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pastshadows · 2 months

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Shadows of the Past

Chapter 10: Eclipsing Shadows

Summary: Astarion remained a spawn after ending the reign of Cazador with your help. After defeating the Netherbrain, you and Astarion stay together, moving forward with your lives. You reside in a small house in the city. One night, after an awkward and concerning interaction with him, he disappears without a trace.

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.6K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

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Please note:

There are mentions of Astarion's trauma in this chapter.

Mr. Blackwell’s green eyes look like murky poison puddles that drip with corrosive contempt. His burgundy garb is wrinkled, creased and stained, clearly unchanged for some time. Whatever remains of his sparse, dingy-grey hair is slick with grease, dishevelled, and unkempt. He’s in a plight of disrepair not often seen in the noble class, eliciting wide-eyed stares and snickers from the crowd in the ballroom.

Guards are warily observing the onset of the altercation with avid attention. Their hands instinctively drift and sit precariously on the hilts of their weapons. You can hear the clinking of metal amour as they inch closer, ready to spring into action. From what you know of Mr. Blackwell, he is well-connected and an influential figure in Waterdeep. If you allow the quarrel to escalate, the guards will likely take heed of his requests and pay little attention to yours. You must tread carefully, a daunting prospect as your palms heat and your temper bubbles under your skin like an overboiling cauldron.

Your eyes scan the mob roving through the ballroom, subtly looking for Astarion. Aldous spoke to his father about the pale Elf with red eyes. You cannot allow Mr. Blackwell to gleam a view of Astarion. Quick and practiced, you take inventory of all possible exits and escapes while you count the guards.

Your neglect to answer him only irritates Mr. Blackwell further, and he crams himself into your line of sight. He is not a small man and towers over you. “Did you hear me, girl?” He squalls, gruff and strident. His hands slam into the wall beside your head with an ear-splitting boom as he barricades you in. “What have you done with my son, you fucking miscreant!”

Girl? Miscreant?! Why did I tell Astarion that murder was off the table?

His fetid breath feathers over your face. An inhuman, snake-like grin splits your lips as your adrenaline spikes. You’ve rivalled devils in the Hells, eradicated a vampire lord, euthanized countless fiends, and rained death down on hordes of shadow-cursed creatures. You will not be intimidated by the likes of this cretin.

“Mr. Blackwell,” you purr unenthusiastically, straightening your back, squaring your shoulders, and bedecking your face with a saintly visage. “Welcome home. It’s good to see you. What’s this about your son? Is Aldous missing?”

“Don’t play stupid, sorceress.” Mr. Blackwell roars. His face reddens further as he descends deeper into his fit of rage. Blue-hued veins pop from his forehead and neck as he snarls in your face with bared teeth. Your palms heat until blisteringly hot, and you resist the urge to shove him. “I know it was you. Where is he? Where is my boy?!”

Dead, and rightfully so.

The guards are getting antsy, shuffling from foot to foot, and the other patrons gape at the dispute before them. A crowd of onlookers is starting to form behind Mr. Blackwell. They stare and laugh with gleeful tittering as the show plays out. Your heart crashes against your sternum, playing your ribs like a drum. Your blood is broiling in your veins, and your fingers twitch with the urge to incinerate the threat.

Where in the Hells is Astarion? He would have heard this as soon as it started. You’re surprised and infinitely relieved that a dagger has not skewered Mr. Blackwell yet, but his absence is starting to make you uneasy. Have the guards already apprehended him? Did Mr. Blackwell recognize and have him arrested? Astarion would not go quietly, and you haven’t heard or seen any evidence of a struggle elsewhere. Astarion is far from stupid. He may know that his presence will only magnify the issue, but it’s unlikely to stop him from stepping in. You grumble under your breath at the thought. No matter what he’s seen you do or how powerful you are, Astarion protects you as if you’re a fragile wildflower, but you are not fragile like a flower; you’re fragile like an unstable explosive.

I protect him with the same ferocity, and I will never stop. Perhaps we are even.

You lean close to Mr. Blackwell, almost nose to nose, and growl under your breath, “You would do well to get out of my face lest I introduce you to the fire of my ancestors.”

Mr. Blackwell gnashes his teeth, narrowing his eyes as his forehead pinches, “You dare to threaten me?!”

Oh, yes. I dare.

Your temper is getting away with you. A hand clasps Mr. Blackwell’s shoulder, and you almost lurch forward, preparing for the fight that is sure to ensue, until you see Gale, wearing an elegant and regal mauve suit with one arm behind his back. You’ve never been so damn relieved not to see Astarion.

Gale’s face is composed with a cordial smile, and he laughs kindly as if nothing is amiss. You see the pink current of the Weave wash over Mr. Blackwell and recognize Charm Person as Gale casts imperceptibly with naught but a murmur.

“Of course not, Mr. Blackwell,” Gale assures in a charitable tenor. “Such a thing would be crass. Isn’t that right, my friend?” Gale prompts you. Gale is skilled, but his charisma is not nearly as honed as yours, and you recognize the petition for assistance charming the man.

Cloaking your voice in an alluring baritone, you put your silver tongue to work, “Quite right, Gale. I would never dare utter such ill-portent to our very good friend here.”

Mr. Blackwell’s eyes glass over as the spell and your charm ensnare him, dousing his rage like water to flame. Mr. Blackwell leans back, tottering on his legs, and mumbles through numb lips, “Of course not. I must have been mistaken. Please, forgive the outburst.”

“All is forgiven,” you shrug while revelling in the influence you have over feeble minds and continue your coercion. “Mr. Blackwell was just telling me he was on his way home. He is ever so weary from his travels. We should not retain him, Gale.”

“Yes.” Mr. Blackwell stammers, blinking hard as your suggestion plants and grows roots. “Yes, I was just about to retire for the night.”

Gale nods curtly to Mr. Blackwell while offering you his arm, “Get some rest. We should be going as well. It’s getting quite late. Dawn is almost upon us, after all.”

Taking Gale’s offered arm, he leads you away from the onlookers ogling you. The guards have relaxed as tensions decrease, but they still watch you with a keen eye. Gale’s warning starts to sink in.

Dawn? Fuck! Where is Astarion? He must get home.

Your grip slips from Gale, but he catches it and pats your arm, “Keep calm. Your panic will only further alarm the guards, and I fear they will not be as easily swayed as Mr. Blackwell. We are quite a team, but we cannot charm them all without someone taking notice. Astarion is waiting for us outside, just beyond the grounds.”

“Astarion is outside?” You query with an arched brow.

Gale nods, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with people who take notice of him. Once he’s managed to excuse himself from the tedious small talk, he leans close. “I sought him out as soon as I arrived. He is ever so antagonistic and easily provoked when it comes to you. The man would brave the sun if he thought you were in danger. It was considerably difficult to convince him it was best to leave it to me. I apologize I did not come to your aid first. I know you have more sense than he and would a keep cool-head. When I found him, the idiot had already drawn his damn weapons. Always violence first with him, isn’t it?”

You swallow hard and keep your mouth firmly shut. Gale knows you, but perhaps not as well as he thinks. You would have incinerated that man as soon as he stuck his face in yours, guards and onlookers be damned. You do not take life unnecessarily, but you take it without guilt when there is a threat to your friends. Mr. Blackwell is a danger to Astarion, and you can be impetuous when it comes to him.

“Thank you, Gale.” You breathe a long sigh as relief sates your nerves. “How did you know?”

“Mr. Blackwell came to the manor looking for you. I tried to appease him, but I am neither as intimidating nor convincing as you are, and he stormed off before I could get more than a word or two in. I knew he would go scouring the parties for Aldous and more than likely come across you.” Gale chuckles, “I’ve been through several of these celebrations tonight. I should have known to go to the most extravagant one first.”

“Mr. Blackwell will be back.” You point out, mouth twisting into a grimace as your mind tries to piece together some semblance of a plan. “We have not heard the last of this.”

“No,” Gale murmurs. “We most definitely have not. It is my hope that he doesn’t realize I charmed him tonight. If he does, it will only compound his fervour. We will have to tread these waters carefully. If this reaches the Masked Lords of Waterdeep…” Gale trails off with a sullen shake of his head, “May the dice roll in our favour.”

Your eyes bulge. You don’t know much about the government of Waterdeep, but everyone has heard of the masked lords. A ruling council whose identities were well hidden and carefully guarded.

“Could he really do that? Take it to that height?” You wheeze breathlessly as an invisible hand grips your lungs and clenches, “The Lords of Waterdeep surely wouldn’t concern themselves with such a trivial matter of a missing boy. Would they?”

Gale shrugs, “I wish I could say. Mr. Blackwell is exceptionally renowned. It’s plausible that he will go to great lengths, and I’m unsure how far his reach extends. I will do what I can to protect you and Astarion, but even my influence has limits.”

The brisk air bristles against your skin, giving you goosebumps or perhaps that’s due to Gale’s mention of the lords, as you and Gale continue your hastened retreat. Gale takes long strides, making you trot beside him to keep pace since you are considerably shorter than he. What is with men and walking as fast as they can? You would ask Gale to slow down, but you’re in a hurry to get away. The rapid click, click, click of your heels on the stone makes you uneasy, as it sounds like a clock counting down your final moments.

There’s an eerie reticence in the courtyard this evening, as silent as the sheeted dead, as if the city beyond these stone walls has ceased to exist. A ghostly wind causes your modest steel-silver dress to flutter around your knees. The scent of incoming rain hangs thick in the air while drab clouds swarm the sky as a storm coming off the ocean makes landfall, and the weather fronts interact.

Magic glows in your eyes and fingertips as you practice the various spells in your repertoire. Your fingers are a spectacular florid ballet, the Weave tiptoeing over the pads as you rehearse the movements for Sunbeam, Chain Lightning, Cloudkill, and Blight and recite the incantations in your mind like a sermon without ultimately casting as you drill yourself. Weaving the intricate web of the Weave is ingrained in your soul, and this is not an exercise you need to practice, but the recent events and Gale’s mention of the Masked Lords have caused anxiety to breed in your muscles. You need to make sure you’re ready for war. You’re an incredibly gifted sorceress with the ferocity of your draconic ancestors dwelling in your blood. You can be death incarnate, and you will be if it comes to it. You will raze this damn city to the ground if it means to harm Astarion. No one will hurt him again if your lungs still draw breath.

You’re glowing so brightly, the Weave shimmering around you like an aurora, that you don’t notice that day has fallen victim to night when Astarion breezes into the courtyard. He looks at you, brandishes his dagger with a finesse that never fails to impress and descends into a defensive stance. He observes the surroundings with an acute eye and gives you a questioning look after he’s assessed there’s no danger.

With a quick step you learned from him, you pivot and toss a very weak Fire Bolt straight toward him. Astarion whirls, his propensity for dexterity evident in his movement, avoiding the spell.

“Impressive agility. I’m glad I taught you something at least, but what in the Hells was that for?” He smirks with a tsk and clicks his tongue. “At least, I ask before I bite. I am civil - unlike you.”

“Just making sure you’re not getting sloppy,” you giggle with a virtuous shrug.

“If that would have hit me, I would have deserved it,” he chuckles and glowers at you with an amused grin. “That was far too slow and weak. I did not even feel the heat from it. You can do infinitely better than that. Even I can cast that cantrip. Come on, darling. If you’re going to spar with me, you could at least give me the decency of a challenge.”

“A challenge, hm?” You smirk wickedly. Sparring with him isn’t a new activity. When you lived with him, you two would often spar long into the night until you were both sweating and tired. He craves thrill and danger as much as you, and you keep each other on your toes. “As you wish.”

Astarion’s rapscallion smile and the way he bends lightly at the knees indicate that he welcomes this exchange. The Weave brightens around you, and you cast Fire Bolt repeatedly in quick succession with a little more power and speed behind it with lithe steps. Astarion swings his body, nimbly ducking, dodging and avoiding everything you throw at him as he advances toward your position until he’s in front of you and takes you into his arms while he laughs.

“You caught me once. It tickled.” He glances toward a small burn mark on his shirt, “If anyone has gotten sloppy, it’s you.”

“What you call sloppy, I call careful casting,” you giggle.

“Sloppy,” he corrects, narrowing those scarlet eyes glinting vibrantly with excitement and adrenaline. “You’re already a veritable sovereign when it comes to magic. How about we work on expanding your skillset?” He twirls a dagger at his side without so much as looking at it, catches the blade between his fingers, and settles the hilt in your hand with a devious grin. Astarion takes a few steps backward and motions you forward, “Come on. Attack me.”

You stare at the dagger, your fingers sliding over the metal hilt, “You want me to come at you with a knife? Have you gone completely mad? There are training dummies right there.”

“Oh yes, those will surely help you.” Astarion rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue with audible disapproval of your reluctance. “I am positive your attacker will stand stationary for you so you can stab them - if you ask nicely enough. You will learn nothing from those.”

It’s unlikely that you’ll hurt him. Hells, if you did somehow manage to so much as nick him, Astarion would probably be proud of you, but you stare at the shiny steel with trepidation, “What if I cut you?”

Astarion’s head tilts back, and he laughs loudly, “Oh, you are adorable. Thank you for your concern, but I assure you, I will be fine. You’re more likely to hurt yourself, and if you somehow do cut me, what does it matter? It’s not like you can kill me further.” He giggles, “Now, remember your footwork and keep the sharp pointy end directed toward me and not yourself, love.”

Well, multiclassing never hurts.

Slipping off your sandals, you recall everything he’s ever taught you or tried to, at least. Bending your knees and rolling your weight into your heels for balance, you lunge toward him. You and he spar while he deflects your attacks with an ease that vexes you, and he barks various instructions - straighten your back, keep your weight centred, don’t lean forward, and use your momentum until your heart beats hard, a prisoner in a cage constructed of bone. Exhausted, you sit on the ground, gulping down ragged breaths.

Astarion crosses his arms with a chuckle, “Done, are you? Well, I’ve certainly seen worse - from a babe. Do not go getting into any knife fights without me. You will surely get yourself run through.”

“Astarion,” you throw your head backward exaggeratedly with the back of your hand against your forehead, “you wound me. I think I could rival you with one or two more lessons.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “One or two centuries of lessons, perhaps. You stick to magic. I will happily do any required stabbing.”

The man doesn’t need to breathe, and you know it, but he’s not even sweating. You frown at him while wiping your brow, “Could you please pretend to be winded at least?”

“Apologies. Where are my manners?” Astarion drops to his knees and gives you a gentle shove, sending you sprawling to your back. Crawling over you, he mimics your heavy breathing with a smug smirk, “Better?”

Rolling your eyes, you stick your tongue out at him frivolously, “Kiss me, you fool.”

“Blood running a little hot, sweetheart?” He purrs sensuously, pressing his body into you, grabbing your thigh and guiding it around his waist, “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Astarion’s lips mould to yours, cool silk against your heated pout and as delightful to the senses as plunging into cool water on an arid day. His tongue traces your lower lip, enticing your mouth to part. His taste is rich and hypnotic, a firewater of desire and good Gods, it’s intoxicating. His fingers trail up the delicate skin of your upper thigh with firm pressure, leaving blazing trails of icy fire, coalescing between your legs and making you throb. Bolts of electricity amble up your spine in a slow progression, making your body shiver awkwardly as bumps rise over your skin.

Astarion wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you to your feet, tugging your dress back into place, and you give him a quizzical look.

“Gale has returned,” Astarion says, smoothing your hair down. “That man has the worst timing. Also, a bath. You smell.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you groan at his candidness. With a gentle shove, you grumble under your breath and stalk away from him to your room.

