—before he can pull out—more of those red flashes are raining down on you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 2 let’s goooooooo

Taglist: @rosetophighlander​ @hellomothermoon @newyorksins​ @leo-moon​ @benedrylcumbersnatch

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #star wars smut

[juletheghoul]

Oblivius Chapter 4

Am I insane for posting another chapter? Yes. Am I doing it anyway? Yes. Should you message me about how you feel about Spills & Francis? YES!

(Got a song you want added to the playlist? send it to me!)

I've gotten so much love over this series and I cannot tell you how happy it makes me that you guys love these two idiots as much as I do. <3

(Feo means ugly in Spanish but it can be used as a term of endearment between [male] friends)

Likes & reblogs are appreciated

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Pairing: Frankie x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: Angst, yearning, 18+ language, alcohol (Spills gets wasted)(Please let me know if I forget anything)

Masterlist Series Masterlist Part 3 Part 5 Playlist

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Age: 17

“No Francis I don’t wanna watch this - I’m gonna get scared.” It was late, you were both sitting in his cozy living-room, a big shit-eating grin on his face.

“Why, are you chicken? It’s just The Shining, it's not even scary.” He put it on and despite your protests, he settled and let the movie play, You gave him a pout.

“Okay if you really don’t want to I’ll change it you big baby.” He rolled his eyes to grab the remote but you stopped him.

“Promise you’ll walk me home?” You knew it was one of his favourites. He smiled wide.

“Of course! If it’s too much I'll change it.” He gave you most of the blanket that was draped over his legs and you sat very close to him. He was taller than you remembered him being, having gone through a growth spurt over the summer and he towered over you now. All knees and elbows.

When the room scene came on you burrowed your face into his neck and he wrapped an arm around you, you were so pretty. Your hair smelled so good and he buried his nose into the messy bun you wore. You practically clawed at him, trying to get closer - he made you feel safe.

“Is it still scary?” You spoke into his neck.

“Yes - don’t look yet, just a little longer.”

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**Present Day**

Pope was holding up a shot-glass full of something and there were shots lined up for the three of you when you walked in.

“Catfish, I never thought it would happen for you feo, but I’m glad it did. Claudia, he’s lucky to have you.” He raised his shot glass and a chorus of ‘To Frankie and Claudia’ rang out before everyone tipped the liquor back.

The burn in the back of your throat couldn’t just be from the tequila, you’d swallowed a lump. You’d forced back the tears stinging your eyes when he dipped her back to kiss her. With her laughing and grabbing his neck they were the picture of romance and the smile you had plastered to your face must have looked manic. Popes eyes caught yours then and his eyebrows raised, a question in his features that you couldn’t quite read but he looked away and left you with your thoughts.

-

You got very drunk. Fall-down drunk. Forget about everything drunk.

“Spills, I think you should stop - you’re going to feel like hell tomorrow.” He was softly taking the shot out of your hand and you tried to fight him but his grip was iron.

“St-op t-telling me wh-what to do Francisco.” You tried to take it back but it seemed like the floor was coming up to say hi. An iron grip around your middle stopped you from losing a couple of teeth.

“Jesus Spills, okay - that’s enough. I’m cutting you off.” He held onto you and you wanted nothing more than to turn around and kiss him but you also wanted to throw up. Decisions decisions.

“I-think-imgonnabesick…” you brought your hand up to your mouth and part of you expected him to let go but he didn’t.

“Take a deep breath, it’s okay, Pope can you get me some water?” He was holding onto you, rubbing soothing circles onto your back and you tried to focus on his hands on you as the whole room spun dangerously. A few minutes later he was holding a cold glass of water to your lips. “Drink the whole thing, I'm going to hold it because if you spill it I'll kill you.” You chugged it down and he put it on the table.

“When did you get so strong, Francis?” Your words were slurred and you felt his chest rumbling with laughter at your question. “You smell so good.” You said it lower- more to yourself, but he heard and the laughing stopped.

“Oh no! Are you okay Spills?” Claudia was there now, her hands pulling your hair away from your face and before you could succumb to the urge to tell her never to call you that Frankie spoke up.

“She’s okay, just need to get her home. You’re okay right, Spills?” His voice was lower, so soothing you could fall asleep to it.

“Hey Frankie, you and Claudia should stay, tell me where she lives and I’ll get her home.” It was Pope, Frankie must have trusted him immensely because before you knew it he was putting you into the front seat of Pope's rental and buckling you in. Claudia was tying your hair back and putting your purse into your lap.

“Be careful please - this is her address, just make sure she gets in and lays face down. There should be a bucket somewhere in her bathroom - water and some aspirin on her night table.” Frankie was talking as you closed your eyes. When you opened them you were parked in front of your place.

“Hey honey, come on let's get you inside. I’m just going to look for your keys, okay?” Pope was taking your purse out of your lap. You nodded vaguely.

He helped you in and guided you to your bed. You could feel him taking off your shoes and throwing the blanket over you.

-----

Someone is driving an ice-pick into my skull.

The light was intense and you swore out loud when you cracked an eye open. You stretched and felt a piece of paper beside you on the bed.

“I locked your door - keys are in your mailbox. Drink the water - take the ibuprofen. Let Catfish know you’re okay when you wake up- he was worried. - Pope”

You groaned.

[Francis]: Spills, are you okay?

[Francis]: Can you answer me please?

[Francis]: Don’t tell me you’re still asleep? What, are you a teenager? Getting drunk and sleeping until 4pm????

[Francis]: Sorry Spills, just worried - can you please let me know you’re okay before I show up?

You could see the three little dots signalling that he was in the middle of typing another message and you quickly called him to stop him.

“Jesus, it’s about fucking time.” He sounded worried and relieved and it pulled on your heart strings in a way you both loved and hated.

“Stop yelling Francisco, I am begging you.” You threw your arm over your eyes to block out the light as you lay there, in yesterday's clothes. You didn’t even want to know what you looked like right now.

“Feeling all that tequila aren’t you? I haven’t seen you that drunk for a long time.” You could hear the faint smile in his voice.

“Yes yes I know - so fucking embarrasing. Did I do.. Or say anything..?” You were trying to ask him without asking him.

“You almost threw up, but if you’re asking me if you started table-dancing you’re good.” He laughed and you sighed with palpable relief. All you needed was for him to tell you that you’d confessed your love or told Claudia to fuck off.

“Thank god. That would have been all I needed. Can you tell Pope I said thanks? Okay, I'm going to go shower for a million years now.” You wanted to hang up, your head was pounding and you needed a few hours of silence and about a gallon of water.

“Okay - see you in a few hours.” You didn’t want to deal with both of them together, not with how you felt right now.

“No Francis I don’t want to entertain, I already embarrassed myself enough yesterday.”

“It’s just me coming and I’ve seen you much worse. I haven’t been home in a long time so, take a shower and do what you have to do and I'll be there at seven.” He hung up and you could have thrown your phone across the room.

Fuck.

---

The knock at the door at exactly seven didn’t surprise you.

What did surprise you was how nervous you were that he would be coming over.

You were literally attached at the hip at one point, he’s seen you at your worst.

“You’re looking much better than you did last night, Spills.” He laughed as he walked past you and into your home.

“Oh god.” You groaned as he laughed, why had you been nervous? You watched him as he set down the bags of what looked to be way too much food on your kitchen counter. Grabbing napkins and forks - completely at ease within your space. “What did you bring?” moved to peak into the bags.

“Chinese - “ He looked to see your eyes wide and the big toothy smile you were giving him and laughed. “Did you think I’d forget you always get Chinese when you’re hungover?” He laughed as he took out what looked to be all your favourites.

“You’re a lifesaver Francis, truly.” You were practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you served yourself.

“I know, I’m practically a saint.” He walked over to your couch and plopped down, an egg-roll in his mouth as he turned on your TV and looked for something to watch. This was it - this was how it was supposed to be.

This was easy.

He had come over in comfy clothes and seeing him on your couch in sweats and a soft flannel was almost too much. His hair had gotten longer than he had worn it before he went away and it looked so soft; practically begged for your fingers.

“Are you still a baby about horror movies?” He asked without looking at you, you saw that he had put on some cheesy zombie movie. A big smile on his face.

“No, I’m okay, as long as you check every single corner of this place before you leave.”

“God I love horror movies, Claudia hates them so we never end up watching.” He sighed. Her name cut through the air like a knife. An ice cube casually dropped into your shirt.

“That’s too bad.” You quickly shoved food into your mouth, stopping yourself from saying anything you’d regret but he knew you too well. He looked at you then, eyes narrowing a fraction.

“Do you like her?” He asked, point blank and your eyes widened at him.

Fuck, don’t make me answer this right now.

“Yeah, she’s great.” To your credit, you tried. You really tried to sound genuine.

“Why don’t you like her Spills?” He sighed heavily, putting his plate down onto your coffee table to face you properly.

“What are you talking about? I said she was great!” You could feel the flush creeping up your neck and licking at your face at the lie. She was great, that wasn’t a lie - you just didn’t like her.

“Seriously? You’re going to act like I can’t tell you’re lying through your teeth? Just tell me! I’m going to marry this girl. I have to know why you don’t like her.” He had a little frown on his face and you could see that he was worried, but what would he have to be worried about? Worried you’d picked up on something he’d missed maybe?

“I just don’t know her, Francis, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with her, you know I'm just weird. She seems really nice and I’m sure I’ll like her once I get to know her better.” You smiled at him sadly, you didn’t want to talk about her anymore.

He smiled back at you and picked up his plate, happy with your explanation.

---

It always seemed to happen this way, ever since you’d been teenagers. He’d put on something scary and you would end up with your face buried into his chest.

“Oh god - that is disgusting!” You shut your eyes as he laughed, his chest rumbling underneath you at a particularly gruesome scene. You felt his hand rubbing your arm, and it was such a comfort that you sighed lightly. The words bubbled up without your permission.

“I missed this.” You felt him rest his chin on the crown of your head.

“Me too Spills, I always missed this while I was away, missed you.” He spoke into your hair, you could feel his breath ghosting along your scalp and your heart raced, you wanted nothing more than to turn and kiss him. His hand stilled, and you felt his heart beating under your ear. You wanted to do it, your whole body seemed to tense with want and you turned slightly to look at him through your lashes. He was already staring at you, his mouth was so close.

His phone rang, snapping him out of his trance and you moved away from him reluctantly.

“Hey babe, what’s up?” He smiled apologetically. “Just take a deep breath, it’ll be okay. I’m on my way.” He hung up and gave you a look that said I’m sorry. “Gotta go, wedding emergency.” He sighed heavily as he got up, taking both your plates to the kitchen with him.

You wanted him to stay, you wanted to grab him and sit him back down on the couch and straddle him. Grab the soft material of the flannel while you kissed him but you didn’t. Instead you smiled and thanked him for coming and for the food.

He made his way through the apartment before he left, opening every door.

“Just checking every corner, so you can sleep.” He smiled.

I love you too.

————————————

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[pleasantanathema]

Graves into Gardens | Reiner Braun x Reader | Chapter Six

Chapter Six: Revelations 

Pairing: Reiner Braun x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)

Warnings: Modern AU, spoilers up to season four, slight manga spoilers (only by including characters met later), captivity, mentions of death, violence enemies to lovers, angst, and eventual smut (ohohoho we’re so hot on it now, just wait until the end of this one)

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone who has left comments, screamed in reblog tags, and just encouraged me to create this story. I have never felt so much love for a fic in the time I’ve been writing.

