#STEEL JAWLINE OF FREEDOM

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 73

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

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

Chapter 73: A Woman's War

AO3 - Masterlist

After hours of patrolling the sky, Daemon landed, the quiet of the night enveloping him. Above, the sky was a pristine tapestry, scattered with countless stars, untouched by any wisp of clouds. The moon hung full and radiant, casting a gentle silver light over the world, its glow faintly illuminating the surroundings through the thick shroud of darkness. Baela and Jace, astride Moondancer and Vermax respectively, cut majestic figures against the celestial backdrop, their dragon’s forms silhouetted against the vast, star-filled heavens. 

Seeking a moment of peace, Daemon found comfort alongside Caraxes, his fingers tracing the dragon’s mighty jawline. He found solace in the close proximity to the beast, pressing his forehead against its warm scales as he released a breath. It was in the vast embrace of the skies that Daemon felt a profound sense of freedom, and it was in the fire and steel of the battlefield that he found a thrill–a profound sense of control over life and death, where his inner dragon could finally be unleashed, free and unrestrained. 

Time had taught Daemon the worth of patience, a lesson he had accepted with reluctance–and one he still struggled with. He felt the urge to unleash the fury of dragonfire upon their enemies, to let them taste the bitter sting of his blade, and reclaim what was rightfully theirs by blood. It left a deep-seated restlessness stirring within him, igniting a relentless itch beneath his skin, a yearning that gnawed at his fingertips. Daemon felt the overwhelming urge to channel this turmoil into action, and yet, he was forced to stay his hand. 

As the crunch of approaching footsteps broke the stillness of the night, Daemon sensed the presence of another. Pulling away from Caraxes, he grounded himself. Turning, he made his way towards the keep, where he was met at the base of the stairs by the captain of the guard. 

“Lord Bartimos Celtigar has been accommodated in the east wing,” Ser Brandon Piper reported, keeping pace with Daemon as they ascended the stairs. “His ship is currently anchored in the bay, accompanied by a retinue of some thirty men.”

“Thirty men is hardly sufficient to meet our defense requirements,” Daemon remarked, acutely aware of the glaring gaps in their fortifications. Seventy men were far from adequate to secure the island against an invading force. Despite the formidable benefits of the nearly impregnable walls, challenging rocky terrain, and limited access points, Daemon knew that these defenses, though significant, were not infallible. He much preferred a more substantial force at his disposal. A sizable enemy host could potentially besiege Dragonstone and cut them off from the outside world–however, their dragons were by far their most formidable strength, one they would levy against any hosts that might dare move against them.  

Ser Brandon offered an explanation with a tone of measured defense, “Lord Celtigar brought what forces he could gather on such short notice. His son is rallying additional troops as we speak.”

“Ensure those we have are strategically placed along the defenses,” Daemon commanded, his hand pushing the heavy door open with an air of determined authority. 

“As you command, my prince,” came the dutiful reply. 

The corridors of Dragonstone absorbed their presence into its haunting silence, with only the echo of their footsteps to contest the quietude. The castle’s interior, shrouded in darkness, seemed to become one with the night, the few flickering torches doing little to fend off the encroaching shadows. 

“Has there been any word from King’s Landing?” Daemon inquired, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. 

“Ser Harron Allister, the Commander of the City Watch, alongside his second, Ser Toric Broom, have been imprisoned. They face execution for their refusal to pledge allegiance to Aegon,” Ser Brandon responded solemnly. “The handful of lords and ladies who refused to bend the knee have also found themselves imprisoned.”

Each word weighed heavily in the air, a grim reminder of the treacherous currents shifting within the realm, and the brutal consequences of defiance. 

“Men of honor,” Daemon said under his breath, his voice tinged with a mix of respect and rising fury. He remembered Ser Harron Allister and Ser Toric Broom well, having served alongside them during his time as the Commander of the City Watch. Both exemplified the loyalty and justice that Daemon had sought to instill in the Watch. Upon stepping down from his role, Ser Harron Allister had succeeded him.

Daemon’s thoughts darkened as he reflected on the unfortunate turn of events. He had shaped the City Watch into a formidable force, a pack of loyal hounds meant to protect the city from itself. 

“As for the City Watch, Ser Luthor Largent now commands it, with Ser Gwayne Hightower as his second in command,” Ser Brandon added, keeping pace with Daemon as they climbed the serpentine stairs. 

Daemon responded with a scornful huff, his hand instinctively tightening on the pommel of Dark Sister, secured at his side. It was a move characteristic of Otto Hightower, to appoint his son to a key position to ensure the City Watch’s allegiance through fear of dismissal, or worse, for the same fate that befell their predecessors to befall them as well. Daemon had known Ser Luthor Largent as well, acknowledging him as a competent commander and a loyal man. Yet, in these treacherous times, even the virtuous faced the grim prospect of execution for steadfast loyalty. Constrained by his circumstances, Ser Luthor’s submission to the Hightowers was, perhaps, a strategic retreat. A man of his intellect would navigate this new order with caution, serving his new masters while awaiting an opportune moment to act. 

Daemon couldn’t fault him for submission, though he could not help but be wary of it. He couldn’t rely on the commander's loyalty, and so, he could not place his trust in him. 

“What news do we have of Daenera?” Daemon inquired, his tone heavy.

Ser Brandon hesitated briefly, caution in his voice, “There’s little news, I’m afraid. She was seen at the coronation, adorned in the Hightower colors, and bending the knee to the new King.”

A sharp tension clenched in Daemon’s jaw at the news. “And her men?”

“It’s believed they’ve either been slain or captured, my prince.”

Daemon’s frustration was palpable; he pressed a thumb against the corner of his eye, fighting back the surge of anger at the thought of Daenera betraying them for the usurpers. The thought burrowed in Daemon, festering like a vile, infected wound–putrid and toxic, slowly seeping its poison throughout his being. 

Continuing down the hall, Daemon issued his commands with a clear sense of urgency, “Keep watch over the sea. Lords Gormon Massey and Bar Emmon are expected to arrive by ship. Ensure their forces are positioned on the walls alongside our current men. Inform those already here that I will convene a council at dawn.”

“As you command, my prince,” Ser Brandon affirmed, offering a curt nod. He then stepped back, pivoted sharply, and departed to carry out the orders.

The weight of the situation bore down on Daemon, becoming all the more palpable as he paused at the entrance of his and Rhaenyra’s private chambers. Elinda Massey, daughter of Lord Gormon Massey, approached him, her expression etched with concern. The anxious line of her brows conveyed the urgency of Rhaenyra’s labor without a word being spoken.

“It is common for contractions to sometimes stall, offering a brief respite before escalating in severity,” Elinda began, her voice trembling slightly as her hands twisted together nervously.

“And the child?” Daemon inquired, his voice tight with concern. 

“Maester Geradys believes that, despite the babe arriving a moon’s turn early, it is fully developed, and the prospects of its survival are promising…” Elinda detailed, her words trailing off. “But the princesses body hasn’t fully dilated for the child to make its entrance. We hope that once this lull passes, she will have the strength to deliver the child. Should this delay persist…”

Daemon moved past her, signaling the midwives to step out for a moment, wishing to be alone with his wife. He carefully unbuckled the sword belt around his waist, quietly removing it from his side. He positioned the blade at the foot of the bed, allowing it to lean securely against the footboard. Then, he moved around the bed, dragging a chair closer to the bedside, his body marked by the weariness of constant tension–the muscles of his back fraught and aching from carrying her to bed. His knees, too, protested the long hours spent in the saddle, a dull ache pulsating through the joints from remaining in the same position as he navigated the skies. 

He settled himself in the chair, looking at his wife. Her face was flushed from exertion, her skin glistening with perspiration that made the strands of her hair cling to her neck and temples. 

An oppressive sense of worry and fear filled the room, its presence as tangible as the deepening shadows. Daemon was no stranger to this type of fear; it was akin to the apprehension felt between battles, where soldiers whispered prayers of gratitude and pleas for continued survival as the threat of another looming at the horizon. It mirrored the dread that permeated the air along with the stench of blood and despair, resonating from those barely clinging to life, holding their own innards. 

He supposed that the same apprehension of battle also pervaded the spaces where women labored to bring forth life. Childbirth, in its essence, was a battle of its own. 

Rhaenyra was no stranger to the trials of childbirth, yet this particular ordeal appeared more fraught with danger than those before. Despite his familiarity with the perils of combat, of war and death, the current battle his wife faced ignited a deep-seated fear within him–a fear not wholly unfounded. The struggle to birth a child was what had taken Laena from him. He did not wish the same for Rhaenyra. 

Dampening a cloth and squeezing out the excess water, Daemon placed it on his wife’s forehead, pressing it softly against her skin. Rhaenyra’s eyes fluttered open, her eyelids heavy with fatigue as she looked up at him, her face marked by the toll of her exertion. A weak smile briefly touched her lips as she adjusted her head to see him more clearly. 

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she whispered, her voice rough and strained from labor. 

“I’ve been making preparations.”

“Is that why you smell of dragon?” She asked with a slight note of amusement. 

“I’ve been patrolling the skies.” Daemon lifted the cloth from her forehead and soaked it anew. After wringing out the excess moisture, he gently reapplied it to her skin, hoping to offer a small measure of relief. “Jace and Baela are currently patrolling. They insisted upon it.”

Rhaenyra offered a worn smile, which quickly gave way to a grimace of discomfort as she shifted on the bed. Her gaze met with Daemon’s, just as he moved his hand back to his lap, leaving the cooling cloth on her forehead. 

“Have you any news?”

“Nothing beyond what Rhaenys brought us,” Daemon replied, his posture slumped, elbows on his knees, a manifestation of his own exhaustion. The weight of his exhaustion pressed heavily upon him, as if his very bones were cast from lead. A persistent tightness had settled behind his eyes, throbbing with each beat of his heart. 

“Have any of the lords made their arrival?” She pressed on, causing Daemon to close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How many ravens have you dispatched? House Massey and Darklyn will answer our call, and Bartimos Celtigar has been a good friend for years. We should–”

Daemon cut in gently, yet firmly, “You shouldn’t burden yourself with these matters.”

He reached out, his hand resting on the curve of her belly, feeling the warmth of her skin through the silk nightgown and bed covers. When their eyes met again, a hint of frustration was evident on her face, her hand covering his, the touch insistent. 

“I should like to be kept informed,” she asserted. 

“Rhaenyra…” Daemon started, his voice laden with fatigue. He withdrew his hand, dragging it across his face in a gesture of weariness and frustration. A tide of vexation rose within him, reflecting the strain of the moment. 

“I am to be–I am the Queen, am I not?” She insisted, adjusting herself to sit more upright against the pillows and headboard, her hand instinctively cradling the swell of her pregnant stomach as she winched slightly from the pain. She removed the cloth from her forehead, placing it on the side table. 

Daemon clenched his jaw tightly, an undercurrent of irritation swirling within him. His reluctance to share the burdens of leadership was not born from a desire to keep her uninformed; rather, it stemmed from a protective instinct. He wished to spare her the added stress, to shield her from the tumultuous affairs that lay beyond her current reach, focusing instead on the immediate challenge of bringing their child into the world. 

“I don’t wish to burden you with the matters of war,” Daemon stated, the resolve in his voice underscored by the straightening of his posture, despite the protesting ache in his back. “Having endured the loss of one wife to childbirth, the thought of losing another…”

His mind drifted to Laena. He had loved her–not in the way she deserved, but he had loved her. She had been vibrant and fierce, a true dragonrider with the blood of Old Valyria coursing through her veins. Laena had possessed a boldness that was charming. She had been kind and sweet, and she had loved him more than he deserved. His love for Laena was genuine, yet it paled in comparison to the depth of his feelings for Rhaenyra.

“I cannot do it again,” Daemon confessed, his tone a hushed murmur laden with vulnerability. 

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, her head tilting in a gentle gesture of understanding as she regarded him. “Daemon…”

“The losses today have been too great,” Daemon pressed on, his words infused with a bitter resentment that intertwined with his fear and the pervasive anger that had taken root in his heart–a relentless torment that coiled within him, fueling a constant, seething rage. 

“You are not the only one who mourns him,” Rhaenyra murmured softly, letting the words linger in the air. A heavy silence fell between them, filled only by Rhaenyra’s intense gaze, her eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of concern and sadness, her lips pressed tightly together.

Outside, the wind raged against the shutters, its howls a grim accompaniment to the turmoil within. 

“They killed him, Rhaenyra,” Daemon uttered, restlessly tapping his nails against the wooden arm of the chair. “I know it. They poisoned him, and they took him from us.”

Rhaenyra’s expression turned sympathetic yet skeptical, her brow furrowing deeper as her head tilted the other way. “He had an ailment–”

“One, I’m sure, they exacerbated for their own gain,” Daemon quickly countered, his tone edged with scorn. “The Hightowers have always had close ties with the Maesters of the Citadel, and Otto Hightower would have been sure to exploit that in favor of keeping power in his hands. They kept him dependent on milk-of-the-poppy, ensuring that he was unable to sit in governance.”