There’s a chill in the air that sinks its teeth into even his already frosty skin. Winter is drawing near. The trees have shed their leaves, preparing for dormancy, and the ground is stiff beneath his boots. He’s tired and filthy, spending much of his days lately in caves or held up in shabby barns or abandoned shacks during the day as he continues to run from the only love he has ever known. He has been lucky so far. He can often make it to the next godforsaken hovel to find shelter if he travels fast enough through the night, but as he progresses, the little towns are growing further apart. One of these days, he may not be able to find shelter before dawn, and the sun will consume him - a rather painful demise for a vampire.

Before Astarion enters the ramshackle tavern in this puny rural town in the middle of nowhere, he casts his eyes skyward and looks at the silvery moon as he does every night. If nothing else, he can take comfort in the fact that she is somewhere, under the same stars, and maybe, just maybe, she is looking at the moon, too.

The tavern is as destitute as the rest of this town, with low ceilings and lit by only a few oil lamps, giving it a gloomy atmosphere. It’s quiet. No minstrel or bard plays music here, and the only sounds that can be heard are the dragging of flagons across the rough tabletops and the grotesque gulps and burps of the few downtrodden labourers and drunks. It smells of mildew, fetid spirits and vomit. He crinkles his nose. He usually mimics breathing out of habit in public, but for this place, he will make an exception.

The floor is absurdly tacky, and even he can’t help the sound his boots make as they peel off it. He orders a pint and sits in a rickety chair that wobbles underneath him. Calling the ale rotten would be an understatement. He’s never tasted anything quite so vile in all his two centuries, and his diet once consisted of dead, putrid rats. It’s hard to say which is worse.

A pair of ne’er-do-wells attempted to extort some coin out of him by betting they could juggle more daggers than he. Fools. Even if blind drunk, his dexterity would be vastly superior to theirs. They could scarcely juggle two - child’s play for him. They left quickly with superficial lacerations to their fingers and hands. He wishes she had been here to witness this. They would have had a good laugh. She always loved watching him.

Even though the ale is terrible, the little table is starting to fill with emptied flagons. Tonight, every iota of him aches loudly in the silence of her absence. He does not need to trance, not since the tadpole no longer wriggles in his skull, but he will, if only so he can fall into a memory where they are sure to meet.

His vision is blurred, and his mind thinks of nothing but her. What would she be doing right now? Reading by the fire and sipping wine? Trying to mend her clothes and doing a terrible job now that he is no longer there to do it for her? Sleeping in their bed? Would she be alone, or would Halsin or Gale have come to console her? With him out of the picture, perhaps she could find happiness with one of them. The thought makes his very bones throb, and his fingers wrack through his hair, unsettled by the notion of any but him with her in their bed.

Astarion empties the next flagon and frowns while he grinds it across the table, clinking it against its fallen brethren.

Gale would be the most likely. Gale was a powerful wizard, but he had always been fascinated by her innate authority over the Weave. Where Gale had to read books, scrolls, practice and study spells, she could simply cast them reflexively with little effort. Early in their adventure, Gale had tried to beguile her, boasting his control of the Weave with a demonstration. Astarion watched with curiosity to see if she would reciprocate the obvious flirtation. She kept a straight face, smiling politely and copying as instructed until the foray was completed. She walked away with her arms crossed and a hard roll of her eyes in exasperation while Gale watched her all dew-eyed. It made him snicker at the time.

Despite his prowess, wealth and renown, Gale would probably bore her into an early grave. She craved excitement, risk, Hells, even danger. She needed someone not afraid to get into a little, or a lot, of trouble. She would not be satisfied sitting idle in a library for the rest of her days. She loves fiercely and deserves to be loved fiercely in return with untamed, unbridled passion.

Hot baths. Animals. Fresh fruit. Red roses. Long walks through moonlight forests at night. All the things she loves flit through his mind.

Her face appears in his blurry vision, laughing as she runs through the forest with him hot on her heels. Her modest pastel green dress waves in the wind. She casts Misty Step and disappears from his view. She is not quiet in the forest and knows it, but she pops out from behind the large trunk of a tree and yells, “Boo!” He pretends to be startled, but she doesn’t believe his facade and dissolves into adorable giggles.

She strolls up to him, smiling brightly, still laughing, and the stars themselves descend from the heavens and twinkle in her eyes. Her voice, majestic like a siren’s song, fills his ears as she says, “You’re an adorable idiot. I love you, Astarion.”

He smiles, blinks, and the memory dissipates. He tries to hold onto it, but it withdraws despite his efforts to keep her with him.

A woman’s voice catches his attention, “Stop, please. I said no.”

In Astarion’s drunken daze, he almost hears her voice, but it’s a hint too breathy and modulated. He narrows his eyes and tries to peer past the film of inebriation, mucking up his vision and making him see double. A young woman sits at the bar, and a man much older and ragged-looking pets her hair with clumsy fingers, muttering slurred, vulgar innuendos. She tries to push him away from her, but it’s futile. The man stumbles and chortles, taking another noisy sip of his ale, missing his mouth and washing his beard with it.

He cringes with a roll of his eyes. This is not his business. He does not fancy himself a hero, and he is not foolish enough to get caught up in such a quandary. He peers into his empty flagon. A deep, dark well of sorrow gazes back at him from the bottom. He should leave and return to the inn, where he can slip into his trance and be with her until the sun dips below the horizon.

“I said stop!” The woman’s voice rings out higher, making his ears twitch and grating on his nerves. It’s so close to hers that he has trouble reminding himself it’s not. It can’t possibly be because he... he left her.

He looks around the tavern, hoping someone else will step in, but no one even lifts their sagged heads to assess the situation. He leans back in his unsteady chair, and his fingers rap against the table with hard, rhythmic thumps portraying his increasing frustration.

He is no hero.

“No! I said no!”

Is no one going to do anything? Really? He growls, clenching his jaw and grating his teeth. The woman’s voice is just too close to hers. It’s making his fingers twitch over the hilt of his dagger, and his muscles tense.

“No! Please, stop. Help!”

The woman’s shoes drag across the floor, and he’s already out of his chair, stalking toward the commotion with a haunting scowl. He ignores the itch to draw his blade. If she taught him anything, it’s that talking is often all that is necessary, but if all else fails, he has no issue with killing.

He is a little peckish.

He stands beside the woman with his practiced liar’s smile, “My friend, how lovely to see you again. Funny we should meet here of all places.”

The man glowers at him through droopy, glassy eyes, releasing the woman’s arm. The woman simply stares at him, her cheeks tear-streaked and ruddy, unsure of what to do.

Gods, these people are dull. All she must do is play along. He attempts to make his intentions plain, “Allow me to walk you home. We can catch up on the way.”

“That lady is coming home with me.” The man snarls, poking his shoulder with a finger that he can’t even keep straight.

This man would be easy pickings indeed if it came to it.

“No.” Astarion stands tall, squaring his shoulders and layering on his most intimidating intonation, “I will be taking her home. If you try to stop me, I know a thousand ways to gut you before you can so much as blink. Do not tempt me.”

“Ah Hells,” the man snickers after sizing him up and stumbles back, “She’s not worth the trouble. She’s all yours.”

He hoped the man would force his hand, but this is probably for the best. He is looking forward to resting indoors today. It has been many days since he was able to wait out the day in a room with a bed that did not smell like some form of livestock.

The woman turns to him with big, round eyes full of adoration and grabs his arm, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Astarion doesn’t quite know how to react, and he does not like the way she is eyeing him. He pulls his arm out of her grasp, “I’ll walk you home. Let’s go.”

The night feels too silent and still around him as he walks the dim streets. The woman follows on his heels, blabbering and stuttering her praises and gratitude. He doesn’t speak another word to her as he fights his mind. Emotions are stirring in his head. He's unsettled, angry even, and he doesn’t understand why. At least the walk isn’t long in a small place like this.

As soon as the woman opens her door, he turns to walk away.

“Won’t you come in?” Her eyes slink over him, and he feels revulsion. No one but her should be looking at him like that, and it only increases his discomfort further, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it,” he snaps back gruffly.

He keeps walking until he feels the woman’s hand clutch the back of his shirt, her fingernails grazing over his scars. Those old emotions flood him - fear, loathing, disgust, and he whirls with a fanged snarl.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Oh! I-I’m sorry, Astarion.” Her hand recoils from his back, and she jumps away, pressing herself to the headboard with eyes rounded in confusion. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you want me to go?”

Shit.

He let his mind wander off with him, and the memory bled into reality. Blinking hard, he reorients himself. He’s safe in Gale’s manor. He is with her. It was her touching his back - at his request, of course.

He jumps off the bed, flexing his hands as he paces the room. He needs time to get his head straight, but the raw anguish in her eyes is gnawing at him. This is why he left in the first place. He keeps hurting her when the storm sweeps him away in a flash flood, and he’s lost in it.

“I’ll go and give you some time.” She slips into her housecoat, cinching it at her waist and opens the door. Before she closes it, she turns to him, “I’m so sorry, Astarion. If you need space for the night, I understand. I will rest in my room tonight.”

He can’t get his godsdamned mouth to move or his tongue to form words. He stands idly as she closes the door behind her. He listens to her bare feet pad down the hallway at a quick trot and then the click of her door closing. His hands wrack through his hair, fingers curling into it. He knows better than to let his mind drift aimlessly, although the fact that it did roam is an interesting development. He’s used to being able to think of nothing but withstanding the sensation of her hands on his back. He’s improving, albeit slowly.

He laces his hands behind his head, arches his back and stretches his tight chest, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. Astarion closes his eyes and shakes out his arms. He feels panicked and tense. His skin squirms as if snakes are writhing below the surface. Patrolling his bedroom, he tries to mollify his unease, taking deep breaths of air he doesn’t need. The memory has agitated him for some reason that he can’t quite put his finger on.

His ears twitch as they catch suppressed weeping from her room. Fuck, he’s upset her. This was not her fault. It’s been a while since he went and fucked things up like he always does. He leans on the wall and closes his eyes. Did he make a mistake returning? For months, his singular goal was to find her, but now he wonders if this was selfish. He could not stand living without her, but she may have been better without him.

Astarion is sliding down an icy hill made of doubt, and he can’t stop his descent. Has he doomed her to a life sharing his pain? What does he have to offer her other than his unconditional love? The shadows have claimed him once more.

No.

He can’t let himself fall back into old patterns. She can handle his darkness.

The silence of this room without her heartbeat is dark and heavy. She should be here with him. A chill like an electric bolt runs down his spine at the sight of the empty room when he opens his eyes. It reminds him of when he left, a year as nightmarish as the one he spent in that tome, alone and hungry. He aches to hold her.

He takes long strides and taps on her door lightly.

“Are you okay, Astarion?” She sniffles, trying hard to confine the tears, making her eyes shine.

“I’m fine. Come here.” He wraps his arms around her, kissing her forehead and pressing his cheek against her. She hugs him awkwardly, more awkwardly than he hugged her the first time they did this. She keeps her hands off him, arms stiff at her sides. “It’s okay. You can touch me.”

She hesitates before placing her hands on his waist. He kisses her temple, gently grabs her arms and guides them around him, “A proper hug, yes? You can touch my back, love. It’s alright.”

He can feel the warmth of her hands hovering over his back, unsure, but slowly press into him, and she hugs him tightly. He’s surprised to find that it soothes the agitation. The spring coiled around his chest, constricting it, dissipates in her arms. He takes a deep breath to test how good the looseness feels.

“Come back to our room, hm? I will explain what happened.”

“You don’t have to explain,” she murmurs against him.

“I know,” he rubs her back, “but I want to - if you’re willing to hear it, of course.”

“Always.”

They sit on the bed as he describes the memory in as much detail as possible. She stays quiet as she always did, waiting patiently when he must take a moment to collect himself, offering him her hand. When something he recalls upsets him further, she squeezes his fingers, grounding him and encouraging him to take a break - when and if he needs to.

“I don’t know why it agitated me so much. It made me afraid,” he rasps faintly with a shaky breath as his brows pinch together, perplexed. It’s still troubling him. “Her touching my back was not the only reason, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

She nods with a contemplative gaze. Her beautiful doe-eyes blink as she ponders, and the candlelight scintillates in them. She grabs a blanket and pats her lap, “Do you want to put your head in my lap?”

He smiles. She always knows exactly what he needs. Astarion rests his head on her legs, and she covers him with the blanket, making sure his back and scars are entirely cloaked. Tucking it around him, like he tucks her in at night to ensure it doesn’t slip.

Rubbing his arm, she keeps her voice to a solacing whisper, “Do you want to know what I think, or would you rather I just listen?”

She has always been keenly observant and deeply perceptive. Often able to gleam the tiniest subtleties in inflection, tone or body language. It is what makes her a master at persuasion and intimidation. Her insight is as boundless as the cosmos. If anyone can help him shed light on this, it’s her. If he is to heal, he needs to know what provokes these feelings.

“I have gone over it in my mind time and time again,” he sighs. “I cannot figure it out myself. Tell me what you think.”

“Stop me at any point if you no longer wish to hear it,” she urges. “May I hug you closer?”

With the blanket covering his back and scars, he feels protected and secure. He nods, “Yes.”

She curls around him. Her warmth seeps into him, forcing back the gloom. “You said you did not like the way she looked at you. You mentioned it twice. What look did she give you, and what did it remind you of?”

Flashes of the woman’s greedy eyes play out in his mind. She stared at him as if she wanted to devour and lose herself in him. She stared at him like he was her saviour. She stared at him like they used to stare at him before he brought them to Cazador.

Hells.

Will he ever stop being astounded with how clever she is? She’s not telling him what she thinks. She’s bringing his attention to details he skimmed over so he can work it out himself.

“It… it reminded me of the way my victims used to look at me,” his voice quivers and cracks, tears spring to his eyes, rivulets rolling out the corners. Good Gods, his body is trembling as he fights to keep his emotions from giving way. “The bloody dingy tavern, the way she simply trusted me to walk her home, the quiet, dark streets and the ardent lust in her eyes… It all felt like I was back to doing his bidding as if I was the fucking rake again.”

She rescinds her pressure on him slightly. He used to hate being touched when he felt like this, but not anymore, as long as it’s her touching him. He pulls her back around him. His body shakes more violently now as he continues to fight the overwhelming emotions.

“You don’t have to fight, Astarion. Don’t be afraid to break. We all fall.” She soothes him with an almost ethereal voice like an angel whispering, “I’ve got you. For as long as you need. I’ve always got you.”

Sobs wrack his body, tears streaming down his face, and he falls to pieces in her arms. She’s not close enough like this. His body is painfully bare without her skin on his. She is the light that drives the shadows back. She is sunshine. She is his. He shrugs off the blanket with haste. She gasps at his quick movement, and his fingers find the hem of her nightdress.

She stops him with a confused look, “Astarion, what-”

“I don’t need it,” he chokes out, hoarse and urgent. “Not with you. Not anymore. I want to feel you. Will you let me?”

She removes her nightdress and opens her arms with a smile, tears streaming down her face. She wraps her arms around him, limbs cocooning his body, and pulls him securely to her, his bare back against her warm chest, choking away the fear.

With her, he is seen. He is understood. He is safe.

“I love you, Kamena. Ai armiel telere maenen hir.” He speaks to her through sobs in Elven, their mother tongue, meaning “You hold my heart forever.”

“I love you too, Astarion. Ai armiel telere maenen hir,” she chimes with a featherlight kiss to his shoulder.

Safe in her arms, he shatters and breaks.

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I've loved writing since I was a child but have never been confident enough to post anything for others to read. The encouragement I've received has been positively incredible, and it's been helping me through some hard times in my life - sincerely thank you so much! :)

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

We did name Tav in this chapter. I apologize if it's not well received but I think it will make senes going forward. I did try to do it in a natural-ish way.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #astarion x you #astarion x mc #astarion #astarion smut #astarion ancunin #astarion romance #baldurs gate astarion #shadows of the past #astarion x oc #named tav #astarion x named tav

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theblueflower05 · 1 year

Text

You Get Me So High

Drabble in the First Love/Late Spring series

A/N: A little bit of a filler- I just wanted an excuse to fit this little scene into this story. It didn't fit in the last part but I loved it too much to let it go.