This chapter reveals a lot, and it’s a little longer than the rest, but it’s for good reason- the end of this is one of my favorite things I’ve written.

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        Reiner’s apartment truly wasn’t much. You thought he’d been joking, perhaps was even being humble, but the small studio apartment was quite dismal. The walls were stark white, a few faded posters peeling off the wall from neglect, a couple of medals and trophies lining a small bookshelf that was bursting with paperbacks and notebooks. A simple bed with a royal blue comforter and overstuffed pillows, the most compact L-shaped couch in front of a tv, and a corner dominated by a desk with two monitors and stacks of documents, manila envelopes, and crates of papers crammed below.

        A kitchenet that looked hardly used was tucked away in another corner, the entryway to a small bathroom right near it.

        There was truly nothing worth looking twice at, save a handful of framed photos scattered around. 

        You’d taken it all in rather hurriedly, still out of breath from practically running through snowy alleyways, the developing snowstorm covering the land like fresh linen. There was a window near his bed, which you gravitated toward after kicking off your damp boots by the door. Not much a view, either. Just more desolate, brick buildings and a sorry looking street below.

        He told you once that he didn’t grow up with much, and it unfortunately seemed like despite joining the ranks of the military, he was still left with close to nothing.

        “What are we here for?”

        He was busy toiling with the thermostat, thick fingers mashing against the heat button to try to warm the small box of an apartment.

        “You won’t like it,” he grumbled, golden eyes glancing over to you with a tinge of regret painting his brow.

        “Then why bring me?”

        “Because you need to see it.”

        You tucked your hands under your arms, the chill of the winter’s day finally settling into your bones.

        You watched keenly as he shrugged off his snow laden jacket, hanging it by the door before promptly locking it. He seemed as out of breath as you were, nose red from the cold, hands shaking as he fumbled with his phone. You bit the inside of your cheek with impatience, a small flame of ire licking its way into your chest.

        Bringing you out here could get you killed. He knew that, right? Of course he did, but he did it anyways. Surely this matter of seemingly great importance could’ve been fetched by one of his comrades. You hadn’t quite considered the danger leaving the headquarters could bring upon you until you were dashing through the streets, the heavy paw of Reiner’s hand squeezing around your wrist. At one point in time, he’d shoved you back down another corridor, shielding you with the size of his body as particular caravan of cars turned down the roadway. He seemed to fear any pair of government eyes spying you.

        He always was so careless.

        He was busy texting someone, still standing idle, lip worried between his teeth.

        Must be the girl you ran into that’s giving him a headache. He probably thought he could slip out and back again without a soul noticing, without anyone giving him grievance, but that bright eyed little cousin of his had ruined that. She’d been so excited to see him; he probably hadn’t been to see his family quite a while, seeing that he was on guard duty after his last mission. 

        How many days had it been since you’d been here? You’d honestly lost track of time, your world feeling like it had been caught in a slow turn of molasses. A few seconds could feel like hours, days felt like minutes, every heartbeat felt like it could be your last. You tried to add it all up in your head, eyes closing as you replayed all the events that led to you standing in Reiner Braun’s home in Marley.

        A week and a half, you surmised. But it could be a little more, a little less. You think you would have kept your eyes on the sun a little more acutely, seeing that you’d missed it rise and fall for at least two days when you were bound in that cell.

        “Are you alright?”

        For a moment, you thought you had spoken the words. You were thinking them, but he asked you instead.

        “That’s a loaded question,” you looked back down to the street, catching the sight of a line of what appeared to be school children marching in tandem down the sidewalk, snow in their hair and happiness on their faces, “but for the moment, I’m okay.”

        Reiner pulled his lips to the side, considering your words. Maybe it hadn’t dawned on him that you couldn’t have been in any state of ease since you’d been promptly abducted and plopped down in this new world to navigate.

        “Are you alright?” You encored, observing how his worried thumbs were still fast against the screen.

        “Have I ever been?”

        You made at face at that reply, corners of your mouth turning down while your shoulders shrugged. Fair enough. 

        Though, for the first time, a bit of pity crept into your mind. Reiner didn’t really ask for this life, did he? He was doing whatever he could to get by, fallen rather inelegantly into the position of being sent to Paradis, and was now being handed you to watch over, presumably without his full consent. You were both pawns in this world, kings and rooks dominating the board and playing you both for fools.

        Being a Scout hadn’t been your intention, either. You’d once had other dreams: college, a career, a family, but you’d been grandfathered into the role by your government working parents, and cemented into it when they’d died. You had nothing else to do, so you served. You served your country, your friends, but you also served yourself, using the role to keep your life afloat, even if it sometimes meant spilling the lifeblood of others, even if it meant sacrificing aspirations and settling. Though, you would admit that some rather beautiful things managed to bloom from the barren soil. Regrettably, those had all been left behind, washed away by tides you couldn’t control.

        “I’m sorry,” Reiner grunted, sinking into the cushions of the couch, “she—she already opened her mouth. I’ve gotten Annie to settle things at HQ, but I imagine Chief is still furious.”

        “Is it such a bad thing to take me out here? I mean, you could easily stop me if I tried to run away.” 

        “Could I?”

        You debated his question. While you were quite nimble, you’d be like a rat in a maze trying to find a way out of this god forsaken place.

        “If I let you,” you reasoned, a tinge of humor behind your words.

        He smiled, all warm and soft, full lips parting. The realization that you hadn’t seen him smile in years pummeled into your chest like a heavy hand stealing from your lungs. It made the sorrow that much more palpable.

        “For the record, Zeke is more upset I didn’t ask permission. He’s hellbent on his authority.”

        “So I’ve noticed.”

        You also pinpointed something else of note, a picture glinting on his nightstand catching your attention.

        It resembled the same one you’d seen on Zeke’s desk, only now you could make out the faces. Reiner didn’t pay you any mind as you reached for the framed memory, plucking it from its home, dust from the back of it staining your fingers. 

        A red booth housed five familiar faces, all grinning over half-drank pints of beer. Their arms were interlocked around each other’s shoulders, all the men young and handsome, Reiner and Bertholdt even more youthful than when they’d first walked through the doors of the Scout Office. Then there was Zeke seated next to Porco, the latter in that green jacket you’d seen him in earlier. But your eyes were set on a face you’d never thought you’d see again, a face that possessed the very recesses of your mind, only appearing late at night when you’d see it in corners, catch it lingering behind your eyelids. He was attractive, appeared personable, messy dark hair and distinct brow that matched the boy next to him.

        “Reiner…” you whispered, still unmoving from your spot between the bed and the window pane, “who is this?”

        He peered over his shoulder, any hint of a smile now vanished like etchings being erased from a page.

        “You don’t recognize him?”

        Him, a photo full of faces, and he knew who you were asking about. He’d probably stared too long at the ghost himself. You wondered if he ever placed the frame down at night to sleep better; you would have, if you’d killed someone you cared about.

        “You know I do.”

        Reiner held his hand out, long arm stretched across the back of the couch. You finally talked your feet into moving, shuffling across the hardwood as you placed the offending item into his upturned palm. 

        Then, you sat next to him, your knees bumping together as you tried to analyze the emotions stirring within. You couldn’t quite place any of them—Regret? Fear? Curiosity? Sadness? But they were quelled when Reiner placed his hand on your twitching thigh, pressing that anxiousness away for a moment.

        “Marcel Galliard, Porco’s older brother.”

        Your lips parted, both of your attentions centered on the souvenir held between you.

        “It was his birthday, and we hadn’t had the chance to celebrate mine and Zeke’s yet either, so we all went out for drinks. I unfortunately don’t remember much from that night, but I remember being…happy, content.”

        “Why’d you do it?” you asked it a little quickly, “why would you…save me, not him?”

        “I told you, some things I don’t have a choice about.”

        “But you—you could’ve said he killed me and got away, right? You did have a choice.”

        You saw how his jaw clenched, muscles in his cheek flexing.

        “I don’t know.” Agony lined his voice, the words soft, hushed.

        That situation was something you both thought about far too often than you’d like to admit, a late-night mulling that never led to conversation.

        “I’m sorry.” You took the photo away, placed it face down on the coffee table.

        “Don’t be. We can’t change the past,” he said solemnly. 

        You could, however, lament it. Which is something you did perhaps too often.

━━━─── • ───━━━

         Reiner wasn’t ready for what was to come. He knew he never would be, which is why he threw precaution to the wind and decided to lay his cards on the table now. 

         He had to pick a side. Even if these wars didn’t truly concern him, even if the fate of countries ultimately didn’t matter to his conscious, you did—you mattered, he mattered, and he had to start thinking about things on a smaller scale. 

         He wanted to go back to Paradis. He practically yearned to go back in time, to return to a place where being Eldian didn’t matter, where his status didn’t matter, where he could remake himself into something new. If it hadn’t been for his binds connecting him to Marley, he could’ve actually seen hope instead of sorrow on the horizon. He could never seem to cut the vines, could never actually get away from the people controlling his life. 

         But now, now he saw an out, and it was with you. When this cataclysm first happened, all he wanted was for you to be dead, for you to go away and leave him and his miseries alone to rot and wither. Being with you, however, reminded him of a life he could have. He just had to make it happen, he had to start molding his own clay, had to keep bearing the weight of the world like the weary Atlas until he could find a way to make it turn in his favor.

         He was tired of wishing for death.

         Which is why he had to bring you here and why he would handle the consequences that were waiting in the distance. 

         You might not be very helpful to Marley, but he could be of use to Paradis.

         “I believe you,” he hadn’t noticed he was still touching you, fingers gripping onto your leg like a lifeline, “about Zeke. I believe you because I—we, Pieck, Annie, Bertie—we know he’s up to something beyond what he tells us and the generals. He is working with someone in Paradis. We don’t know who, but we do think we know what for.”

         “Oh my god…oh my god. Why didn’t you—”

         “You think I can just fucking say that when anyone could be outside my door listening?” 

         “I thought you said I wouldn’t like what you have to show me.” 

         He noticed how your shoulders relaxed, like you’d been holding in tension for far too long.

         “That’s not…I have something else for you.”

         He didn’t move just yet, not quite ready to actually set this all in motion.

         This all hinged on you. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew you quite well; of course, that was the you of four years ago. The you he had next to him now was older, scarred, burdened, but he still felt that same magnetic pull to you that he could never explain. He was just a moon consigned to orbit you, to be connected to you even when neither of you desired the attachment.

         He knew you were going to be upset, livid; his skin was already prickled at the thought of how you would possibly punch him if when you read what he had to give.

         At least you always looked pretty when you were angry.

         He could still remember how Jean had cowered undeath his desk when you’d stomped into the office after discovering he’d used the branch’s own money to play in a high-stakes poker game while undercover. He’d been fishing for information on the elites, found himself tipsy, and then found himself on the receiving end of your fury. The only thing that stopped your yelling was Erwin, who, for personal reasons, didn’t want any fuss made over government money being gambled away.

         Erwin. He’d never cared for how close you were to him.

         Reiner finally stood, expecting you to sit and wait, but you were following him like a shadow, small hand wrapped around his forearm as he moved to his computer. When he sat down, that hand moved up to his shoulder, your fingers squeezing into his muscle with encouragement. It didn’t really put him at ease.

         He turned the desktop on, the monitor flashing to life. He typed in his password quickly, then went searching for that folder he’d kept hidden away so he’d never bother to look at it again. 