“What you are suggesting is kingslaying,” Rhaenyra said in caution. “While I won’t dispute the Hightower’s machinations against us and their exploration of his weakened state, the accusation of kingslaying is grave…”

“The Hightowers intended to rule in favor of Vaemond Velaryon,” Daemon stated. “They intended to remove your son from the line of succession of Driftmark, thereby undermining your status as the rightful heir by challenging the legitimacy of your children.”

“I know well what their intentions were,” Rhaenyra voiced her frustration, shifting restlessly on the bed once more, seemingly unable to find a comfortable position. “You needn't remind me.”

“Doesn’t it strike you as suspicious that his death occurred so shortly after these matters were resolved? Right after our departure?”

“What evidence do we possess?” Rhaenyra inquired, her expression contouring with discomfort as she applied pressure to her abdomen, seeking a fleeting respite from her pain. “Daenera uncovered no evidence to suggest poisoning.”

“Daenera’s attention was elsewhere,” Daemon countered sharply. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze turned stern, a silent reproach in her eyes.

“Her knowledge has its limits. She wasn’t involved in his ongoing care and wasn’t present for every treatment he received,” Daemon continued, picking at the wood of the chair. “The possibility of poisoning cannot be dismissed outright.”

“We cannot levy accusations as grave as kingslaying without evidence,” Rhaenyra countered, her fatigue evident in the raspiness of her voice. “I’m not convinced he was poisoned. While the Hightowers certainly exploited his condition, I have my doubts that they would engage in such a vile act as kingslaying.”

“Can you honestly say you believe they wouldn’t commit such deed, or is it that you can’t accept that your childhood companion could orchestrate such cruelty?” Daemon pressed, his challenge clear in his tone. 

Rhaenyra’s response was a sharp glare. “I cannot fathom Alicent being behind such heinous act, it's true. If–if– it was an act of kingslaying, it would not have been by her order.”

A palpable tension hung in the air as the ensuing silence stretched. Daemon gritted his teeth, a tumult of restlessness and anger stirring beneath his skin. He harbored a deep conviction that the Hightowers were behind the poisoning of his brother. Regardless of whether their final act was one of deliberate kingslaying, they had undeniably exploited his brother’s condition to their own ends. Reflecting on the past, he lamented that his brother’s gravest error lay not just in reinstating Otto Hightower as his Hand but in a decision made much earlier–when he had chosen to send Daemon away. This, he believed, had only been the start of Hightowers corruption of his brother. Yet, he chose to let the discussion rest. 

His gaze settled on her, observing as she adjusted herself on the bed once more. Rhaenyra’s expression was marred by discomfort, her hand moving to her stomach seemingly in an attempt to comfort the unborn child. 

“And what of Daenera? Any news?”

“No,” Daemon replied, his voice tinged with fatigue as he pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a headache. His eyes felt dry and scratchy from exhaustion, and closing them did little to soothe the irritation. “Only that she attended the coronation adorned in Hightower colors and pledged her allegiance to the usurpers.”

He was acutely aware of her penetrating gaze upon him as he exhaled slowly, lifting his eyes to meet hers with a mixture of resolve and weariness. 

“You think she betrayed us…” Rhaenyra said in a measured tone, eyes narrowing slightly.  

“I think,” he responded tersely, “that it is a possibility.”

Rhaenyra’s frown deepened, her hands continuing their gentle motion over her belly. “I don’t believe that she would betray us. No, if she stood with the Greens it is only because she was forced to do so.”

Daemon’s voice was tinged with exhaustion and frustration as he disclosed, “She’s in love with him, Rhaenyra. She’s in love with that one-eyed cunt, and now she’s set to marry him. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that she might have chosen their side over ours–”

“It is, it is beyond the realm of possibility,” Rhaenyra countered, her voice trembling with emotion, her gaze falling to the curve of her stomach. “Why do you so readily assume the worst of her? Because she disappointed you?”

“Yes, she disappointed me!” Daemon’s voice rose, his feelings spilling forth like a tempest. “I sent her to King’s landing because I trusted her. I believed her capable of ascertaining who our friends and foes were. Her role was clear; to act as your representative in your absence.”

Leaning forward, Daemon’s frustration was palpable. “Rather than do her duty, she compromised herself by sleeping with the enemy. So, yes, she has disappointed me.”

Daemon never knew how to handle disappointment, especially when he held someone in high regard. He had trusted her to understand her position, and she had broken that trust by compromising herself and honor. The revelation of the loss of her maidenhead could have been disastrous, rendering her vulnerable to a scandal and providing the Hightowers with another tool for their machinations. She and any prospect of a future she had would have been ruined. 

The marriage he had arranged for her with Boris Baratheon was not just a political maneuver; it was also an effort to protect her honor and reputation. Daemon had thought they had come to an understanding then. 

Losing her maidenhead might have been a forgivable error, one Daemon could have overlooked, provided she had taken it as a lesson. However, she chose to have her lover murder her husband in an attempt to hide their affair and the resulting disgrace. While Daemon could understand her desire to be free of her husband’s temper, it did not excuse her from perpetuating her initial error. 

His disappointment stemmed not solely from unmet expectations but from a profound sense of betrayal. Trust was a commodity Daemon valued, and once broken, it left a lasting scar. 

Rhaenyra’s response was measured, yet her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, “She intended to return to us. She fulfilled her duty in King’s Landing, secured alliances, even married Boris Baratheon–as you wanted. If she indeed holds feelings for him, it only emphasizes her commitment to her duties over personal desires.”

“But she didn’t come back with us,” Daemon said, each word laden with a heaviness. 

“If you mean to suggest that she had prior knowledge of the usurpation and willingly stayed behind to support the Greens, I cannot agree to that belief,” Rhaenyra declared firmly. “If she appeared at the coronation in support of Aegon, then it is only because the Hightowers wanted it so. My daughter is not a traitor, she is a hostage.”

“And what of her impending marriage? Is she being coerced into that as well?” Daemon felt a surge of agitation, compelling him to stand. The restlessness prickled too persistently, too agitated to ignore. “No, I don’t believe she had any prior knowledge of the Green’s plan beyond our suspicions. But her affections for that one-eyed cunt should raise concern. Her actions have already demonstrated her willingness to deceive us.”

Approaching the end of the bed, he clasped the footboard tightly, his grip betraying the escalating tension in the room, crackling between them like thunder. His gaze, full of reproach, met his wife’s, dismayed by her inability or unwillingness to grasp the gravity of the situation. “She conspired with her lover to see her husband killed. It would be foolish of us not to question where her loyalties lie.”

“I know where her loyalties lie,” Rhaenyra retorted, her expression a mixture of scorn and incredulity, the subtle downturn of her mouth signaling her disapproval–and the gleam of tears in her eyes betraying her inner turmoil, the pain of being faced with the possibility of her daughters betrayal. “You are all too ready to assume the worst of her. I won’t do the same. She is my daughter! My flesh and blood!”

“You might not wish to see her as a betrayer,” Daemon retorted with a hint of acrimony, struggling to keep his burgeoning rage subdued. “I have no desire to cast her in that light either, but reality forces me to consider all possibilities. And it is a possibility, Rhaenyra. History is rife with lovers willing to commit terrible acts in its name. She wouldn’t be the first to betray her kin for it.”

With that, Daemon collected his sword and belt, clutching the leather with a firm resolve as he made for his exit. 

“Wait!” Rhaenyra’s voice chased after him, tinged with desperation. “Don’t leave–where are you going?”

“To make ready for the morning,” he replied curtly, stepping out of the chamber. 

“Daemon, don’t leave–come back!” Her plea echoed behind him, but he continued on, driven by a duty to anticipate the unforeseen.

“Daemon, don’t leave–come back!” Rhaenyra’s voice echoed, her plea for him to stay desperate. Yet, he vanished beyond the door, leaving her alone with the heavy silence of the room. Her gaze lingered on the void left by his departure, as if his absence had materialized into something tangible, a profound sense of loneliness echoing through her. This palpable loneliness brought with it a sense of desolation, her heart sinking. Her eyes drifted towards the slivers of moonlight peeking through the shutters, the only barrier between the balcony and her solitude. 

Tears threatened to spill as she caressed her belly, seeking comfort both for her and the child. She couldn’t understand why Daemon insisted on making her daughter out to be a traitor. 

Despite the errors made, Rhaenyra’s faith in her daughter remained unshaken. She had never questioned her daughter’s loyalty or her love–nor her commitment to prioritizing duty above her personal desires. Daenera had always been aware of the position she was in, she had always known who she was and what it meant to be that.

The thought of Daenera, ensnared in King’s Landing and at the Greens’ mercy, filled Rhaenyra with an unbearable sense of worry and despair. A lump formed in her throat, hard and relentless as she fought back her tears. What fate awaited her daughter in their hands? The anguish of not having Daenera by her side, when she needed her the most, was overwhelming–Daenera should be here, offering her comfort and support, just as she had always been at the birth of her younger siblings. She was supposed–

“Rhaenyra?” Came a gentle, cautious voice. 

Rhaenyra turned her gaze towards the doorway, where Rhaena stood, a candle’s flicker casting a soft light on her face, etching her concern into the shadows. Her hair cascaded in loose locks over her shoulders, reaching down her back, creating an image of vulnerability. Her dark eyes were filled with concern, soft and big. 

Blinking her tears away and swallowing thickly in an effort to present a composed front, Rhaenyra offered a shaky smile. “What is it, Rhaena? It’s quite late, you ought to be asleep.”

“May I enter?” She inquired softly.

With a more assured smile, Rhaenyra welcomed her, “Of course, come in.”

As Rhaena moved into the room, she acknowledged the midwives and servants with a nod. The attendants had quietly filled the space after Daemon’s departure, their presence barely registered by Rhaenyra amidst her own tumult of emotions. They seemed to hover uncertainly, mirroring the tension of the impending birth. Lady Elinda Massey had settled on the settee, seeming to struggle with threading a needle by the furrow of her brow and the tongue poking out through her lips. 

Taking the seat her father had vacated, Rhaena placed the candle on the side table, allowing the light to flicker and dance across the walls. She settled, a book in her lap, a silent offering of solace in her company. 

“I found myself unable to sleep,” she confessed, her voice soft but filled with an intent to comfort. “I thought perhaps you’d appreciate some company.”

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra responded, her voice laced with gratitude for the company of her stepdaughter. As she repositioned herself on the bed, a low hum escaped her throat, betraying the discomfort of her movements. Her hand glided down her abdomen, gently pressing into the swell in an attempt to soothe the taut muscles that pained her. 

“Baela and Jace are keeping watch over the skies,” Rhaena shared, her fingers absently playing with the corner of the book. “Father insisted they not do it by themselves at night, so he made them accompany each other.”

“It is wiser to have two riders in the sky than one,” Rhaenyra acknowledged, her gaze lingering thoroughly on Rhaena. Whenever the conversation veered towards dragons and their riders, a subtle melancholy would weave itself into the girl's features, a silent testament to her yearning. It was clear to Rhaenyra that, just like Daenera, she harbored a longing to soar through the skies atop a dragon of her own–a desire as vast as the heavens yet grounded by circumstance. 

“Have any of the lords made their arrival?”

“Lord Bartimos Celtigar has arrived, I believe. We expect more to come by morning,” Rhaena informed her, providing the latest developments on the situation outside the childbed. 

The room enveloped in a quietude, punctured only by Rhaenyra’s soft movements as she massaged her belly, seeking a sliver of comfort in the relentless discomfort. The tautness and stiffness in her lower back escalade to a dull, throbbing ache, radiating down her legs. A profound sense of pressure weighed on her lower abdomen and pelvis, signaling the baby’s gradual descent, while her inner muscles twitched and contracted with mild, foreboding cramps. This child seemed more reluctant to greet the world than its siblings had been. 

Rhaena broke the silence with an unexpected admonition, drawing Rhaenyra’s gaze with the seriousness in her tone. 

“You must forgive him,” she urged, her voice filled with both compassion and understanding–if not a bit of fear. “It’s not easy for him, I think. It is not easy to see you in such distress, facing the hardships of childbirth…”

As Rhaena nervously fidgeted with the book, her focus remained fixed on her own hands, avoiding Rhaenyra’s prodding eyes. There was a pull at the corners of the girl's lips, a sadness etched into her from the loss of her mother. 

“Watching someone you deeply care for in pain, enduring such an ordeal… it’s an unbearable sight,” she paused, her voice softening, and finally, her gaze met Rhaenyra’s. “My mother fought valiantly to bring my sibling into this world. I know it tormented him to witness her suffering, especially when confronted with such… such an impossible choice…”

Her words hung in the air, revealing not just an understanding of her fathers turmoil but also a glimpse into the profound impact of witnessing a loved one’s struggle–echoes of past pains mingling with the present. 

“Rhaena…” Rhaenyra began, her voice a soft echo in the quiet of the room.