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: FLUFF(I know we’re all surprised, but I need a break from the angst) Minors can interact with this one. PG-13 forsure.

Summary: You unearth a gift that you forgot to give your mate. A small peek into You and Neteyam’s slow mornings. Domestic bliss and herbal tea flavored kisses. Neteyam x Reader

If you want to catch up on how we got here, here's the Series Masterlist

Previous<: Bottom of the Deep Blue Sea

The morning eclipse washes over Awa’atlu, drenching it in the striking colors of the peaking sun. The sea glitters, awake before the village. Never ceasing its constant, rhythmic movement even as the people still lay dormant, tucked in tight with their loved ones.

Your status in the clan and the duties that came with it had always forced you into being an early riser, though there is nothing you loved more than digging yourself deep into your bed and slumbering for as long as possible.

You loved being comfy, feeling safe. Got stuck in behind your eyelids, in that hazy peace that only moments before the dawn could bring. Many times Ronal had dragged you from the family Mauri, huffing about the late hour and fretting with your unruly hair.

You don't wake to the hustle and bustle of your childhood home anymore.

It had been that way for the past month or so. Fertility Season had come and gone, and you and Neteyam had spent the time after adjusting to the new normal.

Both of you had grown up in loud, full homes. Surrounded by family, never a moment of quiet to be found. The still silence in your shared Mauri had been a bit unnerving at first. It was just the two of you in these walls after all.

Now though, you craved these moments. They felt private and sacred as you and Neteyam prepared for the day, for the long hours usually chalked full of duties that would keep you busy and separated.

Your mate is a man of routine, you’d picked up on the fact quickly.

He woke as soon as light begin to dance in the many sun catchers and wind chimes that littered the entrance to your Pod. Once the Fkio(birds,gulls) began to squall, he was rising. Gently untangling his limbs from your own and hurrying over to the firepit to bring it back to life.

He’d open all of the blinds to let the air in, the salty ocean breeze filling the space with a freshness that could only come with a new day.

Then comes washing up, changing into a clean tweng and re-adorning all of his jewelry, leaving the intricate battle band and layered choker for last. He liked it when you helped him fasten all of those hard-to-reach ties.

He brews strong tea in the clay pot that his mom had passed down to him. It reminds him of the ones that his grandmother had kept in her hut. Extremely detailed, crafted by an Omaticaya Ceramist. Jade green in color, jungle flowers etched into its sides.

Neteyam lets you get your fill of slumber. Enjoys watching you as you doze, curled up on the bed mat. Your features loose and lost to dreams, occasionally tensing with off scrunches or your nose or twitches of your ears. It’s only when the sun reaches a certain place in the sky that he goes to wake you. Knowing he can wait no longer before you’re late.

You love to sleep, but you absolutely hate being late.

His difficult little munxtate(wife).

He’s so gentle, every time.

Rousing you with soft touches and hums right into your skin. Even before you’re fully coherent you reach for him, greedy fingers. Pursed lips.

The piping hot tea is energizing, you nurse your cup as you go through your own little patterns.

Neteyam knows, now, that you are not particularly chatty until you’ve fully woken up. He doesn't mind the comfortable quiet, busies himself with cleaning his riding gear, readying for a day of patrolling and hunting.

You prepare a quick breakfast before bathing and dressing. Easily clocking the way Neteyam’s amber gaze fixes on your hips when you shimmy into your skirt. Reach behind yourself to twine the strings around your tail. Heat blooms across your cheeks, it’s too early for him to look at you like that. He grins when you roll your eyes and mutter something that sounds a lot like “insatiable skxawng”

The two of you have been working on getting everything organized, and the Mauri is finally coming together. Homey and colorful, filled with little trinkets and pieces of both of your cultures. You were still working on cataloging your wardrobe, untangling the many dangling tops and layered necklaces- it was a pain and you really needed to make time to get it done.

So focused on getting your herbs straightened, prioritizing assisting your heavily pregnant Aunt with healer’s errands that you’d honestly put it off.

It’s your own fault that you need to untangle the top you want to wear from various other pieces of jewelry. You can't be frustrated with anyone but yourself, you fingers work at the knots until you free the article of clothing.

You’re working the crocheted straps over your shoulders when it catches your eye.

Gleams in a beam of sunlight that streams in from the opened windows.

A low gasp escapes you as you reach for it fast.

Between the emotional chaos that had come with the misunderstanding between yourself, Neteyam and Seychelle and then haze of Fertility Season, you’d forgotten.

In the quick paced move into the new Mauri- it had been lost, buried in the messy overfilled baskets of your belongings.

It’s the armband that you’d made for Neteyam.

You enjoy making jewelry, liked the way it kept your hands from being idle. Could string delicate shells into a multitude of necklaces and bracelets and hairpieces that made good gifts for family and friends. There were villagers with more talent than you at the craft, sure, but you thought your creations were pretty enough.

This particular piece had given you a run for your money.

You'd wanted to make something that would remind him of home but the jewelry that the Sully’s wore were extremely intricate, daunting to even look at. The Omiticaya are known for their weaving skills after all.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’d enlisted the youngest Sully to help you, a bit too shy to share the planned project with anyone else. Tuk loved crafting, frequently giving her creations to any and everyone. She had been thrilled when you approached her, practically shaking with excitement when you promised to take her out to the distant sandbars by Ilu back in exchange for her help.

Omiticayan patterns are hard to master, complex and layered. Leather isn't a medium you usually worked with and your fingers had felt clumsy as you’d attempted the multi strand braiding.

Tuk is patient and friendly. A brilliant teacher even at her young age. She’d spent hours tucked away on that private beach with you. Chattering excitedly as you began to pick it up and the band starts to take shape.

“Who’re you making it for?” She’d questioned, pressing in that innocent, instant way that only a child could “I don't see anyone here wear jewelry like this, it's all so different from back home”

“Just for a friend” You’d paused for a moment, staring down at your slow working fingers. “I think these designs are beautiful, you’ll have to help me make more. I want an anklet just like yours”

She’d beamed, happy to show off the dangling jewels on her feet. She’d made it herself! She could make you one to match, easy!

Only when the horns had sounded, dinner going to start soon, did the two of you gather your belongings and head back in. Tuk had told her parents she would be with you, Jake and Neytiri had deemed you responsible enough to get her back safely. You wouldn't disappoint.

“I hope your friend likes it, Y/N! See ya tomorrow! Don’t be late- you promised we’d race to the sandbar! You can't go back on a promise!” She’d called to you as you’d reached the village, running off in a flurry. Energetic as ever.

“I would never! Get ready to lose, Tuktirey!”

Her twinkling laugh all the response she’d given you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’d worked so hard on the band. Meticulously incorporated pieces of shells into the leather. Turquoise, carnelian and topaz toned, to match the beads of Neteyam's choker. The shells were hard to find, but you’d scoured the shore for days, discarding the ones that weren't the right color.

A large blush colored pearl hangs from the center, the patterns of the banding circling it in delicate loops.

You run your fingers over it, recalling how much hard work you’d put into it. How many hours you’d spend having to undo and we braid the patterns-

You plop down next to your mate, near the fire. Legs criss crossed neatly and an eager smile on your face. Clutching something hidden in your fist.

“What?” Neteyam wonders as he eats his breakfast. He’d quickly become fond of the milky sweet rice and fruit that you made in the mornings, he shovels it eagerly into his mouth every time.

“I have a present for you”

That was the last thing he was expecting to hear. His eyebrows raise and his tail flicks, interested, behind him.

“Really?” he speaks with his mouth still full. He’s endearing, even when he’s gross.

“Yes, I am very late. I meant to give it to you long ago. But with the move and everything else it got lost. So lost, you’ve seen the chest where I keep my clothing. It really is a mess” you wave your free hand in the air, gesturing almost wildly as you ramble”- ugh. I forgot, I truly did”

He waits patiently throughout your little special, a small smile on his lips.

“You didn't need to get me anything…” he says, but you can see the concealed intrigue in his eyes. Dare you say it was excitement?

You're a bit nervous as you open your hand, revealing the contents inside, resting against your palm. Holding it out to him in offering. “I wanted to. Here, I really hope you like it”

Neteyam takes the armband between his thin fingers, brings it close to his face to inspect it. The whole time your heart races wildly and you stare at him for any inclination that he might not like it-

“Did you make this?”

“I did” you nod.

“But it’s- it’s Omiticayan design? How did you do this?”

“Oh, I know. It’s why it’s a little bit rough- I’d never made anything like it before. But Tuk was tons of help! She pretty much walked me through it all. We did it months ago but like I told you, I misplaced it”

Neteyam continues to stare at it, his eyes swimming with emotion. He runs his thumb along the weaved leather, over and over again. “The pearl?..”

“The one you found at the beach, in the clam, remember? You gave it to me but I wanted you to be able to keep it. I wasn't lying when I said they’re good luck when they’re that big”

His eyes go from the gift in his hand, meet yours instead. They’re shining. Happy, clearly and a grin breaks out across your face, able to read the wordless que's.

“Get over here” Neteyam reaches for you, hand cupping your face as he clutches you to him, almost right into his empty lap. Claims your willing lips with his own.

The kisses are smothering, consistent little pecking that makes you gasp. He tastes like creamy rice and sweet Yovo- you can feel his canines as he grin. Your hands tangle into his braids, clutching him right back. Your stomach flip flopping with the sheer joy of it all.

“You like?” you’re muffled by his lips, speak the question into his mouth.

“I” kiss “Love” kiss “It”

He doesn't bother to pull away until he's kissed you stupid. Long and thorough. Your head is spinning and theres butterflies erupting in your chest. Your lips feel a bit raw as you pant and lean against him heavily.

“I can't believe you took the time to do this. You are the sweetest, you know. So sweet to me I don't even know what to do with you” He beams and your heart skips one beat. And then two. His smile is a bright thing, his front teeth just a bit longer then the rest-

You hope your children look like him. You wish you could have seen him as a little one.

You caress his face, knuckling lightly at his cheeks. Watching, your hindbrain lighting up, as he slips the band up his arm until it sits snug around his bulging bicep, secured tight.

It looks so good.

You have the urge to make him endless ornaments. Maybe you'll start something for his hair? You could probably find feathers similar to the ones he wore now...

Everytime you think that you couldn't possibly get any happier, you do. You think that you might float away one day- filled to the brim with all of the buoyant love you have for him.

“Thank you, really Y/N. I-” his voice wavers a bit as your nose rubs against his. You’re content like this, in his lap. Pressed in close with your lover. “I don't know how I lived so many years without you. You bring me joy I didn't know existed”

His words echo your frequent thoughts.

The morning is soft and syrupy slow, like all mornings spent with your mate.

Waking up early did have its perks, after all.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

So Neteyam’s sisters X Y/N are some of my favorite dynamics. I can’t wait to write more Tuk & Kiri.

I got some asks after Part Three and I was like ohhhh no, everyone thinks they’re toxic but they’re really not lol they just need to learn how to not be idiots and communicate with each other.

Can we talk about how Y/N's love language is offering her self up to Neteyam on a silver plate? I'm pretty sure that could be translated to Gift Giving.

I’m thinking about doing a little filler/drabble like this every few chapters as a kind of pallet cleanser? There’s just so much about this world and these characters that I want to share with you all.

Also mango sticky rice is my absolute favorite and I’m a green tea girly. Of course I had to incorporate them somewhere😂

What are some of your favorite things that you’d like to see in this universe? Let me know!

#neteyam #neteyam x reader #neteyam fluff #neteyam x metkayina!reader

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justanothersterekficgirl · 3 months

Text

"what are you harping on about?" by Sa_kun

Teen | 13k | 1/1

They find the baby under a butterfly bush, a sweet smelling buddleja with purple flowers and narrow, green leaves. The baby is dirty, wet and hungry, wrapped in a fur blanket, and this close its squalling is loud enough to wake the dead.

-- Or the one where Stiles' mom was a harpy and passed certain genes along.

#sterek fics #ao3 sterek #sterek #derek hale/stiles stilinski #derek x stiles #derek hale #stiles stilinski #eternal sterek #sterekrecs #jasfgrecs #sterek au #accidentalbabyacquisition #deputystilesstilinski #toberead #sterek<30k

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goforth-ladymidnight · 12 days

Text

A Mother Always Knows

For Tamlin Week 2024, Day 1: Heir of Spring

@tamlinweek

Summary: Rosalin, Lady of the Spring Court, gives birth to her third son and discovers that the High Mother has chosen him to be the future High Lord of the Spring Court.

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.8k

Read on AO3, or read on below:

“It’s a boy,” the faerie midwife announced proudly, before swaddling the squalling babe up and delivering him gently into the arms of his mother. “He has a fine set of lungs indeed,” she said over his wailing cries, and there was an amused twinkle in her eyes when she added, “Just like his father.” She chuckled fondly when the babe settled in. “The wee little beastie.”

Lady Rosalin gave her a grateful, though tired smile, then turned her attention to her newborn son. His face was still swollen and red from crying, but he had a tuft of hair that would turn out to be as soft and pale as thistledown. Time would tell if he inherited her blue eyes or his father’s green ones. He had a fine appetite already, though, and latched quickly to her breast. As he drank, she stroked his downy cheek and gently rocked him. While she had hoped for a girl, she could not help but fall in love with her newest little boy.

She had already given Magnus two sons, Angus and Fergus. Twins. Births among High Fae nobility were already a rarity, but to bear twins that lived past infancy was a miracle. Or a curse, though she would never dare say so.

For only one son could inherit the High Lord’s mantle, while the other would have to serve him in a lesser capacity. As would the third, one day. She did not look forward to that day, when she would lose her husband and be forced to witness one son challenge the other for his title. The magic of the Cauldron always chose the Heir, but few were willing to accept the High Mother’s will, let alone their own mother’s. If she had her way, she would choose the eldest and be done with it, but Fergus was only five minutes younger than his brother. It was hardly fair. And now they had another brother to contend with, no matter how young and innocent.

Such was the nature of the Spring Court, ruthless and fierce despite its inherent beauty.

Rosalin sighed and let her head fall back against the pillows as the servants helped the midwife take away the bloody linens and clean up the room, preparing for the High Lord’s arrival. No doubt he was already being informed of a successful delivery and was on his way to see her.

She turned her head to look at the bouquet of roses by her bedside. Her mate had had them delivered the day before, freshly cut from the garden he had planted for her. He knew that she would be missing them, and had included a single rose of every color in the bouquet. She smiled. For all his fierce, overprotective habits, he did love her.

Her vision was beginning to turn double as she drifted off, then she lifted her head with a start.

She wasn’t seeing double. There were now two roses of every color blossoming in the vase. Her mouth fell open as she realized that new roses were budding and blooming right before her eyes. She glanced around, but the midwife and the servants didn’t seem to notice. As quickly and as carefully as she could, she shifted the baby to the other breast. He let out a small growl at the interruption before latching on again in earnest.

The sound should have made her laugh—the wee little beastie—but it only made her want to weep.

Did the midwife know…? No. She couldn’t know. Not when Rosalin herself didn’t know. At least, not yet.

With her heart in her throat, she reached out and carefully turned the cut-crystal vase to see if her suspicions were correct.

Her heart sunk to the depths of her aching womb as she saw what she had not hoped to see.

One half of the bouquet had continued to bloom, while the other half had not.

Only the roses closest to her had grown despite being cut from the bushes outside.