         “Hand me one of those,” he nodded his head in the direction of a small container of flash drives on the other side of his desk. You plucked one out of its resting spot and went ahead and placed it into the port on the computer. He knew you wouldn’t question why had so many on hand—you both knew how it all worked, you both kept important documents that had to be shuffled around digitally.

         Familiar names lined the inside of the folder, ones he’d once tried to forget. He heard you suck in a quick breath and took a moment to look up at you. Your brow was set, tongue obviously caught between your teeth to keep yourself from saying anything. 

         This was his job. He was in charge of keeping tabs on The Scouts, he was the one who fed Marley all the information they could. Well, almost all of it. 

         “These are files I never gave over. They’re yours now. I never gave Marley everything they wanted I…I thought I was protecting you. There’s also a few files on Zeke that Pieck created in here, too.” 

         You both watched as he copied the folder over to the flash drive, one by one the names and dates slowly dropping into a new safe place for them.

         He touched your waist, signaling you to step back. He rolled his chair out, ducking under the desk for a split moment to gather a box of the printed documents he had actually handed over; the action was a mistake. 

         You were leaned over him in an instant, hand clutching and moving the mouse so quickly it scraped against the desk. He attempted to reach up and stop you, but he paused—there were still bruises on your wrist, on your fingers, faded watercolors of surviving pain. He’d gripped your hand, your wrists, all day, why hadn’t you stopped him?

         He already knew which file you opened; he didn’t need to look. But he did anyways, moving the crate to the side and sitting back in his chair, arms crossed across his chest. His poor heart felt like it was going to burst.

         Marco Bott’s face filled part of the screen, all sweet and freckled like he remembered. Those kind eyes were looking straight at him, judging him. Reiner was just waiting, he knew what was said in there, he wrote it all, still recalled how puffy his eyes were when he did it, how much he regretted it.

         There was a pregnant pause, one so heavy he felt like he was being crushed.

         This all hinged on you. He needed you to help him, needed you to help you.

         “I fucking knew it.”

         He was already flinching, shrinking. He watched the screen scroll, the black letters and white spaces all a blur.

         “Threat eliminated by gunfire, killed by organized crime members after…” you hesitated, eyes dancing as you reread the words, “after his gear was removed to ensure death.”

         He was on his feet before you could hit him, backing away from your clenched fists, chair rolling to be forgotten in the corner.

         “What. Did. You. Do?” 

         Each word came with a step toward him. He was running out of space, nearly tripping over the edge of the couch as you encroached upon him.

         “What did you do?” Your voice was getting louder, pain written across your face like he’d just stabbed you. “You told me there was no fucking truth about Marco!”

         “There isn’t! Marco’s dead, there’s no changing—”

         “There’s no changing the past,” you mocked his words, venom dripping from your tongue.

━━━─── • ───━━━

         Your blood was boiling, wrath itching between your fingers. 

         You were going to kill him. You were going to wind your fists around his neck and watch the life drain slowly from his eyes like he fucking deserved.

         You couldn’t believe you’d let you guard down, that you’d started to trust him. You always knew something had gone awry the night Marco died. He’d been slaughtered, ransacked with bullet holes across his body. It was like he had been dropped into the line of fire, dangled out like a piece of meat to be eaten alive.

         And he didn’t have his gear, that’s what stumped everyone looking into the mess of it all. It was like he had walked in unprepared, like a boy on a suicide mission walking straight to his death. Thirty-six bullets and even more empty, splattered holes littered had riddled his corpse. Jean had fallen to his knees. Connie didn’t speak for a week. Sasha didn’t eat for days.

         Because of Reiner’s decision, that man suffered, you all mourned, and you felt like you most of all had let him down. Marco had been your protégé, you’d taught him everything he knew, and that was the first mission he was allowed to go on after his training. You’d been tailing a rather violent gang, found their hideout, and were infiltrating for arrests and to see what was inside. Marco had been paired with Reiner and Bertholdt to lead the first wave of infiltration, while you and the rest waited for the signal to rush the back doors to the run-down ranch not far out of the city of Trost. They’d been up ahead by the barn that was sandwiched between stables.

         But your signal turned to sounds of gunfire. You could still hear it echoing in your ears as you approached Reiner. The sounds of metal clicking, of repeated blasts from automatic weapons ringing across the hillsides like single note windchimes in a raging storm.

         “Tell me why.”

         Your fingers were digging into his shirt before you could stop yourself, the threads of the worn Henley threatening to rip from your nails sinking into it. You could actually feel his heart beat against his chest, a frightened bird trying to flee his ribcage.

         When he didn’t speak right away, your anger flared, made you shove him back against the wall with all your might. It made your arms hurt, like you’d just slammed your hands against brick, a sharp pain that made you hiss.

         “He overheard us—”

         “Overheard what?”

         You could tell he was getting a little infuriated as well, nostrils flaring as he looked down his nose at you. It must look funny, you pressing him against the wall of his own apartment. Reiner was nearly twice your size—he was bigger than most people, and he towered over you like a looming threat.

         “Let me fucking finish,” he took a deep breath, eyes nearly glazing over, “He overheard Bertie and I talking about how we should relay the details of that gang, of organized crime in general, to Marley. We—we hadn’t had time to talk alone since we’d been prepping that shit for days. We didn’t know Marco followed us around to that side of the rooftop.”

         “That’s it? He heard you whispering little secrets and you killed him for it?”

         One of the buttons near the neckline of his shirt popped as your knuckles dug deeper into the fabric.

         “He literally heard us say that we needed to find a time to call General Magath of Marley. If he lived and told someone that—,” his breath caught for a moment when one of your nails started to pierce his skin, “it would have compromised our entire mission. We’d been there for three years, and he could’ve ruined it all.”

         You were at your breaking point. You could feel that terrible heat that comes with sadness creeping up your neck, snaking around to your cheeks. If you weren’t careful, you were going to cry. All this time, all this time spent wondering why, and this was why he had to die?

         Killing wasn’t unusual in your life. It was part of the job, something you’d unfortunately had to do on a few occasions. You knew those strangers who ate your bullets or your knife had families, that they were people too, but most of them were monsters, thieves, rapists, threats to the corrupted balance of the governmental structure. But Marco…he was like family, and finding his limp, almost unrecognizable body had sent even the most hardened veterans into despair. Levi took off from work the next day; the only time he had ever missed a day on the job.

         “Tell me how!” You truly didn’t mean to scream it, but the emotions raging in your stomach, your chest, it all ached too much. 

         “Be quiet, I have neighbors—”

         “I don’t give a fuck about your god damn neighbors, Reiner!”

         He finally moved then, his once idle hand now jerking up to your face to fiercely hold your cheeks beneath his fingers. You tried to smack his hand away, your own fingers digging and tugging at his wrist.

         “Letme-go!” Your words were jumbled, your open mouth allowing his fingers to press your cheeks in between your teeth.

         “You have to be fucking quiet,” he hissed, a whole new light shining in his eyes, a familiar rage you had seen when you’d fought against him the day Paradis was invaded. The reality of how large he was sunk in again; he looked like a vengeful god peering down at you, all hot-blooded and incensed.

         You thought for a moment he wouldn’t hurt you, but then you remembered he already had. He had the inclination to be just as cruel as you could be.

         His fingers stayed firm against your cheeks, holding you like he was daring you to speak again. 

         “Tellmehow,” you managed to spit out, wincing when he took the leverage he had on your face and used it to shove you back. You stumbled, banging into the side of the couch as you rubbed at the sore flesh of your mouth.

         But he was unmoving, back straight against the wall, a statue built on the foundation of wrath and agony, waiting to crack and fall onto you if you made the wrong move.

         “We knew their guards were patrolling. Bertholdt covered his mouth while I stripped him of his equipment, of his guns, and I pushed him off the roof and into their sight.”

         He said it so calmly that it made you sick. But that was a reality he had to live with every day, wasn’t it? He had to replay in his mind over and over again that he had done such a vile thing, he had to justify it else it would eat him alive.

         Your tears were hot, but contained, your lashes blinking them aside as you just stared at him. You opened your mouth to scream at him, you were so ready to spew hatred and let it burn him, but he was quicker than you. 

         With one step, he was on you, your hair wrapped in his fast as he wrenched your head to the side, smarting your scalp to silence you.

         “Marco’s dead, and I’m sorry for it. You fucking screaming will do nothing but have the assholes who live below me calling the authorities and you’ll find yourself in a much worse prison than before.”

         You didn’t like how he was right. Still, you glared up at him, brows pinched together in pain.

         It felt like you’d merged into him, those rapid hearts within your chests suddenly beating as one with the same suffering, the same torment. You both had to live with the poor reality of your lives; you were killers, you were monsters too. 

         You were too close to him, could smell the heat of his skin, could feel his breath against your sore cheeks. Your hands were flat against his chest, trapped between you, his arm an anchor as it tugged at the roots of your hair, keeping your face turned towards his.

         You couldn’t help but look at him, there was nowhere else to focus, only on him. It was like you could see the pages of a book open across his face, wretchedness and anguish painted in broad strokes in the fair wrinkles around his eyes, in the curve of his brow. It was beauty and pain bleeding together, the amber color of his eyes swirling as he searched your own face like he was looking for something. What would he find hidden behind your own grief?

         “I hate you,” you whispered, breath long gone.

         “I know.”

         “And I’ll never forgive you.”

         It was like he was moving closer, the time you were losing now completely stopped, frozen between your bodies.

         “Don’t want forgiveness,” he caught your whisper and gave it back, “just judgement.”

         His lips met yours with a bruising fervor. 

         The hand in your hair flexed, pulled you closer, made you gasp as your hands slid up his chest. Your fingers found his rumbling throat, and in the back of your mind, you recalled how just moments ago you were waiting to snatch the life from his neck. You felt his pulse beating beneath your thumb, a war drum beating hot and fast in his veins. Your mouth was moving against his, eyes closed, suddenly greedy and hungry; for what, you didn’t know. All you did know was that this felt so wrong, like you’d taken a misstep and landed right into the lion’s lap, but that it also felt like absolution, like he was devouring your sins and taking them for his own.

         Your mouth slanted for him, a hum resounding from both your throats as you fell into this new, strange rhythm. You’d thought about it before, kissing him like this, feeling those plush lips against yours, angry and hot and needy. You cherished the taste of him, like a dark, rich wine filling up your mouth, spilling over and enveloping your senses. Your tongue tempted him to open his lips, to let you in. There was no hesitation. 

         His other hand found your hip, fingers mean and pulling you impossibly closer. Your palms drifted up from his neck, found his face, thumbs smoothing over cheekbones. You could feel the soft hairs of his cheeks, his chin, sweeping against your skin. It all felt too good, like you were getting lost, delirium taking over. Nothing else mattered anymore, just the gratification of tasting his emotions, of taking his groans into your mouth and echoing them back. You pressed harder into him, kept your tongue tangled with his, noses brushing as you found new beats to your rhythm. 

         It was wicked, sinful, something your heart was pleading for and your mind screaming out against. But you couldn’t stop. You didn’t stop. It was as if you kissed for as long as you’d known each other. Every year passed by, every regret, every sharp turn of your tongues against one another, all the hurt and longing, placed into one moment of your bodies finding one another.

         When the heat began to die, you were both still stroking the flames, deep, languid kisses turned into smaller presses of your lips against one another. It was intoxicating and you felt so drunk, so, so drunk off of him.