“My mother was strong,” Rhaena declared, her voice carrying a tremble that betrayed her emotions. Her dark eyes shone with a combination of sorrow, compassion, and an underlying resilience. “She faced her fate with the knowledge that both her and the unborn child were doomed. She refused to let father make the choice for her–she wanted to die a dragon rider's death… I believe he fears you might share her fate, haunted by the prospect of having that harrowing decision once more…”

Rhaenyra’s heart constricted with empathy for Rhaena. She too understood the pain of losing a mother to the rigors of childbirth–the anguish of those left behind to grapple with the choices no one should have to make. Yet, along with empathy, a sharp sting of fear pierced her heart. The dread of succumbing to the same fate as her mother had always loomed large in Rhaenyra’s mind–the terrifying prospect of being subjected to a brutal delivery in the childbed, restrained and incised, her child forcibly extricated, leaving her empty and bleeding out. 

This profound fear had led her to mistrust the maesters at the Red Keep for her care in childbirth, relying instead on the familiar and trusted presence of her handmaidens and midwives that were with her now. Maester Geradys was the sole exception, having successfully overseen the birth of her youngest children. 

This fear of dying in childbirth was inherent, a thing passed from mother to daughter, from woman to woman–it was a thing shared throughout the ages and one that was carried with the head held high, its terror forgotten the moment the child was pressed into its mother’s arms. 

Fighting back against this inherited fear, Rhaenyra leaned in as much as her pregnant belly would permit, placing her hand over Rhaena’s. “This child is simply proving to be as obstinate as its father. I won’t meet my end this way, I promise you.”

Rhaena returned the gesture with a smile, laying her hand atop Rhaenyra’s in a moment of shared understanding. “Good, because I don’t know what will become of us if you did not survive–what would become of him…”

Rhaenyra exhaled softly, her hand rising to gently caress Rhaena’s cheek in a tender, motherly touch. “He would have you and the children.”

“I’m not sure that is enough,” Rhaena responded, a note of fear in her voice that carried until it settled on Rhaenyra’s heart. The girl worried for a future that was not set–but worried she remained. 

“It must be,” Rhaenyra affirmed warmly. “Your father cherishes you. He loves you immensely, despite his struggles with expressing it. You and your sister are his first children, and what remains to him of Laena.”

“It’s been only six years,” she murmured, her voice tinged with sorrow, “yet, her voice seems to have faded from my memory. Her image, however, remains vivid in my mind.”

Losing a mother was a profound grief that left a void that never fully heals. Rhaenyra knew this all too well, the absence of her own mother acutely felt in moments such as these. Determined, she had vowed to spare her children from enduring the agony of such a loss–if she were to die, it would not be in childbed. 

“Her memory remains with us, in our hearts,” Rhaenyra spoke gently, offering Rhaena’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “The sound of her voice may fade, and the image may grow dim with the passage of time, but her spirit persists within you. She flows in your veins, and her likeness is mirrored in your own. When you seek her, simply gaze upon your reflection.”

Rhaena mentioned, somewhat wistfully, “They often say Baela most resembles our mother…”

“Baela embodies both her mother’s and father’s ferocity and determination,” Rhaenyra acknowledged with a smile on her lips, “displaying her strengths unabashedly. She is much like Daemon in many ways… Yet, your strength lies in its quiet resilience. You inherit your mother’s compassion and generousness. You have her eyes, sweet, kind, and clever. Baela resembles her father, but you, you are your mother’s daughter.”

Rhaena’s face brightened with a smile, a flush of warmth coloring her cheeks as she seemed to hold Rhaenyra’s words close to her heart. 

Rhaenyra held Laena in dear memory, considering her not just a sister-in-law but a true sister of the heart. Their bond had deepened during the year Laena spent in King’s Landing following Rhaenyra’s marriage to Laenor. 

“Will you tell me about her?” Rhaena implored, her eyes alight with curiosity. 

“Of course,” Rhaenyra answered, adjusting her position on the bed as she contented with the growing discomfort and the restlessness brought on by the constant ache. 

Rhaena rose to her feet, moving gracefully towards the flagon of water, pausing to ask, “Water?”

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra answered, rubbing her stomach. “You’ve been told of how she became the rider of Vhagar, haven’t you?”

“I have. Many times,” Rhaena confirmed, pouring water into a cup with careful attention. 

“Did you know she flew while carrying you?” Rhaenyra revealed, pausing as a sharp pang of pain momentarily overwhelmed her. She clenched her jaw tightly and drew in a deep, steadying breath as she worked through the wave of pain. Once it ebbed, she noticed the midwives casting concerned glances her way, their brows knitted in worry. With a brief, reassuring shake of the head, she signaled to them that she was managing, then shifted her attention back to Rhaena. “The maesters were beside themselves, worrying about the risks of flying in her condition. Your mother was bold and adventurous, she would not be constrained to stay on the ground.”

With a gentle smile, Rhaena placed the flagon back on the table and brought the cup to Rhaenyra, then resumed her seat. The story of her mother’s indomitable spirit, her passion for flying that defied all cautions, seemed to fill Rhaena with a sense of pride and wonder, a connection to the mother she missed. 

“Once she became the rider of Vhagar, your mother was inseparable from the skies,” Rhaenyra reminisced, the water offering a brief respite as its coolness cascaded down her throat. “Corlys was half-convinced she might forsake the earth altogether, especially since she showed scant interest in the company of suitors.”

Rhaena took the cup from Rhaenyra, setting it aside, then refreshed the cloth previously used by Daemon, dabbing gently at Rhaenyra’s sweat-dampen skin to offer some relief. 

“Your mother was betrothed to the son of a Braavosi Sealord before she married your father,” Rhaenyra said, sparking immediate curiosity in Rhaena. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she quickly shook her head in response. Setting this, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile in amusement. “The thought of him barely interested your mother. She hadn’t even met him and chose to distance herself during his visit to Driftmark. Lord Corlys was not pleased when she chose to fly away to King’s Landing to ‘visit her brother and sister-in-law,’ she said.’”

Rhaena set the cloth on the rim of the basin after using it, then discreetly dried her hands on the fabric of her robe. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra, unfettered by the brief pause, resumed her story, “Your mother was never one to mince words, boldly voicing her opinions. And yet, she had a subtlety about it. I remember her making quite the impression on Jason Lannister by speaking her mind when he put forth his brother’s hand in marriage, despite being twice her age. It was rather amusing, actually.”

Rhaena, absorbed in the story, drew her foot up to the chair, wrapping her arms around her knee and resting her chin on it. 

“Laena was charming, intelligent, and spirited, and she had a way about her that was subtle and alluring,” Rhaenyra continued. “And, of course, she was beautiful, but I think it was her charm that captured Daemon’s attention.”

Rhaenyra found a slightly more comfortable position, her hands gently caressing the curve of her belly, lost in thought for a moment. It all seemed like another lifetime ago, and she remembered the initial pang of jealousy that had clouded her heart. It hadn’t been easy being married to a man who would never desire her, who could offer nothing more than a friendship–they had tried for a long time to have a child of their own, to make things work for the both of them, but they never were able to do it. Both of their hearts belonged to another. 

Laena had been nothing but understanding and compassionate–a true friend and sister in spirit. It had been Laena who approached her, seeking her blessing to pursue a relationship with Daemon. And despite the heartache it brought, Rhaenyra had consented, wishing them the joy and companionship her own marriage lacked. 

“And when he visited Driftmark to see her it certainly didn’t sit well with the Sealord’s son.”

“I can’t imagine that it ended well for him,” Rhaena interjected, an amused smile playing on her lips.

“Indeed, it didn’t,” Rhaenyra concurred with a nod. “The Sealord’s son challenged Daemon to a duel, betting Laena’s hand on the outcome. And Daemon, ever the warrior, didn’t just accept; he turned it into a spectacle. The Sealord’s son was utterly outmatched. And with Dark Sister in hand, Daemon was decisive. The duel was short-lived.”

Rhaena, chuckling, said, “It almost sounds like a tale you’d tell children at bedtime.”

“Am I not telling it to you, now, at bedtime?” Rhaenyra responded with a soft laugh. “After the death of the Sealord’s son, they married and flew to Braavos. Laena made sure to keep me informed on your adventures there. I believe I’ve kept all of her letters, if you’d be interested in reading them?”

Rhaena’s smile widened in anticipation, “Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you.”

As the conversation drew to a close, one of the attending midwives stood, her movements gentle yet deliberate. She placed a hand on Rhaena’s shoulder, her voice low and soothing, “It might be best for the princess to rest now, and for you to do the same.”

Rhaenyra turned her gaze towards Rhaenyra, hesitantly getting up. In responde, Rhaenyra extended her hand, clasping Rhaena’s with a reassuring grip, her eyes soft yet imbued with strength, acknowledging the unspoken concern flitting across the girl's expression. With a grateful smile and a nod of understanding, Rhaena made her way to the door, clutching the book she had brought and never had the chance to read.

“Try to rest, Princess,” the midwife advised warmly, watching over Rhaenyra with a protective eye. 

“I can’t,” Rhaenyra protested, her hand instinctively moving to soothe the mounting discomfort in her stomach. With each surge of pain, her breath hitched, the sensation of mounting pressure within becoming almost unbearable. “I–I need to stand.”

Sheran pulled back the blankets, assisting Rhaenyra as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and bent down to assess her condition. “The dilation isn’t complete yet. You mustn't push.”

“Help me up, I need to move,” Rhaenyra reiterated, unable to remain still any longer. The pain, emanating from her spine and radiating down her legs, left her muscles screaming with each new wave of contractions. With Sheran and Lady Elinda’s assistance, she found herself on her feet, her movements laborious and weighted, as if walking through deep water. Lady Elinda steadied Rhaenyra, the cool stone floor a slight relief against her bare feet. A comforting hand traced circles on her back, pausing with each contraction to allow her a moment to focus on her breathing before they continued their pacing. 

As the hours slipped by, the darkness outside gave way to the first hints of dawn, painting the sky a deep shade of indigo. The frequency and intensity of contractions grew, bringing waves of nausea and an intense heat that seemed to emulate from within her very skin. 

Sometime before sunrise, the panels to the balcony were removed, allowing the first light of day to fill the room alongside a refreshing breeze carrying the scent of the sea. 

As the sun rose above the horizon, Rhaenyra’s gaze locked onto the merging light even as waves of unbearable pain engulfed her. Her voice had grown raw from screaming, each breath a battle against the agony that seemed unending. With each passing hour, a heavy cloak of dread and despair settled around her as the child refused to come, her heart racing in a futile attempt to escape its clutches. The sensation was akin to bearing an unyielding stone, its jagged edges mercilessly cutting within her as her body strained to expel it. Sweat coated her skin, mingling indistinguishably with her tears. 

She watched, almost detached, as the sky turned a deep red, mirroring her own ordeal, as if the heavens themselves bled in empathy with her suffering–or, forebodingly warned her of what was to come. 

Amidst the excruciating pain, a gnawing fear took hold–a fear that something was profoundly wrong. 

The world was not as she knew it. It felt strange and wrong, it was not the world she had inhabited just a day before. It was a world where her father no longer lived, where her rightful crown had been usurped, and where her daughter had been made a hostage by someone she had once considered a friend–someone who had promised of a new start. 

Now, she stood alone in this unfamiliar and desolate world, enveloped by sorrow and engulfed by fear. 

“Please, please, please,” Rhaenyra whispered, beseeching the child, her hand caressing her swollen stomach. “Please come out.”

“Keep your head about you, Princess. Come now,” Sheran encouraged softly, extending her hand to guide Rhaenyra back to the bed. A hand lightly touched the small of Rhaenyra’s back, but even this gentle gesture was unbearable. Instinctively, she recoiled, distancing herself from the source of the discomfort. Every gesture of support, from wiping her brow drenched in sweat to the quiet words meant to soothe, to the gentle kneading of her tense muscles, invaded her space, each one more suffocating than the last. Their well-meaning actions converged into an overwhelming tumult, exacerbating her feeling of being trapped in the pain of her own body.

“We’ve done this six times before,” Lady Elinda tried to reassure her, placing a supportive hand on Rhaenyra’s back in an attempt to anchor her. “Keep your spirit, and the seventh shall be no different.” 

Yet, the comfort Elinda sought to offer couldn’t cut through the thick haze of torment enveloping Rhaenyra. This pain was strange, a harbinger that something was wrong, far removed from any childbirth experience she’d had before, and each crippling contraction, her environment blurred into obscurity, panic sinking its claw deeper. 

“Get off, get off, get off, get off!” She cried out, a desperate plea for relief from the touches that now felt like restraints. 

In a state of desperation, Rhaenrya broke free from the attempts to steady her, stumbling toward the stone column near the balcony for support. With each overwhelming wave of pain, her grasp tightened on the cold stone, her nails scraping and straining against the hard surface. It seemed to her as if the child within was staging a revolt, refusing to make its way into the world. 

When another spasm of excruciating pain overtook her, she bent forward, pressing her fevered forehead to the cool surface of the stone, “Ow, ow, ow…”

The slow passing of time became a torment in itself. More than a day had elapsed in this state of agony, and still, there was no end in sight. Her fear grew, turning into a suffocating force with the progression of the sun as it emerged fully from the horizon. As tears clouded her vision, Rhaenyra’s hand tenderly swept up and down the side of her stomach, feeling each contraction tighten around her heart as fiercely as it did her body. 