No… Only the roses closest to the baby.

Her son.

The High Lord’s son.

The true Heir of Spring.

She made sure no one was looking, then, with a pained groan, shoved the vase off the table.

The crystal shattered, and the roses scattered.

And her innocent child began to cry.

The servants swarmed around her, fretting as she tried to soothe her squalling babe.

“It’s all right. It’s all right,” she told them as well as her newborn.

She hoped it would be. By keeping his secret, she could keep him a little longer.

If anyone found out that the High Mother had chosen the third born son as the Heir of Spring, he wouldn’t live to see another sunrise.

Such was the nature of the Spring Court.

After all, her husband had once had a brother, too.

As if the noise had summoned him, which it probably had, he appeared in the doorway like a thunderclap.

Rosalin cradled the baby against her breast and prayed that Magnus wouldn’t notice how the roses he had picked for her had doubled since their son was born. No such sign had appeared when the twins were born, even though there should have been, but the magic knew better. She knew better.

A mother always knows.

“What happened?” he demanded, stalking closer. Although he was normally quite handsome, even for a High Fae, with his long brown hair and sun-bronzed skin, he was terrifying now. His green eyes flashed, and his claws and teeth were already long and gleaming as he searched for the threat to his mate and newborn child.

The servants fell back, trembling as they swept into deep curtsies at his approach. Only Oona, the midwife, stood by Rosalin’s bedside, staring the High Lord down.

“A vase broke, Your Lordship,” she said firmly over the baby’s cries. “It was an accident. Nothing more.” When the High Lord stood there, growling skeptically at the mess on the floor, she added, “So, unless you plan on cutting the mischievous sprite responsible into ribbons, I suggest you put those claws away before you hurt someone.”

If Oona hadn’t been the one to deliver the High Lord himself, she might have felt his claws for her audacity, and borne the scars forever to prove it.

Magnus growled again, but he curled his claws into his fists to hide them. “Is that what happened?” he asked his wife roughly.

Rosalin quickly nodded, although her heart was still beating fiercely. “The vase slipped. That’s all.”

In the tense silence that followed, the baby hiccuped then snuffled against her shoulder. Rosalin gently patted his tiny back. It had been a long day for both of them.

Magnus’s fierce demeanor softened as he silently waved a hand over the shattered mess. The crystal vase reformed itself on the table, but the fallen roses remained scattered on the floor.

“Fresh roses from the garden,” he told the servants. When they bowed their heads and stood to carry out his command, he continued in a much gentler voice as he looked at his mate, “And make them red, for my Rose.”

She breathed a sigh of relief, and gave him a warm, glad smile. Their son’s secret was safe, at least for a little while.

Magnus stepped over the fallen roses to sit beside her on the bed. When he lifted his chin to kiss her, there was no sign of his claws. “And how are you, my Rose?” he asked, tenderly stroking the sweaty curls from her brow.

Tears filled her eyes at his gentleness. If only he could be this gentle with their sons. “As well as can be expected,” she said softly, then shifted the baby away from her shoulder so that Magnus could see him. “Look. Isn’t he beautiful?”

Magnus frowned, but he reached out a finger to stroke the baby’s rounded cheek. “He’s so small,” he murmured.

Oona spoke up before Rosalin could object. “He will grow, as you did, my Lord,” the midwife said, then gave the royal couple a short curtsy when Magnus turned his annoyed frown on her. “I will go and speak to the nursemaid, my Lady,” she said, ignoring the High Lord. “Then you and the child must get some rest.”

“Thank you, Oona,” Rosalin said before the High Lord could scold her. She was only doing her duty, after all.

When the servants had gone and left them alone, Magnus at last reached for the baby, and Rosalin reluctantly handed him over.

His secret is safe, she reminded herself as she watched her mate’s spring green eyes sweep over the face of his future heir.

“Another son,” Magnus said quietly, even though no one else was around to hear.

“Are you disappointed?” she asked, hoping that the answer would be No. Their child was less than an hour old, and didn’t need to grow up under the shadow of his father’s disapproval.

Magnus sighed. “Only for your sake,” he replied, giving her a tight smile. “I know how much you wanted a daughter. Someday, I shall give you one.”

Rosalin let out a weary chuckle, despite herself. “Someday,” she agreed, decorously sliding the collar of her shift back into place. “For now, I am content with you, and Angus, and Fergus, and now our newest little one.”

Magnus’s frown softened as he chuckled. “You are so easy to please, my love,” he said, then kissed her again. He might have lingered had the baby not let out a small gurgle and began to squirm in his father’s arms. Magnus pulled away and addressed his son at last. “I suppose you shall need a name, as well, little one,” he remarked.

“What about Tam?” Rosalin offered.

“Tam?” Magnus repeated, clearly surprised that she had come up with a name so quickly.

She smiled shyly. “After my father, Tamhas,” she reminded him. “You did say I might use his name one day.”

Magnus’s brow furrowed as he pursed his lips, remembering. “So I did,” he conceded, though gruffly. “Although I had hoped for another little Rosalin…” He sighed and handed the squirming baby back. “I suppose it can’t be helped now.”

Rosalin smiled sadly as she nestled the baby in the crook of her arm. “He will make you proud, Magnus. I promise.”

The High Lord of Spring looked into his young son’s face. “Tam,” he repeated softly. “Tam-lin.” He smiled at her surprised expression. “After his mother.”

Rosalin beamed. “Tamlin,” she repeated as the baby cooed and reached for her. “I like it.”

Tamlin’s tiny fingers barely wrapped around one of her own, but his grip was strong.

It was then that she knew that he would live, and live a long time.

He might even inherit the High Lord’s mantle without bloodshed.

Tamlin. Her Tamlin. Future High Lord and Heir of the Spring Court. He would be a fine ruler someday. She could feel it.

A mother always knows.

#tamlin #pro tamlin #baby tamlin #we don't see much of tamlin's mom #so i wanted to write something from her pov #and i really liked the idea of tamlin sharing part of her name #so there you go #tamlinweek2024 #tamlin week #tamlinweek

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nashiriel · 3 months

Note

could we get the scene of the immediate aftermath of the whole cannibal x bb!luke bonding? like luke’s family’s realizations and immediate reactions?

Hi anon! Sorry it took me a while to get to this interesting ask!

TBH, thinking it through, a lot of the reactions would probably mirror the aftermath in the main fic. Though perhaps considerably heavier on the WTF aspect , for obvious reasons!

But below are a couple of rough snapshots of some different perspectives on the matter...

She had carried fear with her from the moment they first laid Jace, pink and squalling, in her arms. Does not a mother always? That which came with his first fever, his first tumble from Vermax’s saddle, the first day he went proudly to the training yard. Other nightmares too, those her maidenhood’s mind would never have conjured; Alicent’s seething triumph at each dark-haired babe presented to her, the whispers crawling through court when Luke’s egg stayed cold and inert in his cradle. And then, to find her family besieged in the Velaryons’ own halls, the flash of Alicent’s dagger raised towards her child, the sting of its bite barely felt amidst the bitter satisfaction of finally having that pious poison loosed before all.

But none of these compare to the moment the messenger staggers gasping into her solar. Rhaenyra hears children, beach, hears the Cannibal, and then all that comes between then and the moment she dives from the sky upon Syrax, is lost to a cold roar of panic.

She had known the Stranger’s face long before her own children’s. She knows what to expect as the beach opens up before Syrax’s wings, wet sands and sweeping ink, even as every scrap of her screams against it-

The bodies of her men still lie smouldering. A dragon, white and slender as mist, crouches atop the rocks, pockmarks of dark sand bubbling to glass where blood drips from his scored hide. Laena’s girl kneels by the pale splay of his wing, cradling an arm blistered raw to the elbow as she stares with eyes scored empty with pain and wonder.

The Cannibal, looming amidst it all. Black and vast and terrible, and the entirety of him tethered to complete stillness under the outstretched palm of her son.

“Mother,” Lucerys breathes when he sees her, and she watches the dragon’s eyes sharpen back into sudden fury, sensing her presence only now as her son breaks his gaze.

“Mother, look! I found a dragon-”

The Cannibal’s hiss, a gust of wind lashing through the caverns of the Dragonmont, splits the air as Rhaenyra hurls herself forward to seize Luke in her arms. His startled yelp is lost amidst the unfurled shadow of Syrax’s wings, and with a surge of triumph, Rhaenyra glimpses Caraxes rippling scarlet against the sky.

Luke clings to her and the Cannibal’s rage fizzles back into stillness. She presses Luke close to her heart as she stares up at its eyes, knowing that her flesh alone cannot shield him from its flames but willing without hesitation to protect him with it until the last.

Amidst black scales, eyes gleam back at her, slit green and murderous, before the Cannibal stretches its neck and snatches up the corpse of one of Luke’s guards. Too late, Rhaenyra tries to press Luke’s face to her neck to spare him the sight as the dragon’s jaws languidly cleave the body in two, the ridge white of the spine trailing tattered peach flesh as the lower half lands with a wet thump before Luke’s shocked eyes.

Those teeth jut taller than Luke himself. Rhaenyra will not think of how the Cannibal could have simply swallowed the corpse - his fellows too - in one efficient bite, if that had been the sole purpose of that display.

It takes the combined might of Syrax and Caraxes to ward the dragon back from following Luke and Rhaena back to the castle. She is not fool enough to think it gone completely; as dogs bay when a wolf ventures close to the homestead, so Syrax’s fury snarls through the night when she senses it prowling the clouds above. With a cold loathing, she knows Luke must be brought out again come the daylight, for his word alone would send it back to its cavern of corpses.

And still her sweet boy frets as she tucks him into bed that night, a task she refused his maids despite how her hands still shake.

“Won’t he be lonely, all by himself in his cave, Mother, if there are no other dragons in his nest? Can’t I see him? Tyraxes still sleeps with the baby.”

The notion of the Cannibal curled in sleep with his belly puffed in the air like Joffrey’s drowsing hatchling is almost enough to bring a laugh to Rhaeynyra’s lips before she recollects herself, smoothing down Luke’s hair with wearied affection.

“He’s far too large to sleep with, sweetling. And he cannot be here, around so many dragons. Do you truly think he would want them disturbing his rest?”

She still remembers finding that nest as a young girl, exploring some dank cave close to the lowest reaches of the Dragonmont. She and Laena had been rushed back to the castle by their guards where Alicent anxiously waited with the rest of her ladies, but they had seen enough already. Even Laena whispered of her shock afterwards. The few eggs not crushed to fine powder lay cracked open, the contents picked clean, each and every hatchling in the entire nest gone with only a single severed tail to betray them.

“I’d like to try the Cannibal against Vhagar,” Laena had vowed to them all that night, dashing and dauntless as any knight in her fine silks and well enthused by the prospect of her challenge. “See if he finds so easy a meal in her.”

Luke frowns then, nestling down amongst his pillows like some fluffed-up sparrow.

“I don’t think so,” he says eventually, blinking up at her with those large, liquid brown eyes. “I don’t think he does like people very much. Or dragons. Only me.”

The Cannibal had looked into those eyes too. The dragon had been close enough to see its own reflection, wildfire overlain over the dark as a broken spear fell from her child’s soft hand.

Rhaenyra thinks of another weapon then, Luke’s piping shout - “he was going to kill Jace-”

She thinks of Alicent’s son, his face carved open, and the hunger burning hot in the Cannibal’s eyes, and she wonders.

But most of all, she thinks of her fears for all of them - her boys, dark-haired and perfect the moment they were laid at her breast, the girls who are Laena’s own legacy, all the sons and daughters still to follow now that Daemon has cleaved himself to her entire. The world she was given glimpse of as she tore helplessly towards the beach, as Alicent’s blade sought her son, one unforgiving and hideous in its possibilities.

The Cannibal can only ever be as nothing, compared to that.

. . .

The windows in the chamber she has been given on Dragonstone are large and airy, their sill framed by two sphinxes raking each other’s tails. They do not face in the direction of the beach, but that doesn’t matter. Grey Ghost’s presence whispers through her blood like the soft sigh of the tides. She would know him anywhere.

He’ll know her too, she thinks, in the sharper moments between the watered tinctures of milk of the poppy the maester brings her to soothe the throb of her hands. He must be young, barely larger than Vermax, and he has never had a rider. There is no one for Rhaena to measure up to his eyes, no comparison between Baela’s bravery or Mother’s fire. What lies before them now is bright and unmarked as fresh snow.

Or it will be, when they let her fly.

“You may ride when your burns heal, and no sooner,” Aunt Rhaenyra tells her archly, dabbing ointment on Rhaena’s burns with her own soft hands. “There has been quite enough foolhardy behaviour of late.”

Rhaena flushes, unused to being scolded as a troublemaker, but Rhaenyra’s smile softens the sting.

“Laena would laugh herself hoarse at your father and I both, for being so surprised. Your grandmother had forbidden her to try Vhagar, so she slipped away when we were supposed to be at prayer. The dragonkeepers had not fitted Vhagar’s saddle for years, so she climbed her tail and flew to greet Syrax and I barebacked. Wilful girl! It felt like half the city streamed into the streets to watch her in the air. I had never known her to be more joyful…until she wrote to me of her daughters.”

To Rhaena’s astonishment, there is a quavering note to her voice, one that sounds awfully like Rhaena’s when she is trying hard not to cry.

“She was so proud of you,” her aunt whispers. “How could she not be, like as the two of you were? Your father too. Do not think you ever needed a dragon, to make them know it.”

A knot eases in Rhaena’s chest as Aunt Rhaenyra hugs her then. She is not Mother, will never be Mother…but Rhaena finds it harder to be angry for that now, towards a woman who speaks of Laena Velaryon with such love in her eyes.

“You may go to see Grey Ghost later, if Maester Geradys permits it,” Rhaenyra says after pulling away, voice a little gruffer now. “The dragonkeepers say that his neck is healing well. He will fly…and so will you, when you’re ready. They have already taken his measurements for the saddle, though I fear we will needs must order a new one within the year. You both still have much growing to do.”

“What about Luke?” Rhaena asks, eagerly. “Will he have a new saddle too? We can fly together now!”

It will have to be a big saddle, closer to Mother’s than Baela’s, to fit Luke’s new dragon.

Rhaenyra’s smile looks tighter than before, but she is still gentle as she touches Rhaena’s shoulder, careful not to jostle her bandages.

“One day, mayhaps. Things are…more difficult with his dragon.”

“Oh,” Rhaena says, disappointed. Though she has to admit, she…she isn’t quite sure of Luke’s dragon. She still feels a little queasy when she remembers how the air itself had seemed to erupt into shadow and flame, the disbelieving pain as her outflung hands bubbled up in white blisters in that searing heat…and how none of it had been as awful as hearing those men, hearing Grey Ghost, scream in those jaws.

She’s glad Luke got a dragon. She knows what it’s like, to watch the skies jealously, alone but for the sting of being left behind. All their whispered plans of what Rhaena could do if their plan worked, the future she hadn’t fully dared to let herself dream of…Luke will fly with her for all of them now, and the thought sends excitement thrumming through her.

She just wishes the gods could have given him a nicer dragon. One as nice as Luke himself.

Rhaena’s not rude enough to say that though, when Luke shyly puts his head around her door the next day. He smells of ash still, though his skin glows pink from the scrub of a fresh bath, and his lip trembles when he sees the bandages swaddling her hands.

“Do they hurt a lot?”

“A little,” Rhaena admits. “But,” and here her voice almost comes out in a squeal, so happy that she can barely contain it, “we did it! Both of us! It worked, Luke!”

“I never meant for you to get hurt though, Rhaena,” Luke insists, padding over to her bedside with uncertain eyes. “Or Grey Ghost. I’m sorry. I didn’t know the Cannibal would come.”