         There was a stillness between you, like the gentle sigh and breaths of the world as it awoke to the morning sun when you finally stopped. A lulling peacefulness lingered in the wake of what you’d done.

         His hands were still on your body, in your hair, looser now. Yours were still on his face when your eyes fluttered open.

         “I’m sorry,” he murmured, lips plump, wet.

          “I know.”

Next Chapter

#reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #reiner x reader #snk reiner #snk reiner braun #AoT #aot reiner #aot reiner braun #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #snk fanfiction #snk x reader #reiner x you #reiner braun x you

[anoutlandishfanfic]

Metamorphosis Chapter 29: With The Dawn

Woohoo!! We’re on the home stretch!!

Huge thanks to @walkinginland​ for her beta skillz and cheering me on. 

You can find previous chapters here on Tumblr or over here at AO3.

Jamie. Some time later, well past midnight; February 22nd, 1744

Having assembled what I could, I propped Claire up more comfortably against the solid, wooden wall. I’d wrapped any spare clothing in her cloak — making one large, lumpy pillow — and Murtagh had found a bundle of raw wool as he’d escorted the crew back to their proper places. This was used as is and the result enabled her to remain reclined, even through successive contractions.

“Ye’re sae verra braw, mo nighean donn,” I murmured hoarsely.

Claire rolled her eyes heavenward in response, her head shaking slowly. The last pain had taken almost more than she’d had to give and left her completely spent.

I shifted to hover over her, taking my time and kissing her on the lips. She’d sought this gesture, time and time again in her pain and I eagerly offered myself to her.

Claire’s hand lifted, slipping her arm around my neck in order to keep me close, even after we came up for air. Her eyes had slid shut and she kept them that way as she whispered, “That was a long one.”

I groaned, nudging her nose with mine.

“And they’re getting much closer,” she added, the palm of her other hand skimming along the curve of her abdomen. “Things… are going in the right direction, I think.”

I moved my hand to match hers, trying to pick out the curve of one bairn from the next as she’d shown me.

“The first bairn ye mean?” I mused out loud. “Or jus’ the way of things?”

Her brow furrowed as her gaze latched onto something that wasn’t there, turning inwards as her hand slipped tentatively between her legs.

“I meant that my contractions are gaining strength instead of backing off… they could still stall, I suppose… they did for Jenny for a bit,” she surmised, harkening back to the one and only birth she’d witnessed.

“I guess… I don’t know about the baby,” her brows nearly became one as her internal concentration deepened, her hand gently cupping the place where our child would soon be making their appearance. “But I think he’s the right way.”

The right way.

I immediately regretted asking the question as I remembered there was, in fact, a wrong way. Jenny’s bairn had been born that way and Claire had assured me that they could be born feet first, but I felt all the blood drain from my face as I realized for the first time that something could indeed go wrong.

“Jamie,” Claire’s voice, soft and sweet, brought me around and I found her looking up at me with complete understanding.

“A Dhia, Sorcha,” I wheezed, taking her face in my hands. I bowed my head, pressing my brow to hers as I begged, “Forgive me?”

I heard her sigh, felt her deft fingers slip into the curls at the back of my neck.

“Always.”

…

Two Hours Later: Nearly Dawn.

Something had changed within my wife between the last pain and this one.

She had to be close.

Did I dare look?

Claire’s shift wasn’t intentionally keeping her modest — the ships’ men had long gone and my godfather with them, leaving just the two of us in the cabin — but the hem of it had fallen between her spread knees and obscured any accidental viewing of the area in question.

Would she be discouraged if there wasn’t anything to see yet?

Having not lost her touch of accurately reading my mind — even in the midst of her travail — my wife burst in frustration, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Jamie! Just look and get it over with!”

With this, she unceremoniously pulled aside her shift and I was met with a view that I instantly regretted seeking.

I caught myself just in time and swallowed the exclamation that nearly left my lips at the sight of her condition. Offering up a prayer and crossing myself instead, I patted Claire’s leg in reassurance.

“What do you see?”

A dhia, Sorcha, I groaned both inwardly and outwardly, ask me anything but that.

Her hand moved, covering mine on her leg for a brief moment and giving it a squeeze before closing in on the area in question. She caught her breath and winced as her fingers first encountered the bulge between her legs, but then calmed somewhat as she slowly, gingerly took stock of the situation.

“His head,” her whisper was barely audible but the wonder and awe in her voice was palpable.

“Aye,” I swallowed hard. “He’s almost here.”

She nodded, her hand moving away as a cloud crossed once more over her face.

Here we go.

Her heels began to dig into the mattress, her feet slipping as she fought to gain traction against the tide that pulled her this way and that.

“Here, mo chridhe,” I patted against my legs. “Try pushin’ ‘gainst me.”

She nodded, shifting until it was comfortable, and I watched in delight as it seemed to work almost immediately.

Now with a solid anchor in her arsenal, she dove headlong into the wave of her contraction. It was as swift and mighty as all the others, but she now was able to curl forward with this one, using my leverage to her advantage as she followed the call of her body.

Her moaning intonations changed as her face turned from red to white and back again — one thing now obvious.

My son would soon be here.

Claire began to push with all her might, fighting in earnest to bring forth our firstborn child. Again and again the urge came upon her, each contraction asking more and more of her.

“Well done, mo chridhe!” I praised her after a particularly rough bout, close on the heels of the one before. “Verra well done!”

She shook her head against the pillows, tired and dejected, “I just want him here… I want to be done… I just want to hold my baby, Jamie!!”

“Aye,” I crooned — not making the mistake of adding I ken to that statement.

I’d done it once early on and I wouldn’t do so again.

“Give me your hand,” I coaxed and offered up my own. She gave it freely, trembling with fatigue, and I slowly brought it back between her legs.

The small spot of brilliant auburn had grown with every contraction, the form of a now very obvious head on display for any and all to see.

“He’s almost here… he’ll be in your arms soon, aye?”

Claire’s eyes slid shut as her hand once more cupped the curve of our baby’s head. It had given her great peace to feel him earlier and I mentally praised myself for thinking of it.

Anything to help her along.

“Ye’re sae verra braw, mo nighean donn… an’ he’s helpin’ ye, aye?” I suggested. “He’s listenin’ to ye… to yer heart as ye guide him here… why do ye no’ talk to him too, hmm? Let him hear yer voice.”

Her lips began to move at once — silently at first, almost as if in prayer — but then her words grew louder and more urgent as she coaxed our child into the world.

“Come along, then, baby,” she crooned.

Her words hitched as another contraction besieged her, twisting from coddling to direct orders.

“Jesus H Roosevelt Fucking Christ,” she spat, “get out!”

I watched helplessly as she battled with all her might, unable to do anything but pick up the petitions to our child and run with them.

“Alright, ye wee fiend,” I chided under my breath, “time to be makin’ yer grand entrance, aye?”

My head snapped up as Claire’s intonations changed, my gut clenching as she began to hiss violently through her teeth.

“Easy, mo chridhe… slow an’ steady.”

It was only a few moments more and with a mighty shout that our child’s head was born.

“Well done, Sorcha!!” The praise rolling off my tongue in Gaelic. The relief of seeing her tired smile as she sagged against the homemade pillows spurred me on and I echoed, this time in English, “Verra well done, mo chridhe!!”

Her hand was back, softly inquisitive and her voice echoing the rapturous touch, “What does he look like?”

A dhia, the questions ye ask, Sassenach.

I coughed, trying to make light of a rather grizzly sight, “Well, I wouldna say he’s well pleased with his view of the world just now.”

Her laugh was cut short as the final pain came upon her, taking everything she had left to give. The baby’s shoulders moved ever so slightly and with a whoosh my child slipped into the world.

Lifting him gently — for he was, unmistakably, a him — I eased my son onto the cloth that lay ready and waiting for this purpose.

“Oh God, Claire,” I swallowed hard, tears rushing to the back of my eyes and lodging a lump in my throat as I patted my firstborn son dry, “he’s so wee.”

… Claire.

He.

My heart skipped a beat, leaping right out of my chest and soaring high above my head before it fell back into place and clattered on again, the room spinning slightly as I breathlessly asked, “He’s a boy, then?”

A lusty, clear cry pierced the air in answer and I heard Jamie chuckle softly as he scuttled sideways, maneuvering a thrashing bundle just within my reach but as far as the cord would allow.

If only just a little closer...

“Aye, mo nighean donn,” his voice cracked as he announced, “we have a bonnie son.”

“Oh, baby!” I gushed as my hand traveled over him: ensuring his nose and mouth were clear — eliciting an even mightier wail of dissatisfaction from my son — before registering all ten fingers, skimming over his chest and down legs to count all ten toes.

He was here and he was whole.

This accomplished, my hand moved back to cup his flushed face, which was screwed up tight in a red-blooded fury, letting us know in no uncertain terms just what he thought about the present state of his affairs.

“Jamie,” my brow furrowed, my thumb stroking my son’s cheek, “His cord… please? I need to hold him.”

A determined look crossed over my husband’s face and he turned away at once to find the small drawstring bag we’d set aside for this purpose. I didn’t know whether to laugh or weep at the comedy that unfolded before me as he rummaged around for it in the gathering light, finding it less than an arm’s length from his original position.

He opened it and withdrew the looped thread, but then sat staring at me blankly.

“Here,” I motioned him forward.

He’d gotten us through the labyrinth blindfolded and on his own — I could guide us to the finish line, so to speak.

“Tie this one here… and that one there… Tighter… good.”

I nodded in praise, but noticed he’d balked again at the sight of the small, sharpened blade I’d packed.

“He won’t feel it,” I promised, taking hold of Jamie’s hand and squeezing it tight. “It won’t hurt him.”

He swallowed hard, but set his jaw and severed the cord as well as any midwife could under the circumstances.

“Please,” I croaked, finding my own throat tight as the tether between me and my baby was broken, “Please, Jamie... I need him.”

This was accomplished without ceremony and Jamie thrust our squalling infant without delay into my arms.

He calmed nearly the instant he hit my skin, seeming to know just who I was as I clutched him tightly against my chest.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” I sighed, my hand gently cupping the curve of his tiny head. “I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

Jamie moved closer, wiping his hands, his eyes deep pools of emotion. This gave way to shock and then melted into a reverent awe as he softly exclaimed, “Ach, look, Sorcha… he’s got his wee eyes open!”

I shifted the baby in my arms, cradling his head in the crook of my elbow and gave a soft laugh to find my son scowling furiously up at me… with brilliant blue eyes.

“Yes, I suppose I’d have to agree,” I commented dryly on the whole affair. “Wasn’t much fun, mmm?”

His little fists beat the air — somewhere in the fuzzy back recesses of my brain I remembered that was a good sign —  and I took hold of one, wrapping his long fingers around one of mine. He gripped me tightly and I felt tears spring into my eyes.

I felt Jamie’s arms slip around me, supporting me — holding the both of us close.

“He has your eyes,” I murmured hoarsely. Hot tears rolled freely down my cheeks as my thumb stroked the tiny hand holding mine, “And your fingers.”

He wiped them gently away, turning my face towards him for just a moment and giving me the most tender of kisses.

“Mebbe so,” he commented with a slow smile, “but he’s got your lungs, Sassenach.”

... Jamie.

“Is he hungry, do you think?”

Claire was exhausted, her body sagging heavily against my chest, but her voice held an excited energy that, while I understood, astounded me.