“Please,” she uttered through clenched teeth, her voice a fractured plea. “Please, little one… get out…”

The brief lapse between contractions offered scant relief. Grasping for some control amidst the turmoil, Rhaenyra addressed those attending her, desperation coloring her tone. “Where is Daemon?”

Lady Elinda paused, her fingers nervously entrining as she replied, “He’s holding council, Princess.” 

Rhaenyra shook her head in dismay, the added sting of isolation exacerbating her ordeal. She yearned for Daemon’s presence, for the reassurance of his hand in hers, for his support. She needed him here, by her side, not holding council without her. She needed him.

As another contraction tore through her with the ferocity of storm-driven waves battering the cliffs beneath the balcony, Rhaenyra couldn’t hold back her cry of agony. “Daemon!”

Struggling to find a semblance of control amid the chaos of pain, Rhaenyra brushed her damp hair away from her sweaty foreheads, the silver strands clinging to her skin. The burdens of her new world pressed heavily upon her, each fear intensifying the physical torment she endured. 

Restlessly, pacing the cool stone floor, unable to find a moment's peace, her body and spirit were both nearing their limits. The thoughts of her father, the usurpation, and the captivity of her daughter weighed her down, a burden almost too great to carry as she paced the floor. 

Between labored breaths, she issued a plea,” Fetch me my sons,” just as another contraction mercilessly constricted around her. The child within seemed to writhe, its movements sharp and demanding, as if in defiance of the calm she so desperately sought. The room spun as she made her way to the chamberpot, succumbing to the urge to vomit, though now only bile escaped her, leaving a sour residue that clung to her taste. 

The absence of Daenera weighed heavily on Rhaenyra, her soul aching for the solace that her daughter’s presence had always provided. Throughout the births of her children, from Lucerys to Viserys, Daenera had been a constant, comforting shadow at her side. Even when she was but a babe, nestled securely in Joyce’s arms during Lucerys’ birth, Daenera exhibited an innate curiosity. As a mere infant, she reacted to her brother’s arrival not with confusion or distress, but with excited clapping, her eyes alight with wonder. Her mere presence had been a comfort. 

And now, in the midst of this pain and fear, Rhaenyra believed that her daughter’s presence would have dulled the keen edge of her suffering, rendering the relentless agony a touch more tolerable.

“Daemon!” Rhaenyra cried out, her voice laden with pain and desperation. Yet, despite her plea, he did not appear.

Deep down, she understood his absence. The fear that lingered in his eyes when she had crumpled to the floor, her hands wrapped around her stomach and groans of pain escaping her lips, vividly conveyed his deep-seated dread. It was a fear of witnessing her death, the paralyzing thought of once again being placed in a position to make the harrowing choice no one should ever have to face… and yet, she cursed him for his absence. 

A scream tore from Rhaenyra’s throat, a sound so raw and powerful it seemed to fill the chamber, a testament to the excruciating agony that tore through her. The pain was visceral, as though the child within was clawing at her womb trying to tear its way out. 

“Mother?” Jace’s voice, laden with worry, cut through the thick fog of pain that wrapped around Rhaenyra. 

As another unbearable contraction seized her, she couldn’t suppress a curse, her teeth clenched against the agony. Struggling for air, she endeavored to regain some semblance of control, her breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Slowly, she turned her attention towards her sons.

The fear in Luke’s eyes struck her immediately–wide, shimmering with a tumult of feelings that tugged sharply at her heart. He fidgeted, his unease evident, until Maester Geradys took him under his arm, offering some semblance of solace to the young boy. Jace, on the other hand, stood as a pillar of strength, yet the battle against his own apprehension was clear. His jaw clenched firmly as he made a brave effort to stay composed in the face of his mother’s suffering. 

Summoning her dwindling reserves of strength, Rhaenyra fought to regain her composure. Her hands, though quivering, traced soothing patterns up and down her stomach, a meager attempt to comfort the unborn child within. She forced her voice into a semblance of calm. “Your grandfather, Viserys, is no longer with us, and as you’ve likely heard, the Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne.”

As Rhaenyra attempted to move towards her sons, a surge of pain halted her in her tracks, her hand finding quick support on the back of a nearby settee. Jace instinctively stepped forward, ready to offer his support, but she stopped him with a gesture, choosing to face the pain in solitude. 

Feeling isolated and uninformed, Rhaenyra admitted with difficulty, “I’m left in the dark. I’m oblivious to the actions being taken beyond these walls.”

“Daemon has dispatched several ravens seeking aid from our closest allies,” Jace informed her, attempting to bridge the gap in her knowledge. “Lord Bartimos Celtigar has already arrived with his retinue. Lords Staunton and Emmon are expected to arrive by noon, and by evening, we anticipate Lords Massey and Darklyn.”

Catching her son’s gaze, Rhaenyra said, “I’ve been informed Daemon is holding council.”

“He is.”

Rhaenyra then voiced her deeper concern, the pain momentarily spiking as she did so. “Daemon is plotting his war, I’m sure… The grief of losing his brother coupled with the theft of the throne might have… mmm… driven him to the brink of madness. I am left here to wonder, and I fear what decisions are being made in my absence.”

Jace’s features set into an expression of unwavering resolve, his entire demeanor radiating determination. “Leave Daemon with me.”

With a swift pivot, Jace quickened his stride, tackling the staircase towards the door in brisk, determined leaps, taking the steps two at a time.  

“Jace.” Rhaenyra raised her voice, calling out for her son. When he did not stop, she called again, her tone imbued with a greater urgency and authority. “Jacaerys!”

He stopped, turning to lock eyes with her, the urgency and concern in her gaze seeming enough to draw him back towards her. Approaching, he allowed her to draw close once more, her hand rising to caress his face, her fingertips lightly tracing his cheek. 

“Whatever claim now remains to me, you are now its heir. Naught is to be done but by my command,” Rhaenyra said, assuring that he understood. 

Jace acknowledged her words with a solemn nod, sealing his vow with a gentle kiss to her forehead. Then, as swiftly as he had come to her side, he departed, leaving behind a silence that seemed even more laden with tension and unease. 

“Mother,” Luke began, his voice wavering with a mix of hesitance and uncertainty. He fidgeted uneasily, clutching something soft within his hands. “I thought maybe this could offer you some solace.”

He closed the distance between them, gently offering the blanket to her. His thumb brushed over the fabric, drawing attention to the elaborate embroidery that adorned it, each threat a testament to the love woven into its creation.

Rhaenyra bit back a cry of pain as she accepted the blanket, her fingertips grazing over the delicate, slightly irregular stitches of the pincushion flower pattern. Every thread seemed to whisper of the presence she so longed for, stirring a complex whirl of comfort and grief within her. Tears clouded her vision as she drew her son close, her hand trembling as she touched his face, the blanket clutched against her chest. 

“Oh, my sweet boy,” Rhaenyra managed to utter, her voice thick with stirred emotions. “Thank you.”

“This way, she’s with you now,” Luke said softly, allowing Rhaenyra to press her forehead against his. 

After planting a tender kiss on his cheek, Rhaenyra bid her son leave, holding her breath to stifle the groans of pain until he had departed, the onslaught of labor tearing at her resolve. 

The sun arched across the sky, marking the passage of time with its ascent and subsequent decline, turning hours into seemingly endless years. Rhaenyra began to question if the agony would ever cease.

As exhaustion took its toll, despair started to weave its way into Rhaenyra’s heart. Her perception of the world shrank to the encompassing pain that seized her and the labored breathing that accompanied her efforts to deliver the child, and slowly, she began to grow resentful of the child – resentful for the way it was making its way into the world and the agony it was causing her.  

“Get out!” Rhaenyra’s plea erupted from deep within, a primal and guttural demand torn from her amidst the waves of unbearable pain, her voice raw as she gritted her teeth against the torment.

And in her anguish, she came to view the child not as a blessing but as a tormentor, more beastly in its resistance to enter the world than human. It felt as though it was actively fighting its birth, its unseen claws tearing at her from within, adding an almost personal malice to her pain. What kind of child would cause such agony? 

Weariness enveloped her in the short span between contractions, her limbs shaky and uncertain, barely supporting her weight as she made her way back to the bed. Lady Elinda was quick to offer support, wrapping Rhaenyra’s arm around her shoulders, guiding her towards the bed. 

“No, no, no,” Rhaenyra protested, resisting Elinda’s attempt to guide her onto the bed. “Just get off, get off, get off! O-ow… Get off!”

An intense fear seized Rhaenyra, propelling her away from the bed – a belief that if she were to give birth while lying in the bed, she would not survive the ordeal. This conviction drove her to distance herself from it, as though the very act of avoiding the bed could somehow spare her life. Clutching the bedpost for support, Rhaenyra pushed Elinda away from her, standing on her own, despite the overwhelming pain that gripped her. She curled over, groaning deeply, as she fought to maintain her balance and withstand the unbearable pain wracking her body. 

The chamber, heavy with the scent of herbs and oils, carried an undercurrent of something sharper, the metallic taste of fear. The midwives murmured among themselves, casting worried glances towards Rhaenyra, their hands gentle and tentative, offering a damp cloth to her forehead in an attempt to provide some relief. 

Rhaenyra staggered towards the settee, her legs betraying her, folding under the weight of her pain, and she collapsed to the floor. Grasping the edge of the settee, her fingers turned white with the force of her grip as her nails dug into the fabric of her dress, into the wood of the settee, into her own flesh, whatever she could get a hold of. Her cries, raw and desperate, reverberated through the room. Her silver hair clung to her forehead, damp with sweat, as her vision blurred. 

“Princess!” Elinda’s voice attempted to cut through the dense fog of agony enveloping Rhaenyra. She reached out, seemingly hoping to provide a steady comfort, but Rhaenyra recoiled. 

With every ounce of strength she could muster, Rhaenyra bore down, her groan resonating through the chamber, a primal sound of effort and desperation. Get out, get out, get out, get out, reverberated incessantly in her mind, a silent plea to the child that seemed to resist every effort to be born. The internal pressure mounted to an unbreakable intensity, compelling her to exert herself further, pushing beyond the limits of her endurance. All she wanted was for this to be over.

Each attempt to expel the child tore at her very being, a physical and emotional ordeal that left her raw. Tears mingled with the sweat on her face, her body shaking with effort. Then, with a gasping breath that punctuated her exertion, a sudden drip of fluid fell on the stone, a prelude to the rush of fluid that had yet to come.

“GET OUT!” Her scream tore through her, her voice wavering as she drew in a breath.  

“Princess, please!” Sheran’s plea was laden with a desperate urgency, her hands suspended in mid-air, betraying her desire to comfort her. “You should not do this alone.”

“Please, Princess,” Elinda joined in, her voice thick with emotions, tears welling up in her eyes as she witnessed the relentless struggle of the woman before her. “Let us help you!”

Another scream tore through the air, a primal sound born of pain and despair as she summed what strength she could to expel the child from her womb. The agony was indescribable, a sensation akin to being torn in half. Suddenly, there was a sensation of something giving way inside of her, and an onslaught of fluid erupted, spilling to the floor to form a pool around her knees.  

In a moment of instinctual desperation, she reached down, her fingers grazing the emerging crown of the child’s head, slick and startingly real against her touch. 

Her surroundings seemed to blur into an indistinct haze as she endured the torturous labor, reality distorting under the weight of her suffering. It felt as though her own body was resisting, or perhaps it was the child within that was still resisting its passage into the world. Every effort to push, to bring the ordeal to an end, seemed to only amplify her agony, as if each contraction frayed and tore at her insides, leaving her with a sense of irrevocable damage.  

In the silence that enveloped her strained efforts, her mind whispered fervent prayers, casting her hopes and fears into the void in search of divine intervention, a plea for strength, for safety, for the cry of new life to break the suffocating grip of pain.

Please, she begged internally, let me survive this. Let me be there for my boys. Let me hold my daughter once more, feel her warmth, hear her laughter. Please, don’t let this be my end.

Rhaenyra persisted in her efforts, the intensity of her screams an echo of the agony she was suffering. As she concentrated on the overwhelming sensation of pressure, she clenched her eyes tightly shut, releasing a deep, guttural groan from somewhere within. Summoning every reserve of strength she had left, she pushed with a final, desperate force, and in that moment, she felt the child slip out of her, leaving behind an abrupt emptiness, a void where sharp pangs of pain had once dominated. 

The torment gave way to an aching weariness as the pressure that had built up within her finally lifted. She welcomed this relief, her eyelids drooping in exhaustion as she reveled in the respite from the relentless pain.

The silence that seemed to stretch was deafening, forcing Rhaenyra’s eyes to flutter open, her gaze instinctively seeking out the source of her torment and hope. And as her eyes settled on the child, a profound sadness washed over her, her heart twisting painfully in her chest.