“You stopped him though,” Rhaena says firmly, and if it wasn’t by the spearhead he’d snatched up from - from - from that black shape crackling on the ground, well, that doesn’t matter.

Luke had stopped it, had saved she and Grey Ghost both. Just as he had come running with Jace to help her and Baela without question, that night Vhagar was stolen. Just as he had used the knife to protect them all.

“And at least you won’t have to help me carry fish to the beach any more.”

“I didn’t mind it,” Luke says, which is a lie, because Rhaena saw how his face screwed up each time Cook dropped the bucket down in front of them, and she has to duck her head under her hair to hide her giggle. Through the fall of her braids, she sees Luke pad over to her bedside; he’s clutching a curved seashell, which he places carefully in her lap.

“There’s no crab in it, this time. I checked.”

Rhaena blinks, puzzled, and he shuffles his feet.

“Jace told me that you should always bring a lady flowers to help her feel better,” he explains anxiously. “But I couldn’t find any in the garden like the ones you used to write about from Pentos.”

She thinks of them even as he speaks, the petals curling over in whorls of pink and white like splashes of Myrish lace in Mother’s walled garden. Mother had liked to read her letters among their perfume; Rhaena still remembers curling up next to her, fingers carding through her hair as Mother read out the funnier stories tucked in Uncle Laenor or Aunt Rhaenyra’s writing.

“But I thought this looked more like them than the roses in the garden. It’s curly too, see? And it’s pink inside-“

He falters, staring between her and the shell. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” Rhaena manages, and she does, though her eyes swim with tears.

“I just…I w-want-

Mother, Pentos sunlight gilding her smile, the promise of home-

“I want the flowers in our garden,” she finishes, and is immediately ashamed of herself.

Luke’s face firms in sudden resolve.

“We can fly there then,” he declares. “Now that we have dragons. You, me, Grey Ghost, and the Cannibal. We’ll find your garden, and we’ll bring a flower home for you to plant, so they can grow here too.”

He pauses, face suddenly uncertain. “...If you don’t mind waiting until Mother lets me fly the Cannibal.”

“I won’t,” Rhaena assures him, feeling, in an odd kind of way, as light as the shell as she looks into his face. It has warmed in her hand, and she notices there’s a hole in the outer lip, where the pink fades into coils of white. She will thread her silver chain through it, and wear it close to her skin.

Anyone else, she might not believe they meant it when they made her a promise like that. But Luke had believed in her from the first. Luke had helped her win a dragon. Luke had stopped the Cannibal.

She’ll trust him until the day she dies.

“Where is the Cannibal now?”

“In his cave,” Luke says, sitting cross-legged as he looks up at her. “He wants me to come to him, but Mother hasn’t let me today. I’ll have to go to him soon, or he’ll try to crawl through the gates again. Syrax hates that. He hasn’t gone to the beach though, I promise. I don’t think Grey Ghost likes him.”

“They will be best of friends one day,” Rhaena vows, and her heart soars when Luke beams at her.

“Just like us.”

Rhaena has a dragon. Father is proud of her. She will see Mother’s garden again with her own eyes.

In this moment, all things are possible.

. . .

Viserys expects many things when the letter is laid in front of him, the wax embossed with the ancient seal of the princes of Dragonstone. His heart swells with hopes as he unfolds it, so many in number that almost all anger is forgotten in their midst.

Rhaenyra surely writes an apology. A recognition of the customs and decency she had flouted, the disrespect in her forgetting dear Ser Laenor so quickly; in wedding without the leave of her king, her father. She will offer contrition for all that Alicent has deplored, even though both must recognise such folly cannot be undone as his queen pleads; she will beg her forgiveness as her mother, so that they might meet once as friends.

She will even - ah, but here is the sorrow of a brother, even more so than the love of a father, stirring him - write of a new chapter, unmarred by the unhappy beginnings that preceded it. A new babe to fill her arms, a son to finally allay all that Daemon has lost.

But Rhaenyra writes of none of these things. Instead, he finds himself reading of her Lucerys, and a shadow that he has never laid eyes upon, but remembers of Dragonstone all too well.

The Cannibal.

He sinks back further into his chair, biting back an ill-natured curse as the movement sends pain throbbing from beneath his linen bandages. All his years weigh upon him then, cold and heavy as the crown upon his brow.

Rhaenys is with Lucerys already, Rhaenyra written. His relief at his cousin’s presence in this matter, steadfast and sensible to the last, overrides the twinge of irritated hurt that Driftmark should be informed of this before word was first sent to King’s Landing.

Corlys loves Lucerys well, as is only natural, the most precious keepsake left by poor Laenor as he is. But he should not forget himself in this. They may carry the Velaryon name, but Rhaenyra’s sons are of the king’s blood. A dragon’s claiming shall always be the concern of the Iron Throne.

And a dragon such as this…

Part of Viserys feels the surgery of pride that Rhaenyra must know, his mouth lifting in a smile as he envisions the awe and delight his own council will offer when he tells them such glad tidings. Ah, but Lucerys had proved his blood in truth, to follow his mother and take a dragon at such an age! House Velaryon can stand proud in their heir, for those foul rumours will finally be laid to rest with this. And to think of Aemond, and Daemon’s own Rhaena too! Surely his House’s future has never looked brighter, when all of the king’s blood now lay claim to a dragon’s glory.

So how then can it be, that there is winter’s chill in Alicent’s eyes still when he call her to him at night? That his daughter soothes her grief with his brother upon Dragonstone, that Daemon should dare overreach himself as Otto has so faithfully warned and claim her hand in scorn of his king’s express command?

And why, as such churlish discord plagues his house, the Cannibal should take his first rider?

A dragon that has ever been a bane rather than blessing to their blood. A dragon that devours its own as the king’s flesh devours him, now coiling around his blood’s heart as their divide cleaves his heart as never before.

Perhaps he is a fool, flinching from the mummer’s shadow as it plays upon his walls. But is it greater folly, to close his eyes to such portents as the gods lay them so clear before him?

One day, such will be Rhaenyra’s burdens to carry. But for now, it is he who sits the throne, and he must bear it for her, for them all.

And so it is the king’s hand, rather than a father’s, that dips his nib into ink and laboriously brings the process of instructing Princess Rhaenyra to bring her son to King’s Landing, that his grandsire may look upon his new dragon.

. . .

The training blade in his hand is wooden, the tool of a child, and that is only the first humiliation to be endured as he circles his target. The bristling head of the strawman seems to spread wide in mockery; Aemond’s blows fall wide of the painted circle on its chest again and again, his head split by a nauseating pain as the leather grip becomes increasingly slippery with sweat. Soon his remaining sight is wavering no matter how he tries to focus it, his breathing laboured as if he treks a mountain rather than performing a drill so basic the youngest, lowest-born page in the Keep could manage it.

At least his brother’s reluctance to bestir from the beds of his whores has finally overcome his amusement at observing this. The squires in the yard don’t dare turn their heads to watch after Ser Criston’s sharp warnings, let alone laugh, but Aegon had had no such constraints at Aemond’s first attempts, when even attempting to swing left him reeling about like a drunkard. He cannot say he misses him, no matter how Ser Criston sighs as he reports another absence to their mother.

Yet sometimes, when he staggers back amidst Ser Criston’s earnest encouragement, unsteady on his feet as a tottering infant - and that is what he is reduced to now, all that he has earned on the training ground wiped away by the same stroke that plunged half his world into agonising dark - he can’t help but notice the lack of another.

A voice soft-pitched with admiration and excitement, a small hand hot in his, dark eyes wide with awe as he watches Aemond move fluidly through drills his nephews hadn’t even yet been permitted to attempt. It had been an irritation at times, to have Luke trailing him about the Keep, not least the mirth it gave Aegon to foist their nephew on him as he took Jace off to the Dragonpit. Yet still there comes moments of disorientation, like the itching pull of skin when he tries to blink with both eyes, where he looks about, expecting an admiring shout or plead for instruction-

Then Aemond remembers once again, and rage grinds against the bones of his chest.

The blade has shattered to splinters by the time the messenger arrives, telling Ser Criston that the queen has need of them both immediately.

Normally, Mother can scarcely hide her worry at the sight of him returning from his drills; she praises his diligence and bravery, whilst a candle burns at the Warrior’s shrine each morn, Mother’s hands clasped in prayer that the gods give strength to his arm and shield him from any further wound. Today, though her face is tense with concern of an entirely different sort, all her polished composure doing little to mask her fury.

“A letter arrived from Princess Rhaenyra this morning. Concerning that boy.”

Aemond absorbs the news she relays in silence. Lucerys has a dragon now, one large and fearsome. Lucerys has Father singing his praises in the council chamber, telling all of the wonder he has accomplished.

Lucerys is leaving his nest on Dragonstone, finally flying back in reach after all these moons.

“They say his dragon is called the Cannibal,” Mother says, and she gives a shudder that may be unease or simply delicate disdain. “And apparently it is as savage and wild as those boys themselves. I begged your father to reconsider this foolishness, but he says he would see it with his own eyes. As if this whole affair is not Rhaenyra contriving to win his favour again-”

“She knows half the realm spits on her new marriage,” Ser Criston agrees, his hands folding neatly before him into fists. “The king’s love may blind him, but too many see her for what she is now, and her bastards too. She is desperate. Do not forget, she knows now she has your son to fear.”

Mother’s lips tighten; she is still fearful, after the last embers of her faith in her husband’s protection were quenched in Driftmark, to hear the truth spoken aloud.

None will dare force her to parrot Rhaenyra’s lies when Aemond rules the skies upon Vhagar.

It had been one of the few comforts Aemond could hold into as he lay recovering in his sickbed, the knowledge of that incredible strength and power of Vhagar in flight. The knowledge that the oldest dragon in the world had looked upon him, and seen worth, even when no one else had.

And sweeter still, to know that it was one thing the bastard could not take from him, that little Luke had probably spent every night since pissing himself in fear on Dragonstone, knowing that he remained tethered and helpless on the ground.

Now Luke has a dragon. And Father expects all to marvel at his glory.

Aemond had longed for a reunion once all the thankless promise of the training yard finally bore fruit. Had pictured it a thousand times over, fantasy mingling with memory of that night. Luke’s choked gasp as Aemond’s palm slides against his soft throat, those dark eyes drawn black with fear as Jace writhes in the dust beneath Aemond’s heel.

To think, though, of the bastard seeing him as he is now, near a cripple with command lost of his blade, even his own balance, and rage churns afresh with his shame.

But still. Luke, finally come forth from the safety of his mother’s skirts. There will be opportunity here, if Aemond has only the wit to seize it, no matter how carefully Rhaenyra watches her precious son.

“It is monstrous, that they dare show their faces. But you will not be made to endure this for long,” Mother vows, reaching out to stroke his hair. Her touch is featherlight, belying the iron resolve of her words.

“My darling, I promise you this. That animal will not be allowed to harm you again. Perhaps this will at least give your father cause to remember what he took from you, what they would take from us all if left unchecked. His crimes against you will be answered one day, by men or gods.”

But it was not the gods, the same gods who see fit to bless Luke with yet another gift the bastard does not deserve, who had the will to seek Vhagar at her rest. Who grimly rises, day by day, to claw back mastery of his own body. No gifts are ever thrown into Aemond’s lap as a favoured son; what he wants, he can only take.

What vengeance he is owed from Luke Strong, he will seize with his own two hands.

#house of the dragon #lucerys velaryon #lucemond #cannibal the dragon #aemond targaryen #carrion #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys targaryen #alicent hightower #anon ask #rhaena of pentos #Luena #baby luke au

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hoeplessl0nging · 4 months

Text

A Mother's Lament

Helaena takes revenge into her own hands. [2.3k words]

inspired by this post from @sleepwalker-02-artist , i don't normally write these little prompts but something took over and i couldn't not write a little oneshot. || cross-posted on ao3

The air was thin, up so high. High enough her hair was kissed by cotton clouds. The wind was near deafening and cold, yet it quieted the rage in her blood, blew the tears from cheeks and dried her eyes. The steel on her shoulders, silver, shining steel, heavy like death, heavy like the grief nestled under her chest and in her belly, it pushed against her lungs, it hurt when she took a breath. Yet what was the pain other than a motivation?

High over the rivers, green grass and blue waters, carved like an angry god had taken a knife to the lands. How much blood has tainted the water of the trident? Helaena had found herself wondering. Much, certainly, though there would still be more to come.

The woman sniffed and violet eyes grazed the skies again. He had to be here, somewhere. Far below her, near several miles below, a brown dragon flew, surveying the lands, as if searching for something, or perhaps someone. Helaena sighed, it was not the dragon nor rider she was searching for. Absentmindedly, she pulled the reins and whispered to Dreamfyre, an order to fly high and steer clear of the other enemy rider. It was not the conflict she was after.

The pressure on her lungs returned with another breath, the chainmail clinked as she shifted her weight in the saddle. She squinted and felt that familiar burning rage and blue grief, flowing like waves, a thundering storm inside of her. Lightning struck each of her nerves and violet eyes searched through the sky and clouds for a bloom of crimson.

'Twas no revenge, no eye for an eye, nor son for son. It was blood. It was death for the sake of it, that sweet boy she had carried, had birthed, had cherished did not deserve that. That man, that monster, who had held the blade to her throat. The other that had held her precious daughter. The one responsible for it would die. Be it today, or tomorrow. He'd not survive the week. He'd not live long enough to harm another.

"Choose. Choose!" He had screamed, the other jeered almost gleefully. The edge of his knife had kissed her throat.

Too close, too loud, too much. Not her boys, not her girl, not her. "Choose!" The rat-catcher and the sellsword had cried, Helaena remembered crying. Tears salting the stone of the castle. Had it always thirsted for blood as so? Death, death, death, the crow faced god cloaked in shadow cawed, hauntingly.

"Stop, stop," she had shouted. "Stop!" Yet they did not, not until the sellsword had deemed her overcome by grief, mad enough, weak enough to drop the blade from her neck.

Her limbs had felt weightless, boneless, a flop of fabric and skin on the stone floor. He had moved to threaten the squalling babe in the cradle. "Take me, kill me. Not him, not my son, don't you touch him! Not any of them, please, not my Maelor!"

The sellsword had laughed, yet it sounded more like a howl. A feral dog. A blood thirsty hound. "You have named one, then."

Violet eyes had stared on in horror. Her throat had ached - had she been screaming? Why had no one come? Where were the guards? Where was her mother? Or her brothers or her husband?

More tears had bubbled in her eyes, blurring her vision. Her lips wobbled and throat bobbed. Helaena remembered the back of her hand, reached out desperately, as if she could summon the foul blade from the sellsword's hand with some unknowable power. Yet it did not happen.

If she had strained her ears, there was a high howl that sounded like Shrykos. A croaky caterwaul of Morghul. The deep, haunting, angry bellow of Dreamfyre. She could still hear their calls now, along with the crying children.

Death was never pretty, in the few deaths she had been forced to watch, she had always looked away. A delicate lady with delicate sensibilities, a gentle and good woman, she had been told. Quiet and prone to melancholy, but good, a clement Queen, her mother had said as she'd laid her crown upon her head and kissed her cheeks.

She had made Aegon and the war council agree send their half sister terms of peace, she had made them all agree to leave Rhaenyra's title and let the woman and her kin keep Dragonstone, yet what had she received in turn? Death.

The gods had warned her, she had warned them all, ever since she could speak, from the moment she could process more than grief. Yet no one listened, they never did. Close an eye, a dance, a war, the death of the dragons.

Each divine message wrapped in riddles and the visions covered in a haze like layers of chiffon, faces and features warped into unrecognisable humanoid blobs. The death of her son, slaughtered like an animal, by some foul, cruel butcher and rat-catcher.