She tried to position the bairn at her breast, but trembled so, and I quickly positioned my hand under hers. He rooted fiercely around for her nipple, his mouth as wide as a wee sparrow begging for his supper. With my arms there to help support him in place, her free hand slipped out and helped guide him, nudging herself against his upper lip.

He turned his face and, after a few gummed misfires, seemed to find the way of things.

Claire winced, firmly setting her jaw, but I saw the surge of joy and wonder wash over her face just the same. She relaxed slightly as he settled in with alacrity, sighing as her thumb stroked his cheek.

“Brian,” she murmured softly, as if testing the name out for the first time, then repeated it with more sureness, “His name is Brian.”

Overcome, I ducked my head, burying my face in her neck.

Can you see him, Da? Do you see my son?

“He’s got your red hair too,” I heard her continue, barely audible.

Brian… mo ghille beag… mo mhac ruadh.

I placed a kiss just behind her ear before lifting my head and she sighed again, turning her face towards me. Her eyes were wet, but joyous, her lips parting as she lifted her chin to kiss me in earnest.

Thank you, my soul reached out to hers. Thank you, my love, for our son.

She stiffened suddenly, her jaw dropping and brow furrowing as she pulled her face away. This jostled the bairn, who complained loudly that his dinner had been interrupted, and, had I not a firm grip of them both, would have upended him completely.

“Claire?” I asked hesitantly as I tried to set things back to rights in my arms.

She shook her head, but had regained enough composure to attempt to return the bairn to her breast. I tried to help, clumsily, but we finally succeeded, and I inquired again, a little more urgently, “Sorcha?”

Her free hand slipped to her side, her fingers splaying wide just above her hip and my heart dropped.

It was starting again.  

“Aye,” I swallowed hard, nearly choking. “Ye dinna need to say it… I ken.”

She nodded, her hips shifting as she fought to keep still enough for the bairn.

“Do ye want me to take him?” I offered, keeping my voice low.

Shaking her head wildly, she got out, “Needs… to finish… eating.”

I nodded and simply held them close, holding my breath and petitioning Heaven until the contraction eased.

Mary, Michael, and Bride, help us.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the rigidity left her and she sagged once more in my arms, her fingers absently stroking the bairn’s hand.

His wee lips had stopped moving, his eyes now drooping heavily after having his fill.

“Help me move him,” Claire’s voice wobbled as her hand slipped under his head.

My hand covered her own and together we got him reclined on his side against her chest. She sighed heavily, her head tipping backwards against my shoulder as her hand started a rhythmic rubbing and patting along his back.

“What are ye doin’?” I asked in gentle curiosity.

She gave me a tired smile, cracking one eye open.

“You’ve never watched someone burp a baby before?”

“No,” I drew out the word, finding the concept utterly fascinating. “I canna say that I have.”

“Mmm,” remarked and closed her eyes again, but the smile grew.

“Sassenach?”

“Mmm?”

“Why would such a wee bairnie have a need to belch?”

I felt her shoulders begin to shake and her hand stilled, her eyes opening fully to spear me with a look that made my heart turn over and warmed me through, “Jamie stop — I can’t… I can’t laugh, it hurts!”

Rather bemused, I simply nodded and decided to let the matter drop — it certainly was not worth causing her more physical pain than she was already in — but she did finally answer after composing herself.

“When they nurse, they sometimes get air trapped in their bellies… which is painful for them and sometimes makes them spit up what they’ve eaten,” she patiently explained, though the grin was still firmly in place. “If you pat their backs, the air has to leave and they burp…”

Understanding dawned and I lamely commented, “Ah, I see.”

A sort of sighing hiccup left Brian a few moments later, eliciting an enthusiastic praise from his mother, “Good job, darling!”

I blinked down at the two of them, realizing this was the intended result of the massage.

“Tha’ was it?” I commented blandly. “Yer da’s goin’ t’have to teach ye a thing or two about this burpin’ business, fear beag.”

… Not five minutes later.

“Wait,” I froze, trying to focus on the movement of the ship around us, “Christ, I think we’ve made harbor!”

Easing myself out from behind Claire, who looked up at me in startled amazement, I strode over to the cabin’s bank of windows. The sun was beginning to break its way in patches through the dissipating storm, illuminating the fact that we had, in fact, slowed and were being towed to anchor in an unfamiliar port.

A joyous shout left my lips and I nearly flew back to my wife’s side.

“We’re here!” I kissed her soundly.

Her arm looped around my neck, holding me close as she began to tremble from head to toe. I took Brian from her, nestling him securely in the crook of one arm as I gathered her to me with the other. She clung to me with both hands, burying her face in my chest as great, wrenching sobs wracked her body.

“Ach, mo chridhe,” I crooned, my lips brushing against the top of her head. “Murtagh’ll have help for ye here in no time, ye’ll see.”

My arms tightened around her as her tears flowed all the more, “Just a wee bit longer, mo nighean donn… just hold on.”

… Murtagh.

I didn’t wait for the gangplank, but leapt over the rail and landed on the pier amid shouts and calls for caution.

The lot of ye be damned, I grumbled to myself, shoving past moldy French sailors, and the hell if ye’ll keep me from my duty.

But where would I find a midwife in such a place as this?

I knew enough of the language to see me by, though it near sickened me to use it, but the tongue on its own wouldn’t be the trick of it… How would I locate someone trained for my task in a harbor teaming with male sailors, merchants, and fisherfolk?

The market.

The thought lit a fire beneath my boots and had me crashing through the crowded pier towards the raucous calls of the fisher-women selling their wares.

One of them was bound to be a mother.

Nearly reaching the swarm of baskets and rows of booths, I began my supplication in French at the top of my lungs, “Help!! I need a midwife — a mother!! Someone please help me!!”

Over and over I repeated the request, grabbing hold of women’s arms, only to be shaken off and refused time and time again.

I was ready to simply take hold of the next woman I saw, throw her over my shoulder, and drag her back to the boat, when a short, frail looking woman stopped what she was doing and actually considered my request.

“Your wife?” She squinted at me, measuring me up.

“Please, madam — she’s my daughter,” I begged in French, stumbling over the words in an effort to get them out as fast as I could.

“We’ve just arrived and there’s no one to help her… Please! You must help me!”

“I’ll come,” she nodded to her companion and charged towards the quay, shouting over her shoulder, “Show me the way, we mustn’t waste any time.”

She was surprisingly spry for someone her age and we recovered ground at a remarkable speed. A glance over my shoulder found the woman’s companion — presumably her kin — who smiled reassuringly at me. I nodded politely in return, then helped the two of them down to the pier.

A few turns later had us at the base of the gangplank and I hastily followed them up, but discovered they’d made it across the deck and were opening the door to the cabin in the time it took me to board the ship.

“Christ, they’re speedy wee fiends,” I cursed under my breath and took off at a dead run.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #metamorphosis au #metamorphosis ch29 #with the dawn #chapter 29

[cryptids-and-muses]

Blood and Bonds: Chapter 1

Ao3

The field was lit by the last rays of daylight. Just enough so Sypha could see the warlocks doing this perfectly. There were 10 or them, all in matching cloaks. Most of them gathered around the stone altar in the center of the field. The altar sypha was tied to.

“Oh Valefor! Duke of Hell! Come forth with your many heads and many limbs….” the warlock chanted as sypha struggled against the bonds tying her to the rock. They limited her magic but she struggled anyway, refusing to just give up.

“You’ll regret this.” She spat, but the cultists paid her no mind.

Trevor thrashed, restrained by two of the cultists, “If you so much as touch her I’ll rip your arms off and shove them up down your throat!” He shouted.

The head warlock didn’t listen, instead rising an ornate dagger to the sky, “Oh lord of thieves! I Beseech thee, accept this offering! Fill our bodies with her strength! Fill our veins with her blood! Fill our minds with her knowledge!”

A hiss escaped Adrian as he tried to stand. Struggling against the invisible weight pressing down on him. The mage in front of him smirked, and Adrian felt the weight increase. His vision blurred as he tried to breath under it. Tried to do anything.

Sypha tried to call her magic. Tried to slip her hands out of the chains. Hell, she even tried to kick the man leading the ritual. But nothing worked. The head warlock’s chanting reached a climax, “Valefor! Steal this offering’s power and make it our own!”

He brought the knife down.

Sypha screamed.

Something in Adrian snapped.

Trevor heard a snarl and the room exploded into chaos. A flurry of movement Trevor’s mind couldn’t keep up with. Just a red blur and the sounds of an animal attack. Claws tearing through flesh. Screams. The wet sound of bodies hitting the floor.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, everything went still, and Trevor could see the aftermath of whatever just happened. Blood drenched every corner of the field. Limbs and other bits of gore were scattered around in some grotesque display. The two men who had restrained Trevor were heaps on the floor. One had been torn open from collar to stomach. His intestines hanging limply outside of his body. The other’s heart had been ripped out, along with several bits of rib that had gotten in the way. But Trevor barely noticed. All his attention was on Adrian.

If he could even call the thing in front of him by the same name.

He stood by the altar, at the center of the carnage. His white shirt had been stained dark red, and was speckled with chunks of gore. Some of it even hung in his hair. Bits of flesh hung from his claws, still posed to strike at a moments notice. And his face…..Trevor felt nauseous looking at it. There was no humanity there. No concern or recognition. No trace of the man he loved at all. His lips were curled into a snarl, exposing bloodied fangs. His lips and chin were smeared with the stuff. Solid red eyes stared at the corpse at his feet. The man who’d stabbed Sypha. His throat was torn out, and around the wound were the tell-tale impression of vampire teeth.

Trevor’s hand fell to the morningstar, “......Adrian?”

There was no response.

Trevor's grip on his weapon tightened.

But then Adrian blinked, and the red cleared from his vision. What happened? He’d been pinned and then he heard sypha scream and then....

Rage.

He remembered rage. Like nothing he’d never felt before.

But everything else was blank. A sea of red and adrenaline.

He shook his head, trying to clear the remaining fog. That’s when the smell hit him. The smell of blood hung thick and choking in the air. Adrian looked up in panic, and finally got a good look at his surroundings. His eyes widened at the carnage laid before him. The butchery.

He staggered back.

What. Had. He. Done.

Adrian covered his mouth. His hand came away wet. He realized there was blood on his lips, on his fangs, that he could feel it sliding down his throat-

He fell to his knees and vomited. Bile and freshly swallowed blood splattering the grass below him.

Sypha knew something was wrong, but the world swam around her. The only thing she could make out clearly was the searing pain in her stomach. Her boys, she needed to get to them. Something was wrong and she needed to find them. She tried moving, but heat shot through her body, making her cry out.

“Sypha!” Trevor ran to her. He could see the blood soaking into her robes. She whimpered as he tried putting pressure on the wound. “Shit,” they needed to do something, fast. He looked over at their third, who was still staring in horror at the destruction around him.

“Adrian!” Trevor snapped, this time more forceful. They didn’t have time for this.

Trevor’s voice broke Adrian out of his spiralling. He looked over at the altar and it hit him. Sypha . He scrambled to her side. Those horrible chains were still around her wrists and ankles. He snapped them, and tried to not think about how much easier it was than usual.

Trevor looked around the field, “We need to leave.” There was a brief hesitation as he glanced at Adrian, “Can you carry her?”

Adrian was shaking. He ran a hand through his hair, god it was in his hair, but nodded. Focus on now, on what he needed to do. He could worry about what he’d done later. He scooped sypha into his arms and began to walk back to the town they were staying at. Pointedly not looking anywhere but ahead.