The newborn was motionless, cradled in a pool of blood and amniotic fluid, its stillness punctuated by the profound silence that hung tenuously in the air. The infant’s appearance was marred by harrowing deformities–limbs twisted in impossible angles, its skin a patchwork of translucence and reptilian scales. From the crown of its head sprouted what seemed chillingly akin to horns, lending a grotesque dragon-like quality to its otherwise human features. The spine, strikingly prominent along its back, tapered into what appeared to be a tail that seemed oddly delicate in the way it curled in on itself. 

Amidst the eerie silence, Rhaenyra’s breath shook, her heart thundering in her chest as she lowered herself to the cold, blood-streaked floor. The stains of birth did not deter her as she reached for the child, her movements cautious as she gently unwrapped the umbilical cord from around its neck. With a tenderness born of a mother’s love, she wrapped the baby in the blanket crafted by Daenera for Luke, as if to protect the child from the cruel judgment of the world. Her fingers, trembling with a mix of anguish and love, tenderly explored the child’s deformed cranium, tracing each unnatural ridge and curve with a heartbreaking gentleness. 

A wave of weariness washed over her, every breath drawn feeling like an anchor dragging her further into the depths of despair. Holding the silent infant tightly against her chest, she instinctively began to rock back and forth, a low, sorrowful hum emerging from her throat. 

#a vow of blood #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

[chezzywezzy]

Yandere Hush (4/4)

Word count ; 4.2k

*Edited.

Scream drabble 2 pt 3 will be out tomorrow. Look out for it.

The man paused, collecting his thoughts. He chuckled lowly, fondly, before answering,” Everybody has their celebrity crushes, you know? I’m just rather dedicated to mine, is all. It’s rather embarrassing to admit, but…Before I recognized you in the local grocery store and followed you here, I had this whole, uh, shrine set up in your name. All the movie posters with the other faces scratched out, the books the movies were based on, the interviews downloaded on my flash drive… Hell, I commissioned a damn body pillow for you. That cost a pretty penny, I’ll tell you.”

He cut himself off, craning his neck closer to observe how Y/n’s expression became more and more fearful. He snickered at the developments, but she was too busy digesting his obsessive words to notice. Only when he squeezed her throat tauntingly one last time did her eyes widen and more tears escape, sliding down her chilled flesh.

“You’re…”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You’re insane.”

He found more amusement in her words than she wanted him to. He bellowed out in hyena-like laughter, hands shaking ever so slightly. As he recovered, he managed out,” I’m just a man in love, Y/n.”

“Fucking crazy!” she added desperately.

  “Crazy for you.”

“L - listen,” Y/n meekly pleaded,” you need help! Y - you aren’t mentally well, and you’ve done some bad things, but you can get help —“

His hand reached up and squished her cheeks together, mushing her words. She was cut off as a sob bubbled in her throat, but he held her steady, hushing her. He didn’t find the most glee from her decrepit attempts of freedom, but he didn’t want to let that show. He knew damn well he scared the shit out of her. He genuinely was at a loss for how to comfort her when he was the thing she needed comfort about.

“From who, sweetheart?” his voice was low, lips grazing over her jawline. “‘Cause if it’s from you, I don’t have any complaints.” He eyed her up and down, eyes narrowed as he glanced at her lap, the crossbow sat neatly on it. “Now, I need you to do something for me. I need you to take that off your lap and slide it across the floor and out of reach. Alright?”

Y/n gasped, grasping the weapons. She steeled herself, knowing she was in no position to argue. Especially when he was preventing her from speaking. Slowly, she pushed the heavy wooden frame off of her lap. It lsid against the bathroom floor and she feebly pushed it, keeping in mind that any movements would have her throat slit in under a second.

With one final push, her frail fingers could no longer stretch toward it. The crossbow lay a few extra inches from her body, and she gulped with unease. She withdrew her arm, feeling his his eyes glazed with excitement from finally having her.

“Good girl,” he huffed breathlessly. “Good girl… Now, this is just enough to knock you out. I ain’t going to hurt you, alright…? You’ve put me through hell and back tonight, but it’s alright. I forgive you. And I’m just knocking you out.”

The knife withdrew, and she heard it plop into the tub. His grip on her mouth vanished momentarily, but before she could even think about fighting back, two hands clamped around her throat. She wished to scream but it came out as a gargle. 

He applied the pressure further. It hurt. Her windpipes were completely restrained and she pawed desperately at his hands. He kept hushing words of comfort in her ear, but he didn’t want to have it. She flailed, kicking her legs out. They kicked the door, and even when she attempted to stand up, she couldn’t. His grip was solidified and rough, and any second she could pass out right then and there.

No. She would’t allow it. Not after how hard she fought to escape. One hand bravely abandoned the hands around her frail, withering neck, reaching back to his body. She gripped at his winter coat, letting out strangled cries and pleas.

“Just stop struggling, princess,” he hissed, clearly finding it difficult to squeeze the living daylights out of her. “It’ll be more comfortable that way. We’ll be happy together, just you and me…”

She grasped gently at his cheeks. Through his try-hard grunts, he laughed lowly. He jostled her head a little, and a muted squawk escaped her lungs. As he froze her in place again, she felt past his cheeks. Her consciousness was draining from her, and her head was starting to tilt forward. Black dots were beginning to appear in her eyes.

And then, the best she could, she clawed her pointer finger into his eye.

Just like that, his grip yielded. He yelped in pain, falling back into the bathtub. Y/n slumped forward on the ground, greedily sucking in air. Her arms outstretched toward the crossbow, and with what strength that remained, slowly coming back to her, she pulled it closer. 

“Fucking shit!”

She grunted agonizingly. Her body was so sleepy. However, she crawled forward, dragging the weapon with her. As she reached the bathroom door, she turned, her back to the wood. She grasped the weapon, and just as the killer was recovering, knife grasped tightly, she swung it.

The tip of the weapon slapped right into his face. His body swung with it. He tried his best to counter it, but blood spewed from his nose and he was forced to ball up his spit and let it spill from his lips. He was angry. Angrier than he’d been all night.

Because he was so close. But now, it was just a rinse and repeat. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear with ‘rinse and repeat.’ With all the blood he’d been losing from one area or another, his body desperately craved a nap. Almost as much as he craved her.

Y/n turned unlocking the door. She used it to balance and rise to her feet. She stumbled and had a permanent limp somehow. She swung it open just as the man wiped his mouth and blood smeared across his skin. His glare followed her as he tried to stumble out of the tub in time.

She slammed it behind her. The man shouted her name furiously, but she could hardly hear it from how the blood rushed back to her head. She started down the stairs, but as she did so, her leg collapsed. A scream escaped as her body went tumbling down, head crashing into the railing. She dazed out in the brief moment, letting out a cry of pain.

Her body ached as she finally arrived at the bottom. However, the bathroom door slammed open. She forced herself to her feet, even though her ankle was severely twisted. The murderer wasn’t even trying to mask his sadism at how Y/n always managed to fuck things up for herself.

She limped over to the kitchen counter. She dropped the crossbow on it, reaching for the knives. Only then does she notice it; having collided with the glass door earlier was an arrow, pristine and pretty. She snatched it from the ground, eyeing the crossbow warily. She had no clue how to actually load the thing.

“It’s harder than it looks, Y/n. Stop being a pain in my ass and just give up, got it? I don’t want to have to cut you up, but you’re really giving me a run for my money.”

Y/n shrieked, eyeing the man who’d just come down the stairs. His eye was fine, but he blinked frequently and they were blood red. In the darkness, she could see a few tears sliding down his cheeks. His wooly armor was far more intimidating, especially with how tightly he held the knife, and she eyed the crossbow.

She was pretty damn sure an arrow wouldn’t even begin to penetrate the coat.

So, instead, she snatched up two kitchen knives. One was small, hardly capable of slicing a cucumber, and the other was a large meat cleaver. Her options were limited, and these were the options. She pointed them at him threateningly, taking a step back.

The man sneered, glare boring into her. “You really want to do this, huh? Haven’t you learned your lesson yet? I’ve got more up my sleeve than you think, Y/n.”

“P - please,” Y/n sobbed,” y - you’re crazy. I don’t know what I did to deserve this!”

He chuckled dryly, not an ounce of amusement in his tone. He took another step closer, a limp prominent with each step he took. His eyes were predatory, nothing shy of danger. He stalked forward, but Y/n stood er ground, gritting her teeth.

“You know, babe, I’d really appreciate it if you got it through your thick skull that I’m not trying to kill you.”

He pounced around the corner, attempting to stab her, but Y/n swung the butcher knife. They clashed against one another, but when he took another taunting step forward, she took a step back. All at once, he abandoned the knife entirely, reaching for the crossbow.

Y/n shrieked, stabbing the minute knife into his arm. He gasped, but the tip hardly penetrated his flesh. He swung his arm roughly, pushing the girl into the opposite counter. She whimpered painfully, attempting to recover, but that gave him the chance to swipe up the crossbow.

She used the butcher knife, crouching to the ground to swipe at his leg. It was the one prematurely injured, and his balance was lost as he attempted to reload the arrows. She realized in horror that he was about to succeed, and letting out one last yelp, threw the butcher knife at his hand.

The sharp blade almost pierced his skin. But he swerved the machinery in the knick of time, and they collided. She immediately went to crawl away, but she was paralyzed in place as pain shot up her body.

He’d shot directly at her hip.

And just like that, her elbows caved. She howled in agony, but the man was so pissed off he offered no such pity. He watched her squabble on the ground, tearing the arrow from the wound. Blood spewed onto the wooden floor, and tears sprouted to her eyes. She was sobbing so very loudly clutching at her wound.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw his abandoned blade but a few feet from her body. Her eyes flitted back, blurry from the sheer pain she was subjected to. He crouched down, leaving the crossbow on the counter. A scowl was present on his expression and his glare bore into it.

“You brought this on yourself, babe. I hope that hurts like hell, ‘cause you sure earned it.”

His hand reached out, pushed against the wound. She yowled desperately, shifting her body so that she lay flat on the ground. She was bleeding a lot, and her legs could hardly do anything but twitch. She noticed, though, that the anger seemed to dissipate into vague irritation. 

The man slid his hand from the wound to her stomach. Just like that, he was bewitched. His heart started racing, and all of the soreness in his body went numb in the blink of an eye. A blush rose to his cheeks and he sat on his knees. He trailed the hand up her abdomen to her chest and then to her neck. Y/n was frightened, so very frightened. She preferred when he was angry. She didn’t like when he genuinely seemed enamored. It was unnatural and cruel.

He leaned lower, so taken by the woman. She was still squirming, but he aimed carefully. He knew damn well the wound hurt like hell, but the area was that with a common survival rate. He knew how to take care of it just fine, but he certainly didn’t need her being conscious. 

Releasing a feverish breath, he pawed at her face before cupping her cheeks. He halted her movements, not paying any mind to how she squirmed in agony. Even when red in the face and upset she looked absolutely splendid. During the night, he was worried things wouldn’t work out, but having her here and now was a dream come true.

Patience truly was a virtue.

“God, just look at you…”

His face hovered directly over her’s. He couldn’t help it. Not even a second later, he crashed his lips onto her’s. They were so soft, even when chapped and frozen over. She didn’t even struggle. She didn’t reciprocate, sure, but in his fucked up head he was sure she would if she had the strength. Her warm breath fanned across his nose and Y/n was panting profusely.

The killer’s eyes were shut. But Y/n’s sure as hell weren’t. She was reaching for the goddamn knife with every fiber of her body, and then she felt it. The tip of the blade. It was like her shoulder was about to remove from the socket altogether, but with one final stretch, she pulled it close.

And it skidded far too loudly.

The murderer’s eyes flashed open and he pulled away instantly. His heart sank when he realized what she was trying to do. He was still fairly mellowed out, but he reached to prevent her from snatching it up. He cursed under his breath.

However, Y/n’s hands wrapped around the hilt. And, although she was so very weak, she tried. She reached her arm up, and despite the man’s attempts to block, sent the blade spiraling into his coat jacket. He cursed again, reaching to remove it, but she slapped him. And then, slapped him again. 

He was sent into a flurry of dizziness, face stark red from fury. He threw the knife away, but Y/n grabbed his entire head. And, not a moment later, she sent it into the edge of the counter. A crack resounded and just like that, as she released him, he went completely limp.

She gasped out of pure joy. He slumped, lulled into unconsciousness, and Y/n was completely trapped. However, the dull ache in her waist reminded her of the truth. She was about to pass out any second and the adrenaline had completely deserted her body.

Using her elbows, Y/n propped herself up. She pushed the man off of her and his body slumped over in an unnatural position. Her heart thudded in her chest, wary that he might not be dead. But form the sheer quantity of blood spilling from his head, she tried to convince herself otherwise.

She pulled herself free. She flopped onto her stomach carefully before pulling herself via the kitchen counter. Blood smeared everywhere, and it was slippery to stand. She honestly couldn’t tell if it was her’s or his that covered the majority of the wooden kitchen floor, but it didn’t matter.

Y/n sent the killer one final glance before she began limping away. He was completely unmoving. But Y/n soon would be too if she didn’t do something about it. She grunted, hiking up step after step. And the moment she turned into the bathroom once more, relief washed over her.

She was safe. She was okay. She was alive.