Not her Maelor, though. Not the babe, not the one that foul creature had tricked into her not her sweet daughter either, brave little Jaehaera, stony-faced and catatonic at the sight before her, frozen as she had been since the rat-catcher had threatened what the sellsword -a man so callously named as Blood- would do to the little girl if she did not hurry and make her choice. An eye for an eye, a son for a son. Debts never paid and twisted.

Yet the look in the little girl's eyes was as if the whole earth had shattered. Helaena couldn't find it within her to bring up his face inside of her memory, not when he was smiling an laughing, not when he had died scared and screaming. Face so cruelly contorted by fear. His little body, those little lilac eyes, lifeless and everything, so so red. Four namedays old. Bloody and haunted. Her first, her boy, named for the Old King, only he would now never grow old, spiders would find their homes where her eldest son had once been.

Perhaps once upon a time, they had taken her warnings. Perhaps it would have been peace. Perhaps if the rot had been cut off before it touched the entire tree. Before the blood seeped into the water and found it's way into the wine. Before the flies feasted upon them all, before crows and buzzards picked their bones dry. She had warned them. Yet the seeds of war had long been sewn, crime unpunished and far from forgotten.

Hadn't her mother and half-sister found peace before Viserys had died? Put down their poisons before it tainted the roots anymore. The woman bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood. The taste of iron filled her mouth as the liquid kissed her tongue.

It was foolish to believe that it was enough to stop the ever-growing rot. To expect the scorpion wouldn't sting. It was all the thing knew how to do, all her half-sister's attack dog knew how to do. No matter how gently one handled a creature, it would still bite. But the scorpion had stung the wrong frog, for whilst the grief had confined her, melancholy and guilt twisting her mind into a prison, it had put her upon the window ledge more than once swaying and staring down at the long drop, the spikes at the bottom of the pit.

The anger had found her a way to break free. Anger, righteous and shrewd and vicious, burning like wildfire in her belly. A dragon. A monster taking over where she had once been human, ready to avenge her son, her people, her Hightower uncles and cousins, the families of her ladies and the soldiers that had died for their cause, the smallfolk that starved along with them and suffered at their hands. The lost Shrykos. For her living children, for Jaehaera and Maelor, for her mother and brothers.

Daemon Targaryen would befall the fate of all mad, rabid dogs. The frog would drown the scorpion before it could sting again. She'd cut as many of the rotted limbs from the tree as she could, herself, or she'd die trying.

The beat of Dreamfyre's wings was as soothing as it could be. Like the drums of war. Sure and steady, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. Like Sunfyre glimmering gold and platinum and rose, like the light of the Hightower, like the will of the gods. The wingbeats were thumps of a thunderous heart. A lilting lullaby from the only other creature who truly understood her pain, her fury - who knew her better than anyone else did and likely ever would. A gentle giant and an apt listener-. Dreamfyre was certain, she'd ne'er fail her, heart and soul and strength and innocence, grief and mourning. Dreamfyre knew it all. She is as much me as I am myself. She thought.

Her mouth grew dry as the dot in the distance drew ever closer. Dreamfyre rose higher and higher, the air growing thinner and colder. The red dragon and rider had not spotted them yet, and if the gods had woven the tapestry of fate in her favour, he would not until it was too late. Jaehaerys was dead. She was not.

He was dead. She was not, yet a part of her had died with him, a hole in her heart and an aching web of guilt that made it almost impossible to look at Maelor and Jaehaera, unable to meet her mother's gaze nor stomach being in the same room as her brothers for longer than a moment. Would he have grown to look like them? Aegon's messy waves, Aemond's eyes? Daeron's mannerisms? Would he still have her smile? Maybe the gods could reveal it, in another dream.

Another dream, an omen, a wish, a warning - If she lived long enough to dream again. Fire for fire, blood for blood. Like the fear that haunted her mind. Like the words and riddles whispered by some ancient power. Like their house words. Helaena took another breath, deep and slow. There was a change in the air. It smelt of sulphur and fire and rot. A shadow of a beast as large as her own appeared in the distance. Red and lanky, fierce and unfathomable. Near the size of Vhagar and mighty.

Another breath, perhaps soon to be her last. The weight of the shining silver pauldrons unfamiliar and frightening, yet it kept her grounded. A hand rubbed the pale blue and violet and silver scales, they were hot like a fire, warming and electric against the cold.

The deep green of the singular jewel around her neck. The blade at her hip, unused and untainted. Steel shiny and fresh forged and sharp The golden dragon she had stitched herself marked the hem of the blue-green-black tunic beneath the silver ringmail. Blooming gold and yellow like a bruise. The gods caressed her face, cloud-forged fingers raking through her hair, smoothing braids and tangling through the rest that draped loosely over her back and flowed behind her.

Dreamfyre unleashed a low croon, a growl deep and haunting. Musical, tragic like the songs, tragic like the saints. Fingers dug into the tangle of leather reins and rope, "Gentle mother, font of mercy."

The dragon crooned again as if she was singing along with her. Blood thumped in her ears. Dreamfyre's sapphire spines twisted in the winds, sky and silver membranes like the sails on a ship. Seven hells hath no fury like a mother protecting her children, nor the Fourteen Flames mimic the song of vengeance, cold like ice, burning like fire inside of her heart. Aegon had taken care of the rats, and soon enough, the White Worm would be dead too. She'd show Daemon the true meaning of their house words. Fire for fire, blood for blood.

As her violet eyes befell the form of Caraxes, soaring over the Riverlands, crimson and copper. Flown far enough from where he had split from the skinny brown dragon's side. She strained her eyes to glare at the form of black leather and onyx armour. If this was to be her death, so be it. A fall from the sky, to spikes or to earth, burned like her husband had been, it didn't matter. So long as he was gone. Until he faced punishment for the death he ordered.

Helaena called out in Valyrian, leather and chainmail covered chest pressed into the front of the saddle and reins bound tight around her hands. Strands of silver-gold-moonglow hair flying free of the braids she had woven that very morning. The same braids her mother had taught her all those years ago.

Dreamfyre dove. Soaring swiftly despite her size, the scream of the wind in her ears and against the dragon's mighty wings. As they drew closer, faster and faster and faster. If this was the day of her death, she'd face it with a stiff lip. No return, no return, no reason. She had come this far. Regardless, fear coiled in her belly like a viper ready to strike. Death would always be scary, a stranger, a crow cloaked in shadows with leathery wings like a bat, claws like a dragon and the shape of a tall, thin man lingered in the dark corners of her vision, the Stranger - ready to lead them to the world beyond.

She was not ready to face Jaehaerys. The little boy whose body was butchered and head hacked off by a half-blunt blade - Helaena didn't think she could ever be.. Yet, at the very least, the gods would pass their judgment upon his killers. Pass judgement upon Daemon Targaryen and his band of rabid hounds and scorpions. Death, death! The Stranger crowed through the wind.

The Mother's hymn found its way past her lips and into the wind. Flies and spiders and birds. She pleaded for the Warrior's strength, for the Maiden's goodness and the Father's justice. Fire in her blood, rage belly and thunder in her heart, the gods whispered something soft into her ear. Not a riddle, not a vision nor prophesy. Dreamfyre roared. Fire reigned o'er the back of the crimson beast, mighty dragons of blue and red danced.

#au #helaena targaryen #helaena the dreamer #queen helaena #helaena takes her revenge au #pro helaena targaryen #dreamfyre #helaena and dreamfyre #oopsie helaena might be a bit ooc but its an au so i do what i want #also not quite sure when this would be set but eh #sorry for any spelling errors and stuff #i don't proof read #just in case:#anti team black stans #anti team black #anti daemon stans #anti daemon targaryen

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lachlanzeez · 1 year

Text

being wednesdays sister and everybody falling for you pt1

parts: [1] [2] [3] [4]

_____________________________________________________________

you and your sister wednesday had recently moved to a new school. A one for freaks

when you were being introduced to everybody in the courtyard you saw a lot of people looking at you instead of your sister, which weirded you out a lot.

bianca and xavier were still together in this and ajax and enid were just getting into a relationship. Rowan and kent were still single.

They couldn't stop looking at you, because you have long white hair and you looked so soft and gentle unlike wednesday.

so when xavier and bianca were walking around at night the came across you singing an old pirate song

hoist the colours

The king and his men stole the queen from her bed... and bound her in her bones

The seas be ours beyond the powers where we will we'll roam

Yo, ho, haul together Hoist the colours high Heave ho, thieves and beggars Never shall we die

Some men have died And some are alive And others sail on the sea With the keys to the cage... And the Devil to pay We lay to Fiddler's Green!

The bell has been raised From it's watery grave... Do you hear it's sepulchral tone? We are a call to all Pay heed the squall And turn your sail toward home!

Yo, ho, all together Hoist the colours high Heave ho, thieves and beggars Never shall we die!

she sounded so angelic for a dark song. Her voice sounded like honey, and they way she danced while singing was magical. Thought xavier and bianca was staring at (name) like she and bianca were the only ones in the world, but xavier didn't mind, because (name) was an exception.

rowan saw xavier and bianca walking around so he was sneaking off to the nightshades library. Since he wasn't in them anymore he wasn't allowed in there. And if anybody caught him, he would be suspended and he doesn't want to spend his break with his unloving and uncaring mother and father. Until he heard singing, he went to investigate and saw (name) singing while dancing in the middle of the moonlight

she looked magnificent dancing in her white dress, her hair flowing with every jump.

you didn't know 3 people were watching you dance and sung last night.

you went out to jericho and went to weathervanes cafe. It sounded like a sweet place so you went in.

tyler was trying to work the coffee machine but the words were in latin so he didn't know what to do. Until a nevermores student came up to him asking if he wanted help.

he had never seen anybody with white hair but it was beautiful. He felt like he could stare into those y/e/c forever.

After the coffee machine was fixed by this beautiful looking girl, i gave her a hot chocolate on the house from helping me.

i hope to see her again thought tyler while he stared at her walking out and walking to a car.

enid and ajax were walking near the lake when they saw wednesday and her sister (name) shooting arrows on the target.

they watched (name) while she was getting her gloves on, she was wearing her beautiful white archery outfit with her arrows in the bag

she looked so magical, liked she came out of a fairytale and enid and ajax were head over heels, but what they didn't know was kent was swimming in the lake and was watching them stare at (name). He felt angry that they were trying to take her away, and how bianca and xavier were trying to take her away.

he was going to do something about it.

_________________________________________________

xoxo

lachlan zeez

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elsewhereuniversity · 6 months

Note

How would I do? Don't have a name, would have gone into engineering if acting hadn't been the more fun of the two, nearly everything I own is stolen, found, or gifted. I eat a remarkable amount of cheese, and almost never dream. Should have died four years ago but got away with a few cuts and bruises. Rarely feel emotions as strongly as other people, but when I do, they hit hard. The ocean depths call to me. Big fan of mud.

You know the ocean, you think. Mostly you know it is powerful and vast and deadly, and does not care about you, and is beautiful. And although there are white squalls and rogue waves and rip currents, the tide pulses in and out every day, like a heartbeat. The sea breeze rises and falls every afternoon like a breath. Despite the surface chaos, there is a rhythm to it all. And you can hear waves crashing, somewhere in the thick bank of fog that has rolled over the Campus Green. It cannot be so different, can it? This sense of optimism buoys you emotionally; it remains to be seen if it will buoy you physically.

#students #Anonymous

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demondwellersword · 1 year

Text

something you've never felt before.

gyutaro x f!reader

warnings: yandere, verbal abuse, gore

notes: self indulgent gyutaro fic? don’t mind if i do

Crying. You could always hear lots of crying in the Entertainment District. Crying of children, born into a world they didn’t belong. Crying of women, stuck in a world they could never escape. You had given up on crying ages ago, though your memories were fuzzy on just how long it had been.

“You disgusting little crybaby, always sniveling and clutching onto my kimono! It’s no wonder your mother left you behind, worthless creature that you are.”

You blinked away the burning feeling that prickled in the corners of your eyes, returning to your room to nurse the fresh bruises that were sure to appear on your thighs come morning. You had begged the master to make the customers treat you with more kindness, your body could only take so much, but they had done nothing more than ignore you outright and slam the door in your face.

The nights we’re getting harder, and you were getting more desperate. Every day was the same and yet somehow worse than the last, each with no escape. You prayed for a miracle, no matter how impossible it was. All you wanted was something—anything—to free you from this endless prison.

“If you’re lucky you’ll die in here, girl. Maybe one of these men will put you out of all of our misery, make room for an oiran with better looks than you. One they can actually stand to look at.”

You awoke to the faint sound of speaking just distant enough that you couldn’t make out anything that they were saying. One of the voices was female, high and whiny, while the other sounded quite like a door slowly creaking open. You quickly pulled on the clothes closest to your futon and snuck out the window, following the sound until you reached the sources.

“But brother, they’re all so mean to me!” The girl whined, tears slipping down her pale cheeks. “You have to make them stop! I don’t deserve it, I’m too pretty! All these ugly, disgusting men touching my body—“

“Shut up already, would you? I’m tired of cleaning up your messes all the time.“

“B-brother! Don’t leave me! Please, it’s not fair! Come back!” She squalled, stamping her feet in the ground below like a petulant child.

You quickly ducked out of sight when you heard the man’s footsteps begin to approach, your heart pounding in your chest as he neared the place where you hid. He was hunched over, spine visible through greyish skin drawn taut over thick muscles. His hair was messy and pulled into a knot atop his head, black fading into a bright green. He stopped just before your hiding place, yellow eyes snapping over to the place where you stood.

He sniffed the air like a wild animal, mouth stretching into a smile full of sharp teeth that sent a chill down your spine. He slowly turned to face you, finally giving you a good look at his appearance. Large black dots covered his face and body, which was both muscular and unnaturally skinny. Something about his appearance intrigued you, but fear was all too quick to replace it.

“Oh you’re a pretty girl….nice clean skin, nothing like mine….clean clothes, well-kept hair….” He stepped toward you, licking his lips. “You look so much nicer than me….it’s a shame I’ll have to kill you.”

“N-no please! Please don’t kill me!” You begged, looking down at the two large blood red sickles held in his hands.

“And why not?” He drawled, taking another step closer to you. “You’re so pretty….so lucky….I envy you….”

You swallowed thickly and shook your head. “You shouldn’t envy me. I’m nothing but a nuisance, the lowest of the low. It makes sense why all the men in the brothel abuse me and take advantage of me, I don’t deserve much better.”

A small part of you was playing up your misery in order to gain a bit of sympathy from the strange man in front of you, but most of you was telling the truth that had been hammered into your skull since you were a child. You doubted someone like this would have an ounce of compassion in his body, but you didn’t have any other choice. You couldn’t fight back, today’s customer had been more than enough proof of that.

The man’s face nearly imperceptibly softened, and he lowered the sickle in his hand. “But you…you are nothing like me. You aren’t a disgusting, good for nothing monster, people aren’t sickened by your face….”

For a brief instant when you looked into the eyes of the man in front of you the fear in your heart melted away and you felt a pang of sympathy replace it. While his appearance was undoubtedly much more unnerving than your own, you couldn’t deny the fact that your lives had followed a quite similar path. You took a deep breath to steady yourself, stomach churning as you took a hesitant step forward.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you began softly, knowing it probably wouldn’t do much to affect your situation, “and I do hope I could offer you enough kindness that you’d be able to say the same for me.”

Your dialogue was deliberate, but not in the same practiced way that it was with your customers. This came from somewhere more genuine, from the source of the pain that mirrored his. He was more like a frightened cat than a rabid dog now, still prepared to lash out but no longer on the same type of defensive. You wanted to reach a hand out to him but decided against it, knowing that it would probably lead to that same hand being severed at the wrist.