Trevor didn’t let go of sypha’s hand. He was silent as they walked, unable to get the image of Adrian with blood red eyes out of his mind.

------

It was silent as Adrian tended to Sypha in the cramped inn room. She fell asleep part way through, Adrian continued to clean her wounds. Trevor watched him from across the table while holding sypha’s hand. Neither met each other’s eyes. The tension in the room was palpable.

Eventually Adrian puts the cloth down, and lets out a shaky breath, “She’s going to be fine.”

Trevor nods, finally letting go of her hand. The silence stretched on.

“Are you going to tell me what that was?”

Adrian looked at the floor, “I don’t know.”

Trevor’s jaw tightened, “You killed ten people in the blink of an eye. You bit a man’s throat out.”

“I don’t know!” He shouted back, he hugged himself, “I’ve….I’ve never lost control like that before. I didn’t even know I was capable of that.”

Trevor sighed, “Do you remember what was going through your head?”

“Barely. I just remember sypha screaming. Then everything went red.” Adrian didn’t meet his gaze.

That oppressive silence fell again. This horrible distance between them. It took a while for Trevor to build up the courage to speak again, “I still love you, and I swear to god I always will. But.....”

Adrian gave him a sad smile, “But you can’t trust me.”

Trevor opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could still see specks of gore tangled in Adrian’s hair.

“It’s okay,” Adrian looked at the floor, “I can’t trust myself either.”

It was painful to see him like this. So distraught and scared, but Trevor forced himself to keep talking, “We can’t just ignore this. Pretend like it can’t happen again.”

A sob tore out of Adrian,”I can still fucking taste him. Can feel his blood giving me strength. I feel like a monster . If this happens again….” He was shaking, “I-I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Trevor took Adrian’s hand, “Don’t worry. I won’t let you.” He gulped, “If this happens again-“

Adrian’s eyes snapped to Trevor, “No.”

“But-”

“ No.” Adrian squeezed Trevor’s hand, his still teary eyes full of determination, “I know what it's like to have to kill someone you love. And I refuse to put you or Sypha through that. I would take myself out before I made either of you do it.”

Trevor’s throat was dry.

But what if, he wanted to say. What if you’re so far gone I don’t have a choice.

But he didn’t, he just stared at Adrian with sad eyes, “Okay,” he pulled the dhampir into his arms, hugging him tightly, “Okay.”

He wanted to say something reassuring. To tell Adrian it would be alright. But He couldn’t. So he stood there, holding Adrian as his love cried into his shoulder.

#castlevania netflix #blood and bonds #castlevania #trevor belmont #adrian tepes #alucard #sypha belnades #trephacard #trevor x sypha x alucard #trevor x alucard #trevor x sypha #sypha x alucard #trevorcard #my writing #fanfiction #chapter 1

[blush-and-books]

Hey! Do you have a fic rec post and if not, would you mind sharing a few of your favourites?

I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE. TURN IT UP!!!!!!

*all of these are juke so hopefully thats what you were looking for*

**list is subject to change when my dumbassery fades for a moment and i remember all the ones i probably forgot**

Multi-Chapter Fics:

A Hundred Bad Days (Make A Hundred Good Stories) // Just a Casual, Casual Easy Thing by @pearlcaddy - if you haven’t read this. what are you doing. please read it. also read pearlcaddy’s entire body of work, especially Some Killer Queen You Are which made me sob

i’ve got a crazy feeling this isn’t our first time around by @lydias--stiles - once again. i cried. the yearning is lovely. 

We Found Wonderland by @pink-flame - oh my god it took me so long to actually start reading this and i regret every day that i put it off. i have sobbed so hard (BUT ITS NOT SOLID ANGST ITS JUST THE PINING OF IT ALL) and the talent here is so palpable and this could literally be a novel and gahhhhhh consistent updates too which is v legendary

Beating Like Thunder by petalpusher on AO3 - look i am not a werewolf girl but this shit FUCKS!!!!!!! i love it so much and author im sorry idk if youre on tumblr if you are please follow me 

Who Could Deny These Butterflies? by @xxprettylittletimebombxx - there’s only one chapter but its the way i am so excited for the continuation!!!

there’s an ache in you (put there by the ache in me) by jukulele on AO3 - i love the slowburn thats happening in this one and cant wait for an update!!!!! again author idk if you have tumblr but follow me if you do!!

relight that spark by @ruzek-halstead - literally so amazing, also consistent/relatively consistent updating, the cinderella story juke au that i never knew i needed but dont know how i lived without 

The Best Shades of Life by @captainkippen - oh my god. just. OH MY GOD. IT IS SO GOOD. 

One Shots:

Can I Keep You? & Ray Molina, Crime Scene Photographer and Matchmaker are both by @bluefirewrites who also has amazing multi-chapters that she is working on but her oneshots are iconic!!!!!! 

dead of night by @ruzek-halstead - they have so many amazing oneshots so like, read them all, but this one has to be my favorite!!!!

anyway, here’s wonderwall by encroix on AO3 - i dont know how to explain it but this one fucked me up good and simple

at long last, love has arrived by @lydias--stiles - monster 40+k royalty au that will make your day

We play pretend by fanfics_she_wrote on AO3 - THIS MASTERPIECE IS SO UNDERHYPED. MAYBE ITS THE THEATER KID IN ME BUT DAMN THIS HITS HOME, THE YEARNING IS SO INSTENSE IT HITS ME SO HARD EVERY TIME I READ IT AND I READ IT LIKE. MOST DAYS. OH MY GOD 

not an avocado by @pawprinterfanfic - you’re laughing. i laid in bed with tears running down my face over a fucking purple bronchitis and you’re laughing

Let These Petals Fall Where They May by @wisdomofme - this whole thing is so beautiful and so creative and i literally panicked when i had to write a secret santa gift for this actual goddess. another one that i reread all the time bc it makes me feel just as strongly as i did my first time around

Pearls by @pawprinterfanfic - luke gets his wisdom teeth out and all of the simping just hits full force as it fucking should

Wizard Love by @pearlcaddy and every one shot in the series - i know this list is like the same three authors over and over but. what can i say. we have talent in this fandom

Finally: If you haven’t read any of my works, I have a healthy blend of multichap and oneshots. Here’s the link to my AO3 page!

#juke #julie and the phantoms #jatp fanfic #jatp #juke fanfic #julie molina #luke patterson #jatp fic recs #juke fic recs

[that-damn-girl]

(8) Bucky and The Bed

Completed

Chapter 7

Bucky and The Bed Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x (cis)fem!reader

Words: 3100+

Summary: You and Bucky are stranded in the middle of a snowy nowhere when there is an ‘electronic blackout’ during your mission. With no back ups or any way to contact your team, you take refuge from the worsening weather in the only cabin you find  in miles. Not to mention, with no power, Bucky has become your personal heater and there’s only one bed.

Chapter type: Fluff.

Chapter/Trigger warning: Language? Like teensy weensy bit of angst?

A/N: Thank you for continuing to read this series still. After the end, which I will start on a Bucky x Rogers!reader miniseries. I am particularly excited to write the next two chapters. Hope you like this part!

Bucky looked at it. Kept looking at it. And looked at it some more.

The metal armed man was sure he couldn't ever get tired of the sight in front of him. It was simple and yet so complex he felt he could get lost into it and never regret a second. It might not be much, but it was enough for him to lose himself. He didn't know how to describe the sense of serenity it brought him. 

Peeking through the light fluffy clouds, the setting sun cast warm golden rays that gave every snowy surface around you a honey like glaze. As the time gradually passed, various colours in the most brilliant of their shades blended beautifully to embellish the never-ending sky. As the slanting rays of the sun flitted through the clouds, the yellow filter in the sky gave way to a graceful braid of pink and orange before shrouding everything is it's vermilion hue.

In the handful of days you had taken refuge in the cabin, not one day had the sun been kind enough to grace you with its presence. When today it finally did, you and Bucky realised it was too good an opportunity to miss the sunset view these mountains offered. Without any further ado, a bonfire was created outside the cabin with dry leaves and firewood arranged meticulously. 

The splendid view of nature in its finest forms was exploited to its full content. You and Bucky sat around the bonfire, taking in the furiously blushing sky and the snow covered peaks shining golden in the distance as the clouds traversed through them.

Bucky was taken aback by the raw beauty in front of his eyes. It reminded him of the sunsets in Wakanda. Sure it wasn't comparable to those in the futuristic and fascinating country, but it was a close second. He only grew more in awe of the view the more he looked at it. Majestic was one word for the sight in front of him. It wasn't the sky though. 

It was you. 

A small, unconscious smile took a hold of his lips as he took in your face, peacefully resting on his shoulder. Your arms were tightly curled around his vibranium one, your body leaning its weight on him. A shared blanket was thrown over your backs, trapping in the heat the fire provided.

For Bucky, it was majestic, really. How could it not have been, looking at your face, at the blend of the colours from the setting sun and the fire casting a beautiful glow to your already beautiful self? Your serene features were highlighted by the natural light and the dancing flames. You looked elegant and exquisite, more so than anyone he had ever known. As bewildering as it sounded, Bucky had met a god but the warm colours grazing your skin truly made you more divine than any other celestial being. 

Bucky was utterly whipped.

Sensing his gaze on you, you tilted your head to look at him. Bucky had always had an intense face, even when he was relaxed or didn't mean to do it. You had encountered it many a times and dealt with the increase in your heart rate it brought, but you could never get used to his soft smile and gentle eyes looking at you with such adoration, such love, such trust, as if you had hung the stars and the moon for him. It overwhelmed you, always, but in the best of the ways. Especially since you had discovered a couple days ago that it wasn't just in your head. 

Unable to stifle your own giddy smile, you reached up to kiss his lips. It was only meant to be a peck, but he drew you in even before you had the chance to pull back, always eager to taste you, to have you, to kiss you, to cherish you. You galdly gave into the kiss. It was soft and sweet, the way his lips molded around yours, moving in sync. The kiss slowly grew intense, but not heated. It was only filled with love and care, making him unable to put in the conscious effort of letting you go if you were okay with it. 

Instead his strong arms wound around you and brought you to him lap so that you were straddling his thick thighs. His lips moved slow but firm, just taking the time to worship your lips as they deserved to be. One hand tightened around your middle, keeping you secure in his hold while the other drifted down to your butt, his large hands kneading your cheeks gently with utmost care and fondness. You slid your arms up his broad chest and around his neck, holding him close. Smiling in between the kisses, neither of you were able to let go, clinging to each other as none could get enough of the other.

When you finally did let go to breathe in lung fulls of the crisp, cold air, you moved to relieve him of your weight. His arms tightened around you in a slight moment of panic, refusing to dismiss the comfort you brought him just by your touch, your closeness. "Stay, please?" He softly pleaded.

You looked down at the heavy log of wood Bucky sat upon. It was broad enough to sit, but not enough to be comfortable if he kept your weight on himself for long. "Your legs are going to hurt, Bucky"

"Y/N, I don't know the true limit of the powers the serum gave me, but I think it's enough to stop a helicopter from taking off. I think I can hold my precious girl without hurting myself." He smiled at you with the boyish charm and the innocence of a first grader announcing that he got A+ in an assignment.

"Show off," You chuckled, booping his nose with yours. "But an adorable show off."