The bathroom cabinets, luckily, had a first aid kit. She removed the bathrobe and towels completely, and although the cold air nipped at her skin, it was refreshing. A solid reminder that she was still kicking.

Little by little, she washed her entire body. The water was frozen cold, almost lukewarm at best. However, she replaced the various wounds - twisted ankle included - with bandages. They were warm and comfortable. Y/n didn’t even bother putting on any towels, instead deeming that limping to her bedroom would be the safest bet.

She scanned her suitcase. She withdrew a sweater and sweatshirt and then an extra pair of fluffy bottoms. She adorned fluffy Christmas-themed socks, too, and bundled herself up completely. She hated how her bed was still pressed down and her pillow wasn’t in the shape it used to be.

That asshole had been in her room and had a field day as far as she could tell.

She grabbed a quilt from the closet, bundling herself up. She was far more warm now, even if there was a permanent chill over the household. She dreaded going outside again, knowing damn well it was below zero and - apparently - below ten. 

Y/n’s thoughts turned to the dead middle-aged man in her living room. She frowned, but as she sat on her bed, her brain blanked. For a few minutes, she wondered what she could do. As badly as Y/n wished to deny it, she was on the verge of passing out. Her hip hurt like hell and she could barely walk.

If she bundled up, she’d just end up passing out in the snow and catching hypothermia. She’d have to wait for the electricity to come on and she didn’t even have a device that could actively call for help. She’d have to wait until morning to do anything.

Because, at least then, she’d be more recovered and could fare against the harsh weather. People would be awake and she’d be able to see. Alondra had said her house was just up the road. And she trusted the deceased woman was correct and feasibly had a phone somewhere in her household.

Her shoulders slumped. She shivered again from the thought of going outdoors. She’d fought long and hard to defend her terf and the killer was dead. Y/n knew that much.

She scooted back further onto the bed. Begrudgingly, her arms removed themselves from the quilt and hoisted her leg onto the bed. The other came up with ease, and minding the wound, she scooted into a comfortable position. Right then and there, she wished for nothing but to sleep. With one final step, she removed her functioning hearing aid, officially silencing the howling wind and her occasional shuffles.

And, once Y/n pulled the covers over her weak and injured body, she did.

Silence flooded the household. Alondra’s husband had bled out a long time ago, unmoving and slumped against the front patio door. Y/n had been far too delirious to realize that he had a phone on him. Not to mention, the killer himself had her cell stored away in his back pocket. But maybe tomorrow, when far less smitten with trauma, she’d realize the helpful prospects.

Sooner would’ve been better to act. But Y/n didn’t know that. And what she also was blissfully unaware of was the shuffling of footsteps downstairs. The quiet limping of a man who was awake and well. Because, little did Y/n know, is that he wasn’t ruefully stupid. He had a bullet-proof vest underneath. And that knife had hardly penetrated the coat itself. And that what made him appear to be that of dead was, in fact, the collision of his head.

But nothing she did was deadly. And it truly would’ve behooved her to follow her gut instinct and double tap, as the saying goes.

He stumbled over to the sink. The man turned on the tap and the water started flowing. It was freezing, but he pulled the wash cloth from the sink anyways, running it underneath. He was certainly dazed and Y/n did a number on him. But, after dabbing his head and grimacing from the cold, he knew to pocket the article. And, after that, he took several paper towels and mops and made sure the floor was spotless.

He’d heard of idiotic criminals leaving traces of themselves for the forensics. He wouldn’t be one of them.

Around half an hour later, he was done. He was a lot more alert; he wasn’t sure what Y/n chose to do with herself, but regardless, it was hardly a time to panic. He dreaded to think she was somewhere in the cold and he’d stumble upon her freezing to death while unconscious. That was what the arrow would do, regardless of whether it was bandaged or not.

And after the hell she put herself through in meager attempts to escape, he was sure she would’ve passed out regardless.

He hummed, shoving everything he used into his many winter jacket pockets. He was fairly warm, and for that, he was grateful. He’d planned it down to a T and his car was still down the block - and hopefully not snowed in with how long this was proving to take.

He pulled his hood up. The wound on his head was dried and stung, but the fur coating the inside was soft and comfortable. He sustained a limp, but he could take care of it when he got home. 

The man paused at the foot of the stairs, heaving out a sigh. In a pocket was the other hearing aid, untouched and and unharmed. He sighed once again, staring up into the darkness. 

The killer was almost certain she’d chosen to trot out into the cold. He removed the knife from his jacket, gripping it tightly. His knuckles were deathly pale and he was numb inside and out. The only thing that indicated notion was the weary glint in his eyes and the twitching frown.

The stairs creaked under his steps. He flinched with each one. His ears rang ever so slightly from hitting his head, and he was glad it was required to wear a cap in the hospital he worked at. The man knew it would be national - and perhaps international - news when reports of the woman’s disappearance or traumatic night came to light.

He made it to the top. He noticed, peculiarly, that the bedroom door was almost completely shut. The man gulped, trying not to get his hopes up. But he knew damn well he didn’t leave the door shut. But she also could’ve grabbed her winter garb and shut the door behind her just as easily.

He paced toward it. His fingers hurt from the door slam. But his mind was so dazed that the only thing he could focus on was getting to her. He was certain shew as the love of his life and would always be. And when he thought of his future, it was with her. Whether she liked it or not.

His gloved and uninjured hand pushed on the door. He flinched as it creaked, and his heart beat erratically within his chest. And, as it opened just enough, it kept beating even faster.

There she was, sleeping peacefully under the covers. Y/n looked so beautiful. From the way she coddled herself and shivered, to the way her snores were ever so quiet - it was a heavenly sight. All of his worries dissipated in that moment and a grin spread across his lips.

He wasn’t sure if it was more stupid to curl up into the sheets and wait for him to find her or to have wandered out into the cold or pass out; but, regardless, he was rejoicing. She was sleeping peacefully, and he was certain that entailed her having taken out her hearing aids. The killer’s eyes flitted around the room further, and as he eyed the bedside table, it was confirmed.

She couldn’t hear a damn thing.

The murderer stalked, forward no longer caring about being silent. His boots thudded, but she was blissfully unaware. There was a bounce in his step and he was positive he finally had her. He crouched down beside her sleeping form, so enamored by the sight his mind blanked for a while.

Soon, very soon, he’d come back from long night shifts to such a sleeping beauty. 

He fiddled with his pockets before withdrawing a syringe and a jar. He wanted to do it earlier, but she intervened every damn time. Now, with her completely unarmed, he could make her pass out the easy way. The way he intended to use from the start.

The syringe sucked in the liquid easily. He snickered under his breath, and with one fell swoop, he stabbed it into her neck. Just like that, Y/n’s eyes opened wide and a scream escaped. But it was far too late, and no amount of struggling would’ve saved her from her fate.

Because, not even half a minute later, she was out like a light.

The killer stroked her cheek fondly, dipping the remnant drugs into a spare pocket. He was glad she was bundled up enough. He felt so gentle and soft before her, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Y/n was all his after all of his hard work.

All his.

“You’re right where I want you now, sweetheart.”

#yandere #yandere slashers #hush x reader #yandere hush #hush 2016 #slasher x reader #slasher x y/n #slashers #yandere x reader #x reader #x y/n #self insert

[m-jelly]

hey it's me again, the anon who had requested the ghost Levi.

Sorry it totally slipped my mind that being a ghost means the person is dead😂Weird I know, but sorry if that made you uncomfortable!

And as for changing it up, I was thinking....maybe Levi isn't a ghost but kinda like a person who's soul been trapped in the house? Like Tom Riddle from Harry Potter or something? Like, he's not dead but he's just tied to the house. If that makes sense.

I was also thinking vampire Levi, but I'm not sure how it'll work like that. Though since you're so good at writing him, if you can come up with something more easily with vampire Levi, I'd be all for it💖💖

You got it! I have something in mind :D

Curses become blessings

Pairing: Vamp!Levi x Witch!Reader

Genre and tags: Romance, falling in love, fluff, cute, vampire Levi, curses.

Concept: You're a travelling witch and you go to towns and help those who need it for money. You are told to go to the manor on the hill to inspect and help the person inside. You are yanked inside the home and almost bitten by the occupant, but he holds back when he senses you're a witch. Levi makes you a deal and pleads for you to break his curse of being tied to the house for a great reward. As you spend time with Levi, the more you both fall for each other and the reward no long becomes money and freedom, but each other.

Tag list: @levisbrat25 @ladycheesington @skittlelover69 @li-anne @strawberrybunny123 @nyxiieluna @galactict3a @notgoodforlife @demonsimp6

You came to a halt when you reached the gothic manor. Your eyes locked onto the grand doors. Your boots tapped on the wooden steps as you ascended to the doors. You gripped your spell book tighter as your heart threatened to burst from your chest.

You stretched your hand out and clasped the knocker in your hand. You tapped it against the old wood causing a booming echo to stretch out inside the home. You held your breath as you waited for the owner to reveal themselves.

The door creaks open slightly before flying open. You gasped as your arm was grabbed in a tight hold. Your body flew inside the house as the door slammed shut behind you. Your back collided with a wooden wall and the pain of the impact throbbed in your spine.

Sharp fangs dragged over your neck and pressed in a little before retracting. Steel blue eyes locked onto your own as if they were searching or reading you. A delicate and handsome face came into view as the man pulled away. His cheeks were plump and kissable, his nose like a sweet button and his jawline strong.

His voice was deep as he addressed you. "You're a witch, correct?"

You reached up and lightly touched your neck. "You bit me."

He eyed the slight punctures on your neck. "Hardly. Now, answer my question."

"Yes, I'm a witch." You walked over to your dropped bag and book from when you were grabbed. You gave your name and turned to the homeowner. "I'm a travelling witch."

"Levi Ackerman, I'm the Lord of this home." He strolled closer to you and stole your book. He flicked through it as you tried desperately to get it back. "A spell book? Good witches don't need books."

You yanked back your book. "Fine! Then I'm a bad witch! I'll get out of here."

Levi wrapped his arm around your middle and pressed his door closed. "Forgive my rudeness." He nuzzled your neck and inhaled. "You smell powerful."

Your cheeks heated up. "I keep this book on me so I can show people what spell I will be using. I want them to understand. Plus, it's better to be safe than sorry."

He released you. "So, a travelling witch?"

You nodded. "Yes."

His eyes dragged over your body. "What is it you do?"

You rummaged around in your bag and retrieved your information sheet. You offered it to Levi. "I will help anyone I come across for an agreed fee."

Levi read through the sheet and hummed. "I want to hire you."

You blushed a little. "Wonderful! What is it you want me to do?"

"I want you to lift the curse placed upon me."

You stared at Levi. "The vampire one?"

He shook his head and opened his front doors. "This one."

You watched as he walked out of his home and down the steps. He travelled down the path before a light walk shot up and encased the house. You gasped in awe at how powerful the casing around his home was. Whoever made this wall made it with a lot of emotions inside them.

He turned to you. "A witch cursed me to be tied to this house. I want that to end, not because of feeding or anything but simply because I want to travel and see how the world has changed." He returned to you as he spoke. He stopped in front of you. "Could you release me of this prison?"

You hummed in thought. "Sure, I'll give it my best shot. I just need to ask a few things to know the intention. Witches create things and in order to make them powerful, there is an intention behind them. So, why were you cursed."

Levi let out a long sigh. "The witch had fallen in love with me and I did not care for her back. I refused all her advances and it pissed her off."

You stared at Levi. "You being truthful?"

He locked eyes with you. "Yes."

You couldn't see a single lie in his intense gaze. "Alright, I will start working right away. It'll be a hard one, so you better get used to me being around your home."

He smiled a little. "I have plenty of room for you."

You grinned at him. "Great! I'll get right to work!"

Levi kept an eye on you from a distance at first, but over time he got closer to you. Soon he sat with you as you worked. He talked with you, laughed with you, napped near you, made you dinner and you even let him feed from you. Witches had the best blood for vampires, the problem was getting a witch to agree, but you let Levi.

You carried the tray of tea and snacks into your work area. You sat down and pushed the tray to the side as you studied your papers. You hummed to yourself in thought as you got close to finding a way to stop the curse placed upon Levi. You knew what needed to be done, you were just missing a few things and you were worried about the side effects of breaking it.

Levi spoke your name softly against your ear making you jump. "You're jumpy."

You locked eyes with him. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry." He rested his arm on his knee as he played with your hair. "You should never be sorry for being you."

You smiled at Levi. "Thanks. Would you like a drink?"

"Are you sure?"

You nodded and poured him a cup of tea. You handed him the cup and offered your hand. "Take as much as you want."

Levi took the cup and your hand. He pierced the plump part of your hand and let the blood pour into the cup. He cut his tongue open and lapped up the wound making it heal. "Thank you."

You went to pull away but Levi's lips connected with where the bite had been. You locked eyes with Levi as your heart fluttered in your chest. "You're...you're welcome."

He placed his cup down and shifted closer. "How about we stop this?"

You glanced at his lips and felt yourself tingle. "Stop?"

He nodded. "The research, the mission to stop the curse. I rather like being here with you."