“Kindness, eh?” The man leaned forward and scoffed, taking deep crimson scratches into the skin of his neck. “That doesn’t exist. That’s just something people made up so they can keep getting things in return from the people they take from. No one ever showed me a single shred of kindness, so what makes you think I'd do it for you?"

Your breath hitched in your throat. He was right, in a way. No one owed you any kindness no matter how well you treated them; your life was constant proof of that fact. But there was something about him made you want the opposite to be true. You still feared him, knowing that in this moment one wrong move could get you killed, but there was also something just shy of pity that began to reside in your heart.

"You're right," you admitted, "but maybe that doesn't have to be true."

The man scowled at you. "I know better than to trust a word you say. You're just lying to me so I'll let you escape. Isn't that right?"

You shook your head and took a step back, eyeing the sickle that was now raised and ready to strike. Though it had started off that way the more time you spent with the man (however unwilling it may have been) the more your motivations began to shift. Something in you felt pulled to him, strange as that sounded. You wanted to reach out and touch him, to understand who he was and where he'd come from, who had wronged him and why he did the things he'd done. In some deep part of your soul you felt sickened by the thoughts that crept into your mind, but you tried to put the feeling to rest in favor of developing something more than being the prey to his predator.

"I..." you began, debating on whether or not to take another step back, "I meant it. Even if you don't think it's true."

And you did. Though your heart hadn't stopped racing for a single second, you genuinely did want to be the only person who had taken the time to be kind to this man, no matter what the cost.

The man gave you a look halfway between a scowl and a grimace, lowering the sickles as his yellowed eyes trailed down your body. There was no hunger in his eyes like before, only an emotion you couldn’t begin to place. It was as if he was studying you, looking for some specific reason that might allow you to live.

“This must be some kind of joke,” He finally said, using his fingers to scratch deep gashes into his neck. “Of course that’s what it is. I should’ve killed you when I had the chance. And to think I almost let you talk your way out of it! To think I almost believed you!”

He spat the words at you like venom, drawing his weapons for what you could only surmise would be the final time. You were desperate now, though not for self-preservation. You were desperate to prolong your conversation, even if it was only for a few minutes more. Whatever you had to do to convince him to come back, you would do. Your curiosity had long since defeated your fear, and the longer you looked into his eyes the more another emotion began to take hold.

“Please, sir, what will it take to prove that I’m telling the truth?” You begged, voluntarily beginning to close the distance between you. “All I want to do is spend a little more time with you. I just want to talk to you.”

“You can’t mean that….you’re just getting my hopes up…”

You swallowed your heart which now sat in your throat and wrapped your hand around his wrist. “Please. You seem like a very interesting man, and from what I’ve heard it doesn’t seem like many people have taken the time to listen to you. Just give me one day, and maybe I can change your mind.”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, and he stared at you for an agonizing moment. “Tomorrow night you’ll meet me here. If you run,” he raised a sickle to your throat, “I’ll kill you.”

As soon as night fell you crept out of your room and returned to the spot where you’d left the man, a girlishly giddy flutter to your heart while you waited for him to appear. You didn’t know why you were so attracted to him—as strange as it was to say it was the best descriptor you had for what you felt—but you couldn’t deny that you’d spent most of your day imagining how this very moment would play out.

“You came.” His voice had a slight softness to it, as if he’d been hoping that his assumptions of your absence had been wrong.

“I told you I would.”

You were dressed in your favorite kimono, a gift from one of the other oiran for your birthday. Your hands were down and folded against your body, and you’d put more effort into your normal work makeup especially for this occasion.

“What’s your name, anyway?” You asked.

It’s a start, at least. You thought to yourself. And maybe it'll lead to something more.

The man glanced to the side for an instant before directing his gaze back to you. “Gyutaro.”

“That’s a lovely name. I’m (Name).”

“Stop doing that,” Gyutaro commanded, scratching at his neck. “Stop making fun of me.”

“I meant it, Gyutaro. It really is a lovely name.”

"Yours is nice too. Much better than mine. It's...fitting."

You gave a pleased hum and smiled at Gyutaro. "Would you like to go for a walk? I do worry that if I'm too close to the house they'll find me and punish me."

"Punish....you?" Gyutaro cocked his head to the side. "But you....you're perfect. Why would they have a reason to hurt you?"

His words made something you'd never felt before swell up in your heart. While you still couldn't shake the twinge of fear that lingered from the previous night, it became less overwhelming in the face of this new feeling that had taken hold. In your entire time as an oiran you had never wished to see any of the men you met again, never once developed any feelings beyond the necessity of work and the repulsion at knowing just what types of people they were, always wishing for your time with them to be over just as soon as it had begun.

But with Gyutaro....you wanted to spend the whole night with him. You didn't mind if you were found out and punished for leaving in the morning; it was all worth it knowing that you'd been able to get to know him better.

"They don't like anyone leaving unless it's with a customer, especially not anyone of higher standing like myself. I'd love to leave, really leave, someday, but for now this is all I have."

Gyutaro stared at you, lightly scratching at the skin on his cheek. "You remind me of my sister....you're less annoying, but you're beautiful like her. You shouldn't be in a place like this, not while you're still human."

Still...human? You gave him a brief quizzical look but disregarded it, trying your best to push away the silly idea that he could be one of the man-eating demons that roamed the streets of the Entertainment District at night.

"There's no way for me to leave," You said, starting to walk toward the back of the building.

Gyutaro followed behind you silently, eventually stepping to walk beside you. He kept stealing glances at you, slowly moving to close the distance he'd created between you. You kept thinking about what he'd said, unable to let the idea that he wasn't human go.

"When you said 'still human', what did you mean by that?" You asked innocently, face burning when Gyutaro suddenly stopped and turned to look at you.

"You didn't know?" He chuckled, low and creaking. "You couldn't tell that I was a demon?"

The words turned your stomach. A demon. You'd thought they were just stories, gossip passed between brothels to justify why girls up and disappeared. But here you were standing next to one, unsure of whether or not it was right to feel the feelings you did about it. While the threat and prospect of him turning on you scared you, the revelation didn't do much to deter your desire to spend more time with Gyutaro.

If your ending wasn't good, then so be it. It would be fitting for the way your life had started. As long as you could enjoy what happened in the middle, you were content.

"I couldn't," you admitted, "but I don't mind that much either. Even if something bad happens, at least I'll have gotten to know you for a little while."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

"Why me, huh?" Gyutaro stepped toward you. "All my life people have been reviled by the mere sight of me. And then you....you come along, telling me that you don't agree. You aren't making fun of me either, so I don't get it. Why?"

You swallowed down every ounce of fear and inhibition that clouded your heart, took a step forward, and pressed your lips into Gyutaro's.

His skin was rough when you slid your hands up to cup his cheeks, running a thumb over the large black marks scattered across them. You doubted he'd ever been kissed as a human, and certainly not as a demon, but you felt it was the right thing to do.

For a moment he stood stiff as a board, his whole body tensing at your touch, but soon he picked up on the movements of your lips and adjusted to match them. His kisses were messy and harsh, hands moving out to roughly grasp your hips as he stole the air from your lungs.

When you finally pulled away you were gasping for air, lips buzzing with pleasure. When you looked at him you felt utterly enraptured, ready to let him destroy you if it meant just one more kiss like the ones you'd just shared. It was intoxicating, this feeling of desire.

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"They won't ever hurt you again," Gyutaro said, clutching you against his body, "you're mine now, and I'll be sure that no one but me ever lays a hand on you. Got it?"

You nodded. The seriousness in his voice both turned your stomach and made your heart flutter, sending a buzz through your entire body. You were ready to let him protect you, to devote your life to his in return for whatever he could give you. You kissed him again, loving the feeling of his hands against your body and his lips against yours. Because now until forever you would be his, and you couldn't have wanted for anything more than that.

#kny #demon slayer #demon slayer kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba #kny x reader #demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #gyutaro x reader #gyutaro shabana #x reader #x reader fanfiction

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violet-shadows · 2 years

Text

Welcome Home

Masterlist

Summary: Azriel comes home late one evening to a surprise from his mate, who has spent the evening reading scary stories.

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (She/Her)

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: pure fluff

A/N: So I posted for five days in a row to celebrate 500 followers, but I ended up hitting 600 yesterday. Here is a surprise sixth fic. Thank you to @ellievickstar for making this fun request. ⊱ —————— ❈ —————— ⊰

Your home with Azriel was the stuff of dreams. A small stone cottage situated south of the City of Starlight, where the Sidra river met the ocean beyond. It was not nearly as grand as the River House or the House of Wind, with no opulent foyer or sweeping staircases, but it felt more like home than anywhere you had ever lived. Shortly after the bond clicked and you and your mate absconded to the cabin for three long weeks, Azriel surprised you by suggesting you get a place of your own, just for the two of you. The cottage was in rough shape when you acquired it, withering under years of neglect and battered by the nearby sea. Azriel had been skeptical at first, but the view of the ocean to the south and the city to the north was unparalleled. You knew as soon as you saw the small structure nestled between rolling green hills that no other property in the whole of Prythian would ever compare.

The process to restore and expand the house had taken months, with diligent planning on your part to ensure it retained its original charm. Rhysand had offered to build an entirely new home as a mating present, arguing he was long overdue in showing Azriel his gratitude for years of loyal service and brotherhood. The High Lord’s taste was far more extravagant than what you had in mind, though you did allow him to talk you into expanding the property slightly. You allowed a few extra rooms to be tacked on near the back, carefully crafted to match the original architecture. “For a library or an office,” Rhys had suggested, turning to you with a mischievous glint, “or perhaps a nursery.” You’d shushed him, your cheeks burning, but you couldn’t help but picture it as the framing went up. For now, the room closest to yours and Azriel’s would be a guest room, but someday, you both hoped that might change.

Another room at the south end of the home was designated as a small library, with an oversized window nook that provided sweeping views of the river mouth. The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stained deep mahogany, the majority of which were already filled with your and Azriel’s personal collection of books. At one end of the room, there was a seating area adjacent to the nook, where a large velvet sofa and a leather armchair fit to accommodate wings lay before a cozy fireplace. Feyre had painted the piece that hung over the mantle, a portrait of you and Azriel, silhouetted against a star-flecked sky. At the other end of the room was a shiny, black piano where your mate would sometimes sit and play you lullabies while you leafed through your book of the moment. While you loved all the rooms in your home, the library, in particular, was your verison of paradise. After so many years of bloodshed and chaos, the peaceful dwelling was a salve for both you and Azriel’s souls.

When Azriel was away on work for an extended period and you had nothing to busy yourself with, you would often find yourself curled up in the nook or next to the hearth, book in hand and basking in the serenity of your surroundings while you awaited his return. On one such evening, while an autumn squall sent sheets of rain against the windows, you selected a new book to occupy your time. The novel was a thriller recommended by Gwyn, who said she enjoyed it despite the lack of romance but warned you it may send chills down your spine. The story was indeed as captivating as it was unsettling, and you read well into the evening, completely enraptured. Dusk turned to night and you moved to the armchair, wrapping yourself in a blanket that smelled of Azriel while you read by firelight.

As the macabre tale unfolded, the creak of the house and howling wind beyond had you on edge, nearly jumping from your seat at each crack of thunder or wailing gust. Usually, you didn’t mind being alone at the house, but on nights like this, you longed for the comforting warmth of your mate at your side. Azriel was with Cassian in the Illyrian mountains, and with the storm raging outside, he was unlikely to return until the following day. You knew your choice in reading materials would do you no good when it came to falling asleep alone that night, but the chilling plot was too enthralling to put down.

Hours after dusk, a particularly loud creak made you jump, your heart racing in your chest. You were ready to dismiss it as a consequence of the galeforce winds when it happened again, this time followed by a slam coming from your front room. Blood drained from your face as you recognized the sound as that of your front door opening and closing. For a moment, you were frozen in fear, thoughts of the creatures from your book filling your mind. The house and grounds were heavily warded, and there were few who would dare trespass on the Shadowsinger’s land, but terror began to rise within you nonetheless.

The nearest weapon was across the hall in Azriel’s office, and to get to it, you would have to cross the intruder’s line of sight, costing you the element of surprise. A plan began to form in your mind and you rose silently, picking up the largest book you owned. It was a hefty historical text bound in wood and leather, and you reckoned it would do quite nicely as a makeshift paddle. Positioning yourself behind the door to the library, you held your breath and listened for movement in the hallway. You couldn’t hear any footsteps, but with the rain battering your roof and wailing wind, they could easily be concealed. There was a slight click of your bedroom door being opened from down the hall, but after a few moments, it was shut softly once more. A few seconds passed and the handle to the library door twisted. You raised the book in preparation, bracing yourself for the fight that would soon follow.

The intruder opened the door, and before they could take a full step across the threshold you lunged forward with a great cry. Calling on every bit of upper body strength you possessed, you swung the book upwards towards their face and moved to dart past them towards the office. As the makeshift weapon made contact and the trespasser gave a cry of surprise, recognition washed over you, followed closely by horror.

Azriel stumbled backward, his hand coming up to clutch his nose, and you dropped the book in shock. He looked up at you wearing a bewildered impression, clearly caught off guard by your greeting. You covered your mouth in shock as blood dripped from one of his nostrils. “I’m sorry!” you yelped. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were an intruder!” Despite his bloodied nose, Azriel’s face held no anger, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. “Oh by the Mother, wait here!” you exclaimed, moving past him to retrieve a cloth for his nose and wetting another with cold water.

“Quite the welcome home, love,” Azriel mused, chuckling as he accepted the cloth to wipe his nose. The bleeding had nearly stopped already, but guilt surged within you. “What’s got you so spooked?”

He turned to look at you and the amusement dissolved, his face falling when he registered the tears rapidly gathering in your eyes. “I’m so sorry,” you choked, beginning to sniffle. Hurting your mate, accident or not, was stomach churning.

“It’s alright, love,” Azriel assured you, stepping forward to cup your face. “I’m fine. It was a creative defense, I’ll give you that.” He brushed his thumb across your cheek, wiping away the stray tears that had fallen, and leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead. “Now, what made you think it was anyone but me coming home?”

“I thought you wouldn’t be back until the storm passed and…” Your eyes flitted to your book, discarded on the couch, “and the book I’m reading had me on edge, I suppose.” Azriel couldn’t help but laugh, breaking into a full-on grin as you blushed, looking positively sheepish.

“Perhaps we should save the thrillers for daylight hours,” he suggested, wrapping you in his arms. “Although I guess it’s a good thing you're so ready to defend yourself and our home.”

You leaned into his touch, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, face pressed into his rain drenched armor. He leaned down and kissed the top of your head.

“No harm done, my love,” he said, his chest vibrating as he spoke. “How about we both get warmed up in the bath and you can tell me about this book that has you so unsettled, hmm?”

“I like that idea,” you looked up at him, relieved to find no bruising on his beautiful face, and pecked him on the lips. “Welcome home, my love.”

⊱ —————— ❈ —————— ⊰

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specialagentartemis · 3 months

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I promise this has lore but it’s equally silly, so:

Young Daniel Fenton, only four-and-ten Years on this turning Earth had he yet seen, When the most peculiar machine His parents built, to view beyond their ken. Their disappointment overcame them when It failed; but Daniel, with his interest keen, Made the fateful choice to look again.

A flash! and then his whole world came undone. His atoms ripp'd asunder, in a glow Of green. His hair was bleach'd as white as snow. But he was not alone. A fearful squall Of spirits enter'd Earth under the sun. Phantasmic Daniel, he would catch them all!