"What?" Bucky quietly, softly muttered, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. "I like holding you, hugging you, having you close. That's all." Your heart fluttered in your chest, swelling with emotions. The simplicity, the vulnerability with which he admitted favouring your presence made you wonder just how much open and comfortable he was with you. You knew he liked you, trusted you, but it never ceased you from being overwhelmed everytime he expressed it.

Heart brimming with affection for the man in front of you, you didn't trust yourself not to confess then and there how deeply in love you were with him. Instead you said the only thing you could think of to draw the attention away from your racing heart. "You also like my butt."

The metal hand tenderly kneading your butt cheek stilled. Hesitance crept in every being of Bucky. He cursed himself, worried he had offended you or made you uncomfortable somehow. What he heard was unassuming, but he didn't want to take any chances if you didn't like it. 

Bucky realised that since the day you had agreed to be his girl, he had given an awful amount of attention to your butt. He'd always rest his hands there while cuddling or gently knead the soft muscles as he was doing then. He would never deny that your behind was alluring to him, but his touch wasn't meant to be demeaning or enticing, at least not until you partook in sexy times. He'd only ever meant for his actions to treasure you, admire you, but he would not do it at the cost of your comfort. 

You caught onto what must have been going inside his head. Bucky meant to draw his hand back and apologise, but you stopped him and quickly added, "I love the attention, honestly."

"You're not... offended by it?" Pulling back to look at you, he asked unsurely, making himself look as small as possible.

"Should I be?"

Bucky shook his head, "I like you and I respect you, a lot. You know that, right? I only do it, because...well, what's there not to like about your butt?" He emphasised it by giving a small squeeze to your soft muscles.

"I believe you," You chuckled, giving his plump lips a sweet peck."And I meant it, I love the attention you give it. But why do you like it so much? My ass is so-"

"It's perfect." Bucky finished your sentence before you could add in any negative comment about yourself. "You're perfect, doll."

"You're such a charmer." You mumbled, going for his lips with a wide smile.

"Only for you." Bucky replied, happy to taste you, feel you. When he pulled back, he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

With the fiery flames warming your back and Bucky's heated body pressed to your front, you snuggled into him further. Head resting on his broad shoulder, eyes closed, you basked in the comforting embrace, in the heat seeping into your bones. It was your own little heaven.

Feeling the sun on his skin after so many days had felt great. Although he was used to staying in the dark before he was rescued, he didn't like it one but. It felt good, immensely so. But with you at his side, with him, enveloped in his arms, your touch calming him, anchoring him, everything was better than never before. 

It didn't take long for Bucky to realise that you had dozed off on his shoulder, your chest tranquilly rising and falling against him. Chuckling, he gripped both the ends of the blanket and curled his arms around you again, the pair of you now cocooned in the heat of the blanket. 

He rested his chin on your shoulder, his head leaning against your, and looked at the dwindling flames in the darkening sky. Nightfall loomed at the corners, impatiently waiting for the sun to complete its descent before it could take over. The lowering temperature was palpable in the chilling air. He knew he would need to carry you inside soon, but he waited for the soothing heat of the fire to die down before he would be forced to retreat inside. 

Looking at the sky in the far distance, Bucky took in the myriad of changing colours with time. He couldn't help but think about Steve. What Steve would have done if he would have been there. There was no doubt in Bucky's mind that Steve would have ran inside to look for a pencil and paper with the speed of a cheetah. 

He would have taken down the various shades on the trees and the mountains and the clouds floating above their heads with the monochromatic beauty of grey and created a masterpiece. Bucky smiled, thinking about the concentrated look Steve would have had in his face, brows furrowed as his eyes would have shifted like at a ping pong game between the sky and the paper. He remembered his days in the military camps with his pal, when the newly bulky man still testing his strength would sketch in any free time he got to deal with the stress he felt.

Bucky...missed his childhood friend very much. He didn't realise when his eyes had moistened when his vision grew blurry.

Not that Sam and you weren't few of the greatest friends he had had, but Steve was... something else. Steve Grant Rogers was his brother, truly so. 

Everytime Bucky thought about his pal, his Steve, limitless emotions flew through him, all different for different reasons. One of the most lasting ones though was that gratification. Bucky firmly believed he owed his life to Steve for saving him from the torture he had suffered from the hands of HYDRA. Not once, but twice, in Austria and in D.C., when that fool had nearly died instead of fighting him. Steve had also saved him from the governments of the entire freaking world, trusted in him when nobody else did. Steve had fought with his friends of the twenty first century, his only family, for him. The Golden Boy of America preferred his name being dragged through the mud and being counted in the ranks of the criminals he put behind the bars over losing Bucky. Though he knew it wasn't just for him, Steve had helped resurrect him and all the others when Thanos had snapped them dead. He didn't know how he could ever repay Steve for all that he had done, for all the sacrifices he had made for Bucky. 

Out of all those plethora of emotions, one of the few which weighted heavily on him was that of regret. For a man who had lived for over a hundred years, Bucky didn't have the chance to do as many things as he would have liked. Maybe it was because he hadn't lived as much as he had survived, but he didn't let that be the base of his excuses. He had meant to do many things right. 

Bucky never thanked his Ma for the man she had raised him to be. He was never there for his sisters when he had promised them he would be. He never properly thanked Steve for saving him time and again. He never thanked Howard for helping Steve save him when he was captured in Austria or for keeping Steve company when he couldn't. He never got to thank Tony for reversing the snap or apologise to him for all that he had done to his parents, Bucky's own friends, while in evil's control.

Bucky had always thought that he would have time; time which he lost partially because he had taken everything for granted, partially because fate had been cruel to him with a vengeance. Life of an Avenger was... unpredictable at the very best. They could be overly cautious, but never fully prepared. Many a times they had to deal with hostage situations or - Bucky still couldn't get used to believing it - alien invasions without a moment's notice. 

Bucky had learnt never to take things for granted the hard way. Now that he thought about it, lady luck had never been on his side for long. Everything even remotely good had been taken from him when he thought he had time to enjoy them and bask in their glory. 

He didn't want it anymore. Bucky didn't want the guilt weighing him down, knowing he could have done something or said something but didn't, because he thought fate would be kind enough to give him some time. 

He didn't want to take chances anymore.  

Glancing down, Bucky saw you napping peacefully on his shoulders, really making him a human pillow. Hot puffs of air fell on his neck through your open lips. His heart fluttered in his chest, mentally cooing at how adorable you looked.

He couldn't help but think back to the time he had first met you as himself. His metal arm was trapped in a hydraulic press in some abandoned factory. Both Sam and you had pure disbelief on your faces when Steve trusted Bucky enough to believe his every word...just because he could recall Sarah and how Steve wore his shoes. But then you had gotten to know each other, slowly but surely.

It hadn't been all rainbows and sunshine. The trio of you had had your asses kicked by the spider kid, a literal teenager. You and Sam had been imprisoned in the Raft and had to live a couple years as criminals because you had helped Steve in rescuing him. After Thanos happened, Steve had decided to go on his own journey, leaving Bucky with those who didn't really know him and neither did he know them.

But efforts were made on both the sides. You and Sam had welcomed him into the Avengers like your own. Sure he had been more open and closer to Sam first, but that hadn't deterred from trying to befriend him. 

Much like Sam, you had helped him through his night terrors. Been awake with him at odd hours of the night because he couldn't sleep. Helped him discover himself again. Listened to him when he needed an out without any judgement, or talked for the two of you when he wanted to communicate but couldn't. Trusted in him when he didn't even trust himself. Helped him believe in himself and forgive himself. You had helped him recover.

You were with him at the darkest times to guide him to the light, and celebrated with him when he did find his light. There were relapses, but you were with him to help him get back on track. 

You had trusted him enough to let him see your vulnerable spots, to confide in him, to let him take care of you, to let him help you just like you had helped him. You had trusted him enough to let him see you, the real you. 

But most important of all, you had been a friend before anything else. A friend whom he had needed had needed more than anything else.

Feelings had developed along the way, which he was glad for being reciprocated on both sides. The journey to where you and him were now had been a long one. It had never been easy, but it hadn't affected either of you. 

Bucky never wanted to lose you. He couldn't ever possibly lose you. You meant too much to him. He also knew he couldn't dare to think he'd have much time before something akin to Thanos happened again. Being an Avenger guaranteed that nothing was ever guaranteed. Most of all time, in Bucky's case at least.

Looking at you, Bucky realised he couldn't not let you know how he truly felt. No matter what your decision might be afterwards, he had to let you know. He wanted to be his own man, making his own decisions. And he wanted to love you, so goddamn much, if you allowed him.  His heart beat faster in realisation when he realised what that would mean. It made him nervous, but he was ready.

The risque wasn't lost on him. He was very well aware that you could run away in the opposite direction, thinking he was going too fast. You could break it off and your friendship wouldn't be the same again. If you wouldn't want to speak to him again, you would respect your wishes.

But if there was even the slightest chance that you felt the same, he needed to do it. Because the bliss of having you, being with you and loving you was worth every risk in the world.

The divider is made by @writeyourmindaway​

Chapter 9 

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[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 31

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Lan QiRen’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week oh god it’s only gonna get worse

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30

The Lan Sect camp is small. It is also a bit pitiful, with a distinct lack of tents, bedrolls, or any other necessary accommodations.

Still, Wei Ying is impressed by their diligence. Long before he is aware that there is a camp in the vicinity, a lookout has already spotted them and signaled their approach. The location had not been carelessly chosen either. The sight lines to the north, east, and south are clear, and to the west, a rugged hill rises sharply, hiding the camp from the Immortal Mountain watchtowers.  

He does not have to ask how the site for the camp was chosen. He is already beginning to suspect that Lan QiRen has many more layers than he lets on, aside from the unexpected sense of humor.

Three other Nie Sect disciples have caught up with them on the outskirts of YiLing, providing a small escort. According to Nie XuanYu, another dozen are following a distance behind, ensuring that the Emperor’s presence remains a secret. Lan Zhan is walking by his side, his posture dignified and reserved. He does not speak.  

Despite clearly intending to remain out of sight, the Lan Sect disciples have not gone as far as to trade in their white uniforms for something a little less obtrusive. Among them, it is easy to pick out Nie MingJue’s dark shape, which makes the figure next to him that of Lan XiChen. The two people across from them are unfamiliar. He takes one of them for a Lan Sect disciple precisely due to the color of robes, the white layers glowing brightly in the darkness. It is not until the figure turns, displaying an equally white blindfold, that Wei Ying stumbles a step.

“Uncle?”

The answering grin, visible even in the gloom, propels him forward.

“Uncle!”

Forgetting he is no longer twelve years old, he crosses the last bit of distance at a run, and nearly knocks Xiao XingChen over with his exuberance. XingChen laughs, his grip as tight as Wei Ying’s.

Oh, but when had uncle become so small?

Nearly four years have passed since their last parting. Is it possible that Wei Ying had grown so much, that he no longer has to lift his gaze to see XingChen smile? Unexpectedly, he feels his eyes prickle, and rubs his face with both hands, covering the sudden wistfulness with a laugh. He is happy to see that uncle’s faithful shadow had not grown smaller, still towering over them both.

The man attempts to bow, and Wei Ying latches on to his forearms, keeping him upright.

“Song Lan. Did I not say my uncles should never bow to me?”

A ripple of shock travels through the surrounding Lan disciples. The Empress’ brother is conspicuous enough, his sword and blindfold easily giving him away, but the man at his side had been taken for a simple bodyguard. To hear the Emperor address him as family raises more than one speculative whisper.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Song Lan says, “I had forgotten.”