You smiled as you felt a warmth spread through you. "Well, if I break the curse then we can travel together. Wouldn't that be fun?"

He hummed. "I would love that."

You turned your head before Levi could kiss you. "Um, so I have updates."

Levi lowered his head. "Right."

You gulped hard. "If I break the curse, then there will be punishment sent back to the witch. What I mean is, she'll get the pain you went through three times back. Are you prepared to let that happen?"

He nodded. "I am. She cursed me with dark intentions, so she can experience the consequences of her actions."

You nodded and looked at your book. "I can do that. I have a bit of a problem though."

"What's that?"

You gulped hard. "I can't really break the curse fully, but I can change it. You'll be locked to something else. I can do an object or something so you can move the object around with you."

He placed his hand on your thigh. "How about a person?"

You locked eyes with Levi. "I can."

"Can it be you?"

You placed your hand on Levi's. "Are you sure you want to be with me for eternity?"

He lifted your hand and kissed your fingers. "It would be a blessing, not a curse."

You smiled at him. "You're so sweet."

"I want to kiss you."

You gulped hard. "Pardon?"

He cupped the side of your face. "I have been dying to kiss you for a long time." His thumb slowly ran over your bottom lip. "The way I feel about you...I've never felt this way about anyone before. I want to be around you, with you, always."

You shyly pressed your lips against Levi's to test the waters. You felt a little spark when you did. You locked eyes with Levi and gasped when you felt a connection with him. You squeaked when he dragged you into his arms. Levi kissed you with all the fiery passion he had for you. His tantalising tongue massaged yours making you melt.

Levi pulled back from your lips a little and panted. "I fell in love with you a while ago. I've been desperate to be with you. My heart yearns for you. Do you feel the same?"

You nodded. "I do. I've fallen for you, but I was worried for a while. I mean, I didn't want you to think I was umm...well...I'm doing a job for you and I have never crossed the line with a customer. I don't want you to think I'm using you or taking advantage, so I stayed quiet." You let out a long breath. "I love you. I love you so much and I want to help you. I want to free you so we can travel the world together." You smiled. "I love you."

Levi wrapped his arms around you and held you. "Mine."

You hummed a laugh. "So, I'll change what you are tethered to."

"I can't wait to be linked to you for life."

You moved your books around and grabbed what you needed. "Okay, let's go!"

You ran with your notes outside to where you'd marked out the wall. You poured a potion on the floor, then started chanting. You grabbed Levi's hand, cut it open and your own. You held his hand as a light glowed around you both. Air rushed around you both as the bright walls shimmered before shattering.

You smiled at Levi as his heart glowed. "There, you're mine."

Levi's eyes lit up as the light faded in his chest. "So, I'm bound to you for life?"

You nodded. "Yup. Can you handle that?"

Levi lifted you into his arms. "It'll be an honour. I adore you." He kissed you and hummed. "Mine."

You smiled softly. "So, where do you want to go first?"

He blushed. "The living room sofa. I want to kiss and cuddle you."

You giggled. "I'd love that."

#levi ackerman #aot levi #levi aot #snk levi #levi attack on titan #levi #captain levi #levi heichou #levi x you #levi fluff #levi x reader #levi x y/n #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x y/n #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #jelly fanfics #aot fanfiction #levi fanfiction #fanfic #fluff #spooktober #jellyspooktober

[bodyswappertransforming]

Goth + Jeff

As the shadows deepened and the gothic subculture continued to pulse with its hypnotic rhythm, another figure emerged from the darkness: Agent Jeff, tasked with a daring mission to save his fellow agent, Elara Darkwood, from the depths of her undercover role.

Determined to succeed where others had failed, Agent Jeff embarked on his own transformation, shedding his former identity like a cloak and embracing the darkness with a fierce determination. His appearance underwent a radical change, his once clean-cut features now obscured beneath layers of black clothing and dramatic makeup.

Agent Jeff stood before the Physical Transformation Machine (PTM), steeling himself for the metamorphosis that lay ahead. With a sense of anticipation mingled with apprehension, he handed over the dossier containing the details of his new identity: Damien Nightshade, a brooding figure with a penchant for the occult and a talent for navigating the shadows.

As the transformation sequence began, Jeff closed his eyes and felt a surge of energy course through his veins. Slowly, his features began to change. His once neatly trimmed hair grew long and tousled, dyed a deep shade of onyx that seemed to absorb the light around him. His sharp jawline softened, and his piercing blue eyes took on a smoldering intensity beneath layers of dark eyeliner.

After emerging from the Physical Transformation Machine as Damien Nightshade, Jeff stood before the mirror in awe, scarcely recognizing the reflection that stared back at him. Gone were the familiar features of his former self, replaced by the brooding visage of his new persona.

Running his fingers through his tousled, onyx hair, Jeff marveled at its length and texture, the strands falling in waves around his face like a shroud of darkness. His once piercing blue eyes now smoldered beneath layers of dark eyeliner, their intensity magnified by the dim light of the room.

As he traced the intricate designs of the tattoos snaking across his arms and chest, Jeff felt a sense of wonder at the transformation that had taken place. Each symbol seemed to pulse with a life of its own, whispering secrets of a world beyond the realm of mortal comprehension.

Turning his attention to his attire, Jeff admired the flowing black garments that draped elegantly around his form, their velvety texture soft against his skin. Silver jewelry adorned his fingers and wrists, each piece etched with arcane symbols that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly glow.

But it was not just his physical appearance that had changed; it was his very essence. As Jeff gazed into the mirror, he saw not just Damien Nightshade, but a reflection of the darkness that lay within him, waiting to be unleashed upon the world.

With a newfound sense of confidence and purpose, Damien Nightshade ventured out into the night, ready to explore the depths of the gothic subculture and unravel the mysteries that lay hidden within its shadows. And as he walked the darkened streets, he knew that he was no longer just Jeff; he was something more, something powerful and enigmatic, forged in the crucible of the PTM and ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

With each passing moment, Jeff felt himself slipping further into the persona of Damien Nightshade. His clothing morphed into a wardrobe of flowing black garments, adorned with silver jewelry etched with arcane symbols. Tattoos snaked across his arms and chest, their intricate designs hinting at a world beyond the realm of mortal comprehension.

But it was not just his appearance that underwent a transformation; it was his very essence. As Jeff emerged from the PTM, he felt a sense of liberation unlike anything he had experienced before. Gone were the constraints of his former identity, replaced by a newfound sense of freedom and empowerment that came with embracing his darker nature.

Venturing out into the night, Damien Nightshade navigated the labyrinthine streets of the gothic subculture with ease, his senses attuned to the subtle rhythms of the night. With each passing day, he delved deeper into the heart of the underground network, forging connections with its denizens and unraveling the secrets that lay hidden within its shadows.

But amidst the hedonistic revelry and intoxicating allure of the night, Damien remained vigilant, his instincts honed by years of training as an undercover agent. And as he drew closer to his goal of rescuing his fellow agent, Elara Darkwood, he felt a sense of purpose unlike anything he had ever known.

For in the heart of the darkness, Damien Nightshade knew that the true test of his mettle awaited, and he would stop at nothing to bring his comrade home, safe and sound. And in the process, he would discover a new body, a new self, forged in the crucible of the shadows and tempered by the fires of adversity.

With each passing day, Agent Jeff delved deeper into the heart of the subculture, forging connections with its denizens and gathering intelligence on the whereabouts of his missing comrade. His dedication to the mission was unwavering, his every move calculated with precision as he navigated the treacherous waters of the underground network.

But as he drew closer to his goal, Agent Jeff knew that the stakes had never been higher. The shadows whispered of danger lurking around every corner, and the line between friend and foe grew increasingly blurred with each passing moment.

Undeterred by the challenges that lay ahead, Agent Jeff pressed onward, his determination fueling his resolve as he ventured deeper into the darkness. For he knew that the fate of his fellow agent rested in his hands, and he would stop at nothing to bring her home, safe and sound.

#bodyswap #mental change #undercover #undercover cop #goth #goth swap

[akindway]

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐚𝐝𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐱𝐞𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬.

Xenk possessed a commanding presence with his tall, imposing stature and striking features. His smooth, brown skin bore the mark of a life lived under both the sun's warmth and the moon's ethereal glow. His dark brown eyes, intense and piercing, held a depth of wisdom and determination. Black dreadlocks, meticulously styled, cascaded down one side of his face, adorned with a few silver cuffs that glinted in the light. A well-groomed beard framed his jawline, adding to his air of sophistication.

In his casual attire, Xenk exuded a blend of simplicity and refined taste. He wore light brown trousers that allowed freedom of movement, accompanied by sturdy dark leather boots that hinted at his adventurous spirit. A loose-fitting white shirt with a low-cut front provided both comfort and a touch of allure. Draping over his form, he donned a long teal light suede jacket, its supple fabric cascading down his frame, its color reminiscent of the depths of the sea.

When battle called, Xenk adorned himself in half plate steel armor, meticulously crafted and adorned with intricate gold embellishments. The armor bore the signs of past conflicts, telling tales of his experiences on the battlefield. Over this protective layer, he draped a regal cape with a high collar that added an aura of authority and majesty to his presence.

His weapon of choice was a daggersword, a unique and versatile blade that reflected his combat prowess. With a touch of divine radiance, he could imbue the weapon with holy power, lending a celestial glow to its edges. Xenk's mastery of the blade allowed him to split it into a longsword and a dagger, dual-wielding with seamless grace and precision.

In his appearance and attire, Xenk reflected a harmonious balance between strength and elegance, embodying the essence of a warrior guided by a higher purpose.

#i don't even have a tag or anything for this i just. #yeah. #𓆩⟡𓆪 about. #𓆩⟡𓆪 visage.

[ghostofnibelheim]

cosmoscompressed​:

Whether or not he intended them as such, Ultimecia took Sephiroth’s words as a compliment. Although she found her mortal body limiting, a mere cocoon for the power she held within, she nonetheless took pride in her appearance and how she manipulated her attire to express a sense of the infinite. As her lips stretched in a warm smile, she bowed her head and pressed a hand to her heart, proceeding to flatter him in return.

“Do not demean yourself, my dear. Whatever your creative faculties may be, I am sure you are an artist with the blade. It is my sincere hope to find myself audience before you and an army of men, to listen as you conduct a symphony in steel.”

Lifting up her arms back behind her head, Ultimecia closed her eyes and began to unfasten her headdress; and having removed it, she pitched it aside, where it vanished into the fabric of her gown. Opening her eyes once more, she approached Sephiroth; and as she did, her silver hair whipped up in her wake, unspooling further and further in contrast to the satin sea, until it too seemed to stretch infinitely into the horizon. As she drew herself closer to him, she raised a lone finger, taking up the lingering strand of conversation.

“Ah, to defy destiny - now there is ambition in its truest form. To achieve divinity - the freedom to do and be as one wills - is the most mortal of all desires. Society cannot abide souls such as ours. For all its incoherent aims, nothing unites it like the presence of one who dares deny its dominion. The particulars of your struggle may be unknown to me, but of this I am certain: your rivals were not worthy of you. They may have succeeded, for a time, in striking you down, just as mine did me - but still, we persist, irrepressible in our ends. Destiny has done its worst, and yet we endure. Perhaps we ought be grateful to it, for it has, in the certainty of its rule, erred egregiously in bringing us together.”

Ultimecia paused for a moment, folding her hands before her.

“To this place it has brought us, adrift at the Edge of Creation. And if here we have come, surely to where we are respectively from, we might return - wiser, perhaps, for the wear.”​

Such lofty words from this woman.

And still, there was something unmistakably intriguing in the way she carried herself and her preaching. Sephiroth had spent his fair share of time listening to politicians, another shard of that past to be forsaken, and thought himself immune to their charisma. This one, Ultimecia, wasn’t exactly a diplomatic, but he recognized in her the same oral ability to capture the audience. Perhaps where she came from, people like her were designated rulers of some sort.

Something he was not so inclined to entertain, or so he believed. Yet he was still listening, cold serpentine eyes following her fluent movements with suspicion behind the mask of faint humor. The smallest upward curve in the corner of his lips.

“Together, you say.”

He spoke, carrying slight sarcasm laced in his words, though the tone remained calm as usual. In the way he regarded her, head tilting just a bit with the shy dancing of long silver bangs ghosting his jawline, there was perhaps provocation.

“You speak a lot of praise, but your aims and motives remain well hidden still. Aren’t you trying to use me, under the ruse of an alliance?”

#cosmoscompressed #01C || All becomes one with me. [IC: Jenova!Sephiroth] #12S || You should let go of your past. [Ultimecia] #03I || Cross-Over [AU] #00H || I've seen this before. [Transfer from Primary Blog]

[captainevans]

Close it.