#Danny Phantom #fan poetry #Posting from the hospital with garbage internet connection #I’m fine they just need to look at my bones and my Cyborg Parts (titanium pin in my bones)#Anyway. Is it ‘yo’ or ‘young’? Eternal debate it seems!#Also pls don’t @ me about the sonnet form I realized too late

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mangoshorthand · 3 months

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Arrow of Time: Chapter 4 [Five Hargreeves/ F Reader]

(Hard Feelings Part 5)

SUMMARY: When the mother of all teenage tantrums causes time itself to fracture, Five has to travel back to 1831 to repair the damage. But will he be able to cope with what he finds there?

On to Chapter 5 >> << Back to Chapter 3

Five makes plans to rescue you, but it's been far longer for you than for him.

Chapter 4: At Home With Reginald Hargreeves

Five chose a Glock 19 and filled his jacket pockets with as many spare pre-loaded magazines as he could carry. At 33 rounds each, he prepared to leave sitting on a respectable level of firepower; he just hoped he wouldn’t need it .With any luck, he thought, he’d arrive in something like the early 2000s and she’d be there waiting for him. He hoped for the best but prepared for the worst.

The heavy coat was a just-in-case choice. He knew from bitter experience: a decent coat was worth its weight in gold if you were stuck in some wasteland away from people. On the off-chance that Five wouldn’t be stuck in some wasteland away from people, some of Reginald’s gold antiques could be easily sold to help him get by. While Five was in the armory, Diego had searched him out a spyglass, what looked like a snuff-box and a pocket watch, all in gold or gold and enamel.

“That should keep you going, hermano,” he said, giving Five’s shoulder a squeeze. Apparently, he’d chosen to forget Five’s meanness earlier. Despite Five’s favourite taunt, Diego wasn’t dumb: just then, he could see past his brother’s bluster of confident action to the just-veiled panic within.

“You’ll find her.” he said, reassuringly, “she’ll probably be standing right on a street corner in 1970 or somewhere yelling about how Nixon’s a fascist.”

Five had cracked a smile at this before looking down again at his shoes.

“Diego…I don’t know for sure what’s going to happen. And…”, he’d sighed fitfully, indecisively, “what the hell am I doing? If I go, she could be losing both parents.”

Diego squeezed the hand still on his shoulder.

“If you don’t go, she could die. We all could. You know it, Five.”

Green eyes met brown as Five looked up.

“If we don’t come back, then-” he couldn’t finish the request, voice squalling as he choked on the words.

Diego shook his head, laughing softly at the fact Five thought he even had to ask.

“Like she’s our own. Tu hija es mi hija .”

Five nodded, some of his worry removed and, in a move as rare as it was heartfelt, hugged Diego. They broke apart after much throat-clearing and back-slapping.

“Come on, Number Two,” Five said then, throwing off gravity with as much irony as he could muster.

Back in the study, Lila was trying her best to extort a smile from Aoife- to keep her relaxed despite Uncle Luther’s grave expression.

“Honestly, sweetie, that’s got to be the most epic teenage meltdown in history. Whacking your Mum through a rip in time? That’s genius : that’s the stuff of teenage dreams. I just wish I’d thought of it when I was your age.”

As Five and Diego walked in, her father dressed to leave, Aoife began to leak from the eyes again.

The others tactfully averted their eyes as Five beckoned her to him for one final hug, giving them a little privacy .Aoife whispered unintelligible apologies and Five loving reassurance. Though it was mostly in Italian, the tenderness in Five’s voice was enough to let them know that this was for his daughter’s ears alone.

Five tried to put as much as he could into that hug: years of love, guidance and comfort that he might now never be able to give her.

“ Ti voglio bene. Tua madre ti ama.”

“Dad, I’m sorry!”

“Stai sempre al sicuro, sappi che ti amiamo e comportati bene. Sono orgoglioso e non smetterò mai di esserlo, ok?”

He held her tight for a few more precious moments before letting her go and stepping backwards. He was nervous or, more accurately, terrified. He hadn’t wanted to suggest that Aoife may not be able to replicate what she did; he didn’t want to plant even a shred of doubt in her mind. He knew it was entirely possible that she wouldn’t be able to send him after his wife but he had to go on pretending: for himself as well as for their daughter.

“Go on, cara,” he said, mustering a grin as if this was just a game of soccer and she was preparing to take a penalty against him, “send me wherever you sent Mom. Just do exactly the same thing.”

“Okay.”

She took a couple of deep breaths and shook out her limbs, bracing herself against the floor.

“That’s my girl.”

She rubbed her hands together and he felt her power up. This was a good start.

“Come on now,” he encouraged, buoyed himself, “just a big push and we’ll be back before you know it.”

She nodded, fervently, eyes still sparkling with tears. Did she believe him or was she nodding with the force of how much she wanted it to be true? She closed her eyes and sprang at him.

He breached the film-like seal easily. She’d done it: he spiralled into senseless static storm. He fell (or maybe falls?) through time, screwing up his eyes against the turmoil.

And he lands, amazingly, on his feet. His knees buckle only slightly. Straightening his back, he looks over his shoulder at the tear, watching it disappear in a sag-like collapse. No problem: it’s still there, only invisible.

He hurries out of the alleyway, brain much cooler than he’d imagined it would be, and scans the crowded street for a glimpse of his wife. Nothing. A setback, but only a slight one. He calls her name experimentally. Nothing but a few haughty looks from passers-by. Okay: reconnaissance time.

It’s old-timey times, that much is clear. He doesn’t know much about fashion but if that woman’s hat is anything to go by, it’s certainly pre-20th century. Carriages on the road: definitely 19th century. There’s a chill in the air: so winter, maybe early spring? He’d be thankful for the warm coat were it not attracting so many stares. So where is he?

He strolls into the street, still scanning the pedestrians for a glimpse of your face. The accents of the passers-by certainly sound American and this is clearly a city, so he decides to work on the assumption that he’s traveled further through time than he has space. Those accents weren’t precisely what he’d expect from local New Yorkers, but he knows enough about linguistic change to know that accents shift over centuries. If these people sound a little more Irish or English or Italian or whatever, it’s to be expected.

He takes off the coat and drapes it over his arm. In exposing his suit, he hopes to look slightly less out of place than he does in the coat with its obviously modern fabrics. At least a suit will be a recognizable garment to these people, even if he’s wearing one that looks completely bizarre to them.

Though Five doesn’t know it, his next move mirrors yours when you arrived here, although he has less care for being polite. Across the street, a man slightly more down-at-heel than the relatively affluent people around him carries a newspaper under his arm. Five blinks across to him, appearing directly in his eyeline and causing him and several others to call out in shock.

“Is that today’s newspaper?” Five says, abruptly. He’s unwilling to tread softly: he wants to find you and get the hell out of here.

The man nods and Five holds out his hand expectantly. He thrusts it towards him and hurries away. Five knows he and the others will already be trying to rationalize what he saw: of course that strangely dressed man didn’t appear out of nowhere, he just stepped out from behind that carriage extremely quickly.

Five shakes out the front page. It’s a copy of the New-York Evening Post, dated March 6th 1831. That answers two questions: yes, he is in the nineteenth century and yes, he is still in New York. But none of this answers the more important question of where the hell his wife is.

Stuffing the newspaper into his back pocket, he blinks back to the alleyway, checking the walls for the hope of some sign: some calling card you might have left. Nothing.

Hell, is he in the right place? Did Aoife somehow send him somewhere else? He didn’t think it was possible but he would have expected to have seen something by now if you were here. You knew how things went down in Dallas: you knew how he’d had to find his siblings like a trail of more-or-less idiotic breadcrumbs. You’d leave him some way of finding you again, he knew it.

Tracking people down was never a huge part of his skill-set, either when Dad was training them or when working for the Commission. Indeed, the job that had made his name in the Commission, (Paris: 1938) had been notable because he’d had to improvise after being unable to track the target down in time. Nevertheless, he’d had enough experience with it to know how to begin in a situation like this.

He walks back to the alley where he arrived and puts himself squarely in your shoes. Knowing you almost as well as he knows himself by now, he’s at an advantage: it’s time to reconstruct your first moments here.

You were a first time time-traveler without the aid of a briefcase and his supportive arm…you’d be disorientated. You’d have fallen onto the cobbles. He crouches down, trying to get to the level you’d be at. You’d be scared, obviously. He looks into the sky behind him, where the portal would have just disappeared: you’d be looking for help, looking for him… but clearly he wasn’t there.

Still immersed in your headspace, Five looks around into the street. You’d probably panic, maybe run into the street and cause a stir. People would stare at you like they’d stared at him…except you were in your pajamas and robe: braless and exposed…you probably wouldn’t get much help from people on the street. They’d think you were mad.

His stomach lurches at this. If there’s one thing he knows about the 1830s, it’s that mentally-ill people were not treated well. So that puts asylums firmly on his list, unless he can find a better lead. Shit, a woman on her own in 1831?

The realization makes him pause, blood running cold; if you’re here, then you’re probably in serious danger. He needs to find you, and quickly. He doesn’t want to think about what might happen if you’re here alone for even a few days. He bats away the thoughts for now and returns to his process.

Vulnerable, unsure where (or when), you were and attracting stares from people dressed like a period drama. He crosses his arms over his chest as you would likely have done, to hide prominent nipples. Inside…you’d want to go inside and get off the street.

He hurries into all the establishments on the street: he blinks from church to pawnbroker and bookstore to butcher: neither the preacher nor the store’s clerks can recall a woman of your description.

In the pawnbroker, he makes his first mistake. He’s so distracted by first enquiring after you and then selling the antique spyglass that he doesn’t notice something in the window: something that could lead him to you much more quickly. As it is, he walks straight past that item, folding the two hundred and ten dollars he got for the spyglass and placing the notes in his jacket pocket with two of the Glok’s spare clips.

If Five hadn’t been concerned with concealing the ammunition, he might have caught the sparkle of rubies and spotted your engagement ring in the window for sale.

He’d initially overlooked the Milliner’s shop right beside the alley entrance. When he blinks inside unexpectedly, the two women comparing the shade of ribbon on two bonnets give little screams of surprise.

Ignoring them, Five focuses his attention purely on the shop’s startled proprietor:

“Did a woman come in here? She’d be dressed strangely. In a pair of pajamas and a robe?”

“Pajamas?” said the clerk, clearly not understanding the word.

Five tries to keep his frustration under the surface, “Like a cotton shirt and pants? With a floral pattern and a white robe on top? Probably panicking.”

There’s a spark of something like recognition in her eyes. Her disposition towards him, (already chilly), seems to cool even further on learning of his association with her.

“Yes sir, though it was a long time since.”

“How long?”

“About a year now, I’d say.”

A year? Five rubs a hand down his face. A year? While he collects himself, the clerk looks him up and down.

“You wouldn’t be her husband, would you?”

His eyes snapped back to hers, heart leaping,

“Yes. What did she say?”

“As I say, it was a long while ago now and I’m afraid I shooed her out right quick. I can’t say I can remember all she said.”

Five leans threateningly over the counter.

“Well, think.”

The shop’s customers behind him whisper among themselves. He ignores them, eyes boring into the clerk’s. She stammers slightly as she responds,

“I didn’t set much store by it. She seemed mad to me, I’m sorry to say. She was raving about being separated from her husband.”

Five tries extremely hard not to snap, “She was separated from her husband. What else?”

She quails under his look, backing up towards the door to the back of the store.

“S-she said to tell you where she was staying if you came enquiring for her.”

He raises his eyebrows expectantly. Why this woman can’t just get to the point , he has no idea.

“Yes, and where was she staying?”

“At the tavern,” the clerk said, as if this was evidence in itself of his wife’s ill-repute. “The Bull’s Head. It’s a block away and it’s got one or two rooms overhead.”

As the church clock strikes four, Five starts to lose his cool; he found the Bull’s Head and the owner had remembered a woman matching your description stayed a few nights until she could no longer pay and then vanished without a trace. He’d pressed the guy as much as possible, but that’s all he seems to know. Combing the immediate area had also yielded nothing. He has no leads: nothing, zilch.

…and after all the time he spent packing ammunition, he forgot his pills. No Zoloft or Prozac in this time period. He’ll need to go cold turkey.

He’s spent one of his dollars on a night’s room and board on the understanding that he may be staying longer. He’d asked specifically for the room you hired: he doubted it would help, but it makes him feel closer to you somehow. The bed is saggy, the mattress filled with some kind of husk and the thin feather-filled bolster on top does little to compensate. Sure, the room isn’t exactly the Ritz, but Five’s had worse accommodations in his time. He’s spent most of his life without plumbing; at one time, he’d have thought pissing into a chamber pot the height of luxury, and the latrine in the yard out back meant that he at least didn’t have to bury his shit.

He was used to slumming it, but you weren’t. In your fifteen years together, Five had never known you to be anything other than prissy about your bathroom habits. The reflection made him feel a strange squirm of amusement and pity. How you’d cope in this environment, he had no idea…but you would have adapted; you’d have had to.

Now, he drums his fingers erratically on the bar, drinking beer that tastes like warm piss. He shifts uncomfortably, realizing that he’s sitting on the newspaper still in his back pocket. He’s exhausted all his options for today: it can’t hurt to scour the news for some sort of clue.

He’s surprised by how much of the paper is taken up by advertisements. The entire front page is full of bullshit like: ‘Doctor John Ashton’s most efficacious elixir for relief from ladies monthly courses’ and how ‘Miss S. Campbell is pleased to announce her opening of a store for the wholesale and retail of fine silks and muslins’ but Five scours through them all nevertheless, hopeful for anything, anything at all.

And then, when he gets to the ‘society’ page, his prayers are answered and his worst fears confirmed in one fell swoop:

…and after all the time he spent packing ammunition, he forgot his pills. No Zoloft or Prozac in this time period. He’ll need to go cold turkey.

And then, when he gets to the ‘society’ page, his prayers are answered and his worst fears confirmed in one fell swoop:

AT HOME WITH SIR REGINALD HARGREEVES Newcomer to the Manhattan set, Sir Reginald Hargreeves, will be entertaining to a select group of Ladies and Gentlemen on March 9 at his home in LeRoy Place. Though one of the latest of an increasing number of British arriviste, Sir Reginald has made quite the impact on Manhattan society, and is already acquainted with the finest people. The evening will be devoted to music, dancing and social chat and promises to be a most fashionable occasion...

It makes him double-take. He can practically feel the blood draining from his face and into his extremities. Dad? Here? Throwing a party!? It just seems too much of a coincidence to not be significant. And how? How old was he? He knew he’d been around in the 20s, but to be here nearly a century earlier?

He knows time’s in a fragile state right now, and if there’s one place he shouldn't go, then it’s that party, (the last thing he needs is to kick off another Sparrow Academy scenario), but he also can’t not go to this party. His Dad and his wife, appearing in a timeframe where neither of them had any business being? This wasn’t a coincidence: it simply couldn’t be.

…but he couldn’t just burst in and scream: ‘Hey Dad, where’s my wife and what are you doing here?’ It was essential to travel under Hargreeves’ radar and if he was going to do that, he had to be disciplined. No blinking, no yelling, nothing that could make him stick out. He hoped this ‘select group of ladies and gentlemen’ wasn’t too small so he had half a chance of blending in.

And if he were even to have a quarter of a chance of blending in, he needs to look the part.

Then, Number Five makes his second mistake: He tears the society page out of the newspaper, folds it and hurries to the bar to ask for the nearest tailors or gentleman’s outfitters. When he hurries out of the door, he leaves the rest of the newspaper on the table. If he'd kept reading to the personals section, he would have seen something even more useful than the piece about Reginald.

NUMBER FIVE - If a certain gentleman wishes to correspond with an old acquaintance, then he might apply to the editor of this newspaper.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88, @nevillescomslut (sorry for double tag Nev this is just to aid with my creation of the next post!)

On to Chapter 5 >> Masterpost

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