“Ah, ah, now I am Your Majesty, but the last time you were at the Immortal Mountain, you called me a rotten little troublemaker. You threatened to kick my royal backside off the rooftop if I insisted on staying out past midnight. Do you remember that?”

The politely respectful expression on Song Lan’s face shifts into fond exasperation, “I am afraid my memory is especially poor lately, Your Majesty.”

Before he could think of a way to respond, Wei Ying suddenly realizes that Lan Zhan’s presence, which had been steady at his side since YiLing, is no longer there.

He turns to find him standing a few steps back with Lan XiChen and Nie MingJue, obviously attempting to remain invisible.

“Lan Zhan!”

Although he thinks he has never seen Lan Zhan look this alarmed, not even when he had mistaken Wei Ying for an assassin, he grabs the edge of the voluminous sleeve anyway, excited to introduce the man he means to marry.

“Come meet my uncle.”

Lan Zhan allows himself to be tugged forward, and offers a formal greeting, his posture rigid, his face unreadable.

Uncle is all gentle politeness, admitting that he had been the one to send the Lan Sect disciples into YiLing, unaware that his request had gone directly against the Sect Leader’s orders. He expresses regret for having placed them at risk, and from Lan XiChen’s expression, Wei Ying surmises that uncle had already apologized once.

XingChen inquires after a few of the Lan Sect members he had met on his travels, mentions that he dearly misses the excellent cuisine at CaiYi town, and compliments the Lan Sect efforts in LianYi during the drought.

In short, uncle is trying, to the best of his ability, to put Lan Zhan at ease. But although Lan Zhan is unfailingly courteous in return, his palpable discomfort does not wane.

Suddenly, Wei Ying feels guilty.

It occurs to him that he has done nothing but pull and push Lan Zhan in every possible direction for the past five days. Less than an hour ago, he had done a terrible job of confessing how he feels, managing to not give voice to any of his carefully planned out, honorable intentions. His fumbling is unlikely to have produced anything other than frustration and confusion, to which now, Lan Zhan must add a dose of casual banter with the Shan Empire’s notorious Rogue Prince.

The moment XingChen runs out of pleasantries, Wei Ying tugs on Lan Zhan’s sleeve again, but gently this time, trying to convey an apology, “Lan Zhan, we should go sit by the fire. The night is getting cold. Uncle, come sit down and tell me what brings you to YiLing.”

“Your Majesty,” Nie MingJue cuts in, “it is quite late. If you mean to enter by the Five Phoenix Gate instead of sneaking in the same way we had snuck out, I am afraid that delaying your return will only work to our disadvantage. We should start back the moment the rest of the Nie Sect arrives from YiLing.”

Wei Ying cringes. He had not even considered the mechanics of returning with the rest of the Lan Sect disciples, let alone with uncle in tow. Uncle Jiang will be upset, and Madam Yu-- he shudders. Best to not think of unpleasant things until they are upon him.

“Very well, please instruct the Lan Sect to break camp. Uncle, will you come with us?”

XingChen turns to Song Lan, and Wei Ying thinks that even after all these years, it is still eerie to see, how they seem to share a look of understanding.

“We are hunting,” XingChen says, “so our stay must be short.”

Wei Ying waves his hand, “I knew that much without being told. You are terrible uncles, both of you. I know you would not have come all the way to YiLing just for my birthday.”

The fond exasperation on their faces is now identical.  

“Tell us what you are hunting,” Wei Ying grins, “Perhaps we can help.”

“Not what,” XingChen says, “but who.”

“A person?” Wei Ying exclaims in surprise, “an ordinary person?”

“There is nothing ordinary about this person,” Song Lan says, his expression turning hard, “So far, over three hundred people have been slaughtered by him. He has obliterated four villages and two small clans, leaving no one behind.”

Wei Ying feels a chill, “Who is he?”

“We do not know,” XingChen says, his calm edged with frustration, “He leaves no witnesses. One merchant, who had happened upon a village not long after everyone in it had been killed, spoke of seeing a young man, a boy, still alive. He could have been a lone survivor, or he could have been the perpetrator, but he was long gone by the time we arrived. So far, we have been following the trail of dead bodies across the Empire, but know little more than we did months ago.”

“You think he is here,” Lan Zhan asks, his discomfort seemingly forgotten, “In YiLing?”

“The trail had gone cold in LanLing,” Song Lan says, “but there was an incident between LanLing and YiLing, a group of bodies discovered in an old barn. The method by which they were killed was similar enough to bring us here.”

“I do not understand,” Wei Ying says slowly, “There are appropriate channels in place to deal with ordinary murders, even if they are beyond gruesome. What are you not telling me?”

Song Lan glances at XingChen again, but this time, XingChen ignores him, the twist of his mouth tight and unhappy.

“You know why the murders are occurring,” Lan Zhan says coldly, “There is a purpose to them.”

Lan Zhan’s expression is hard and determined, as if he means to shake them both until the information they are holding back flows forth. He looks grim, his spine straight, his fingers tightly wrapped around the sword. He looks dangerous. He looks regal.

Wei Ying feels his face tingle. There is an uncomfortable coil of heat building in his stomach at the sight, and he bites his tongue, hoping the flash of pain will stop the heat from spreading.

“Resentful energy,” Song Lan says.

XingChen looks even more unhappy now, but he does not make a move to stop Song Lan from speaking.

“We think he has found a way to harvest and store resentful energy.”

“Impossible,” Lan Zhan breathes, “even YanLing DaoRen himself could not--“ he cuts off abruptly, mouth snapping shut.

Wei Ying is still reeling from the information, not quite able to come up with the right words. But he immediately understands why Lan Zhan has fallen silent. YanLing DaoRen could not store resentful energy, but his failed attempts are the stuff of nightmares. Raving mad, he had threatened to shift rivers and level mountains once his experiments were complete. But in the end, the only place he had ever been able to store resentful energy was his own fragile human shell, which had rotted from inside out, unable to contain the power he craved.

Wei Ying clears his throat, “How can you be sure he has found a way to store it? Perhaps he is only following in YanLing DaoRen’s footsteps.”

Song Lan shakes his head, “Over three hundred people gruesomely slaughtered by him alone? Taking in that much resentful energy would have driven him mad. He could not have passed all this time unnoticed. The signs of his deterioration would be obvious to anyone who crosses his path. No,” he shakes his head, “I am afraid we must assume that he has succeeded where YanLing DaoRen has failed.”

“The greatest threat since YanLing DaoRen,” Lan Zhan says softly, “and you did not inform anyone. You did not send a word of warning to the Emperor.”

His voice is soft, but the grip on his sword is now so tight, that Wei Ying can see his fingers turning white from strain. He has seen Lan Zhan angry before, but never like this. This fury is cold, and devastating, and magnificent to behold.  

“Did it not occur to you,” Lan Zhan says, “that he is heading towards YiLing for a reason? That the Emperor’s birthday festival in YiLing is precisely the sort of chaos in which he can be easily concealed? That hundreds of visitors are entering and exiting the Immortal Mountain City each day, being screened by ordinary guards who would never sense an object filled with resentful energy? Did it not occur to you that the Emperor is the most likely target of this creature, and that he should be warned?”

“WangJi,” XiChen’s voice comes from behind them, a gentle warning.

He moves to stand by Lan Zhan’s shoulder, a calming presence next to Lan Zhan’s cold fury.

“Please forgive my brother,” XiChen says, “he spoke in haste. He means no disrespect.”

Lan Zhan’s expression clearly states that he may have spoken in haste, but that the disrespect was meant and well deserved.

Wei Ying does not want Lan Zhan upset with uncle. He does not want Song Lan angry with Lan Zhan for disrespecting uncle. But he can do absolutely nothing about either of those things, because his mind is utterly preoccupied by the fact that Lan Zhan is dangerous, and beautiful, and incensed on his behalf.

Lan Zhan is afraid that this madman means to hurt Wei Ying. Lan Zhan is worried about him. Lan Zhan cares about him. Lan Zhan cares about him.

He feels his mouth trying to stretch into a smile, and curses himself six times over. Everyone around him is tense enough to draw swords, he should not be grinning like an idiot.

Lan Zhan cares about him!

“Your Majesty.”

XiChen is looking at him. There is something uncomfortably knowing in his gaze.

Wei Ying clears his throat, then does it again. He is afraid his voice will come out hoarse and obviously besotted.

“Lan Zhan is right,” he says, “I may be well protected, but every Sect Leader and Young Master in the Empire is currently residing at the Immortal Mountain. They may all be at risk. Why would you not send word?”

Song Lan has moved closer to XingChen, as if he means to protect him from Lan Zhan’s fierce gaze. He opens his mouth to speak, but XingChen silences him with a touch to the elbow.

“I believe the Young Master is correct,” XingChen sighs, “We were wrong to conceal it for so long. It has been a frequent subject of discord between us, this decision. But Song Lan does not understand the power dynamics at court. He does not understand the precarious balance involved in ruling all the Sects in the cultivation world. YanLing DaoRen’s name still invokes fear and mistrust. I was afraid-- I was afraid that the truth would sow panic. Worse, that it may give some of the Sects an opportunity they have long sought, to remove YanLing DaoRen’s bloodline from the seat of power, and take the throne for themselves.”

“We intended to catch him long before now,” Song Lan says roughly, “We could only be certain that he is heading in the direction of YiLing on the second day of the festival. The trail was days old by then.”

“I am sorry to have placed the Lan disciples at risk,” XingChen says softly, “but once we learned that you were wandering around YiLing on your own, unprotected, we used whatever means we had at our disposal.”

“I was not unprotected,” Wei Ying says absently, “Lan Zhan was with me.”

He spends a few moments preoccupied with the idea that the incidents at the Immortal Mountain and the man uncle is hunting must somehow be connected. But no matter how he turns the events over, he cannot see that they have anything in common. A man who had slaughtered over three hundred people in order to collect the resentful energy from their corpses does not seem like someone who would go through the trouble of coating Lan Zhan’s teacup with poison.

Still thinking so, he realizes that everyone else has fallen silent. Song Lan is frowning at Lan Zhan. Xiao XingChen is smiling softly, his head turned in the direction of the camp, as if privy to something amusing that only he can hear. XiChen is smiling softly too, his eyes trained in the opposite direction.

Lan Zhan is not smiling. He is staring at Wei Ying, his ears red, his expression somehow lost, as if Wei Ying had done something preposterous again.

Wei Ying is pretty sure he has not done anything to merit that expression.

“Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan shakes his head and looks away. Behind them, Nie MingJue clears his throat.

“Your Majesty, I do not mean to interrupt, but the Nie Sect is all accounted for, and the Lan Sect is ready as well. We should head back.”

Wei Ying nods. During all the fascinating revelations, he has managed to forget what waits for him at the Immortal Mountain.

He thinks he would rather face a mass-murdering madman than Madam Yu.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #ficlet #m #wwx emperor au #long chapter #could not be cut in half #lan qiren's week is about to get so much worse #XIAO XINGCHEN IN THIS CHAPTER #i love my precious son #anyway #trying to get back into gear of writing on regular basis but #just when i think i'm back to normal i end up taking a catnap at the kitchen table #and burning my eggs #*sigh* #aLSO #i am taking LIBERTIES #w the demonic cultivation #bc i have to #if i was better at planing ahead i wouldn't have to #but alas