#evansedit #steverogersedit #marveledit #captainsamerica #userraisa #usergracie #usermeri #useraanal #userchaitali #STEEL JAWLINE OF FREEDOM #he looks so good disheveled like that h e l p #love of my life #oh captain my captain #PATRIOTIC DADDY #the avengers #filmedit #*gif #becka makes a thing #1k #CAN WE DISCUSS

[cynettic]

I just read Kitsune reader x yan Scaramouche's fic, may I have gotten hooked on it? and of course, it's just perfect and that's why I'm here to lose a part two with nsfw, thank you in advance and understand if you refuse:3

Link to Part 1

Summary - Taking you captive, Scaramouche continues to see you as a pillar of support. Coming back home to have you there, always. Even if it meant chaining you up.

Pairings - F!Kitsune!Reader x Yan!Scaramouche

Warnings - Smut, slight noncon ( I tried to make it as consensual as possible but its difficult with yandere themes ), fingering, electricity play

Rating - NSFW

Penpal - Ahhh I'm actually beginning to get attached to this series, might end up writing a couple more posts with different hc and stuff. I hope you liked the post though, have a great day <3

A/N - The literal definition of the ‘stoic cruel boy who’s mean to everyone but you.’ Oh well, Scaramouche is ooc af, but I did change a few things in his backstory so its supposed to make sense for this story ;) Also- since we dont know Scaramouche’s actual name, I have the reader still… yknow, call him Scaramouche. Which is kinda weird cause its his harbinger name but oh well. Also, credit to @cycletr4in for proofreading it ;3

Taglist - @cursedraiden

Stay with Me pt.2

Scaramouche was a gentle captor.

In contrast to piercing eyes and harsh stares when it came to others, he had a soft spot for you. Like the ice that encased him whole melted at your touch, craving for the warmth only you could give him. For your arms around him, to play pretend and imagine he were a child, free, fearless, unbound. A child in your arms, safe and protected.

But you were held hostage, which meant that the chains around your wrists and legs held you down and secured you. Like you were bound to one spot like you’d always been, except this time you didn't have a choice.

You weren't waiting for the Kitsune Saiguu.

Hell, you didn't even have your vision.

This brought on resentment for the dark haired boy. You hated him, you despised him for holding you down under his own judgment. But at the same time, all you saw in him was a child, a little kid who hadn't had the time to grow up. The one who refused to do so because it was his only way to survive in the type of world he lived in. Hide behind that same facade he developed as a kid, snide remarks and unrelenting cruelty.

Just to come back to your arms, sobbing because he was still that child. Sobbing because he was still hurt. Sobbing because you were still his beacon of light, of hope.

He depended on you.

And as much as you built up harsh words to use against him, they dissolved in your mouth when you saw him. His vulnerability that he saved for you and you only. A deep part of you cared for him, a little too much.

Gentle fingers brushed through the locks of Scaramouche’s hair, twirling it around and playing with the strands. It was smooth, a small detail no one would have the chance to notice from the distance he put around himself and others. A quiet hum left his lips as he leaned against your chest, eyes fluttering closed against the soothing feeling of you against him.

The lavish silk sheets were soft against your skin, pillow pushing your form to sit up. Just enough to have Scaramouche in your arms, knees on either side of his body as his head rested under your chin. His chest rose and descended, almost on beat with yours, if not just a tad slower.

You hoped he wouldn't hear the way your heart thrummed against your chest.

Warmth, his body flushed against yours, the luxury of a bed and the small candlelight on your bedside. Different from what you’d grown into just on the side of the trail, sitting for decades. Or with your time with the Kitsune Saiguu, it was never this warm, never this gentle.

But this warmth ended at your beating heart, furiously blazing. Sending an urge of adrenaline through your body, whispering ‘run’ through your veins. A primal urge that would've had your hands around Scaramouche’s neck, till he was wrangling and dead.

Till you could escape.

Hand slowly sliding down his jawline, you let your gentle fingers ghost along the soft skin of his neck. Claws outstretched and ready, sharp and pointed with a deadly intent to kill. You could end him so quickly, overturn his trust and make an escape. You deserved it, you deserved freedom. Not a delusional boy who thought himself protector against someone who’s lived decades more than him.

Jolting at the sensation of a soft grip on your wrist, you watched with idle fascination as he simply cupped your wrist in his hold. Not stopping you, not restraining you, he simply brought your hand to his face. To his lips where he pressed the softest of kisses into your palm. So heartfelt and genuine that all you could do was freeze, not even considering clawing his face.

“I love you.”

You both stayed in that position for a few moments more, silence cradling the tension that slowly dissipated from your body. Forlorn eyes watching as he shift the angle of your wrist to kiss your fingertips. He wasn't waiting for an answer, basking in these soft moments where he could hide in your hold. Like a child, forced to grow up too quickly, yearning back for his foolish naivety, yearning for the childhood he missed.

You were that childhood.

Which is why he clung to you so dearly, showed expressions he didnt know he could make, hold you captive under the impression that it was ‘right.’ What he was doing was okay.

Claws retracted, you pursued your lips, holding back the tears of frustration that burned at your eyes. You hated him, hated him for the chains on your wrists, for the disappearance of your vision that you’d given so much value to. Hated him for the warmth he still made you feel.

You hated him.

You felt like a housewife in some respects. Not with the cleaning and cooking part, and of course no children were part of the equation. But in terms of support, you stayed rooted to that room, loose chains too strong for you to break or tug holding you down. Window was too far, and you were stuck moving around the bed and the desk that sat just a little farther away.

Attempts at having your vision back or more freedom in movement had been discussed with Scaramouche, but as childlike and free as he acted with you, he was not an idiot.

“I don’t plan on underestimating you,” was his answer, head resting on the plush of your chest. “You’re strong, always were. But I have to take extremes to make sure you don’t get hurt, some people out there are stronger than you.”

You wanted to point out that there were a ton of people stronger than him as well, but you kept your mouth shut. “Can I at least see the house? I’ve been cooped up here for so long…”

And he cant say no to such an innocent request as that right?

So he unlocks the chains, the vision at his side reminding you that he was strong. You solely knew that he’d been tough as a kid, and under the intensive training he’d seemed to endure, he was much much stronger. You werent willing to give it a go and lose his trust just yet.

Not like he really trusted you anyways-

At the very least, you’d hoped to get some sort of blueprint of the house, and all you’d received was confusion and your mind making up that the house itself was a maze.

“Didnt we… just pass through here?”

Glancing at the obvious frustration on your face, Scaramouche chuckled, pulling your arm through the hallways you swear you’d seen three times prior. “Nope, most of the hallways look pretty similar. The house wasn't built for dumbasses.”

You flashed him a look and were about to make some snideish rebuttal before you saw the smirk. You knew what he was doing, trying to comfort you with casual arguments you both used to have. Consisting of you telling him to work on his people skills, and him calling you a lazy ass. Of course you missed it, but you also knew you couldn't go back to it.

And then there was the issue when you learned that he was a harbinger.

A scene you didnt want to replay in your head, when a maid burst into your room, Scaramouche acting a tad more intimate. He had an awful tendency to do that, hug your waist and press his face against the crook of your neck. Press gentle kisses down the length of your shoulder that had you shuddering. You weren't used to intimacy, and considering you’d watched him grow up, it was just weird.

Stuttering, the maid had demanded that he was requested by the Tsarista. You’d seen the fear in her eyes when Scaramouche slowly turned to her, seen the unshakable immobility of standing under his gaze.

“Do not enter.” He said, “It’s on the door.”

That was the first time you’d seen Scaramouche kill.

You hoped it’d be the last.

But you’d seen death before, so much death in the time of the Kitsune Saiguu. And for a few seconds, you found yourself fearless as you yanked against the chains, yelling at his figure at the doorway.

“Tsarista?” You snarled, standing just a few feet away from him. His hand on the girls neck, clenching around the pretty skin of hers. Disgusted, the chains that held you back from closing the gap and throwing the girl away from him were impossible to overcome. “Why the hell does she need you?!”

‘Let go,’ you wanted to say. ‘Let her go, she’s going to die.’

It worked, because the ironclad grip was gone, the maid tumbling to the ground lifelessly. You’d been too late, and now her blood was on his hands, your hands. This was your fault and you had half the self control not to thrash against the chains with sharp claws, hands on his neck.

The hard steel gaze vanished in an instant, and like he’d regained his senses, he took a few steps to you. Hands clenching to fists before loosening to fingertips brushing against his palms. Confusion, regret and guilt clouded his features like a child waiting to be reprimanded. You didn't back away, stood firm and fierce when standing and keeping a tough front.

You wanted to cry.

“Its… its a long story.” He finally stated to your question, and when you didnt budge, he took a deep breath. In control again, he closed the distance between the two of you, “I’m sorry.” And that same thrum of electricity jolted through your body, sending you into a spiral of the girls lifeless eyes and Scaramouche’s childlike eyes. Till everything went black.

You woke up with the body gone. Scaramouche was gone as well.

You learned that Scaramouche liked to have things his way. Which meant that he was always in control, always had control of every situation.

Even in those short stretches of vulnerability when he rested in your arms, he still held something over you. And you had to adapt, shift for his wishes, coddle him and stay as his beacon. Because he was stronger, and even if you’d find some way to escape, he would find you.

It was odd, and you slowly let go of the image of him as a child, you knew he was a lot older. He’d probably reached the age your body was stuck in, and with every sweet kiss he pressed to your lips, you knew he saw you as some sort of lover. But as someone who wasn't in control, you simply had to play along, just until you found some way to make your escape.

Without killing him.

_-_-_-_-_

“Strip.”

Laying on one side of the bed, your eyes jolted open at the commanding voice. Slowly, you sat up, eyeing the dim figure at the doorway. Without the help of a candle or the moonlight at the window, you could distinguish Scaramouche at the doorway, taking off the large headpiece as he flung it to the ground.

“Excuse me…?” Your voice was soft, rusty after an evening nap.

“I’ll make you feel good,” was his only answer. Slowly making his way to the bedside till he could properly face you. His eyes were soft, but there was an odd sort of determination that you hadnt seen before. You held back his stare, confusion lacing your features when he suddenly started pulling off loose decorations that hung on his clothes. Just till he unlaced the vest and slid off his shirt. “Don’t worry.” But you didnt know quite what he meant until he leaned further to you, catching you off guard.

So you yelped when his hands suddenly slammed down on your shoulders, shifting you to have access to the buttons of your top layer. He was quick when undoing them, simply swatting away at your hands when you protested and tried to pull him away. Throwing it to the edge of the room when he was done, you could only thrash in horror when he undid your trousers just as quickly, pulling them down before you could grab them back up.

“Scaramouche? Hey-”

And then he threw you down on the bed, exposing you in your undergarments in the cool air of the room. Shivers crept up your spine and bristled across your skin, and before you could curl up to at the very least hide away, you felt a tug at your chains. Fear finally settled in when you saw Scaramouche attach the chain to the bedpost, until your hand was lifted up and he began to do the same to the other.

“Wait wait wait, stop and explain what you’re-”

Only then did he pause from what he was doing, slowly looking down to properly face you. His eyes slid up and down your body, and he took a step towards you. “I’ll make you feel good,” were his only words, and you were forced to take them as all he was planning on giving you. Only when he sat on the bed next to you did you realize what he meant, hand settling on your shoulder, waiting.

“Alright,” you said slowly. Painfully, the words bit your tongue, but you were merciless against someone who had control against the situation. You could say no and you knew Scaramouche would stop, he was gentle to you and you only. And even if he’d been firm just before, you knew that he’d still stop if you asked him to.

A part of you felt thrilled to have that power over him.

Another part of you just wanted to escape.

But you didnt have any hope to do so unless you were willing too give him everything. Because he expected everything and would do anything in his power to obtain it. You’d let him fiddle around with this delusion, thinking that he had control. Until he didnt.

Which is why you didnt flinch when his hand gently slid up your stomach, cold against the warmth you’d had under the blankets. Rubbing gingerly against your skin and drawing smooth shapes over before he slowly slid over your body. His eyes seemed to glint under the darkness of the room, lust filled and wanting.

You didnt shift uncomfortably, you pretended to be that doll he expected you to be.

Just staring up at him as he slowly leaned down to kiss you. His lips felt like snowflakes on a winters day, idly swaying side to side to catch one in your mouth. Jolting like electricity when they melted into your touch, red and swollen when he pulled back. You now vividly felt every touch, as if a current flowed and static jittered in the places he briefly brushed his fingertips.

“You always take such good care of me,” he breathed, lips slowly drifting down your chin. Just past your jawline and right on your neck. The space between your head and shoulder, a soft vulnerable spot that had your lips humming at the affectionate pressure. “Its my turn to take care of you.”

And then his lips were everywhere, collarbone, shoulders, cleavage. Just until his teeth were tugging off your bra, face nuzzled in between both breasts. Both of his hands now resided on your hips, grabbing both thighs to hold them up and against him. You could feel him hard, pressing so close to your heated core.

You managed to keep your reactions in check.

Just until he slowly grinded against you, mouth on your breasts as he again pecked the soft mounds, molding his lips against them as if he could remember the texture, memorize the feel. It was just to that point that mindless sounds slipped past your lips, turning to gasps when his hands on your thighs suddenly buzzed, and static rushed in. Your legs felt weak, entire body thrumming in response to the electricity he sent jolting.

He was using his vision.

The realization was numb against his lips on your breasts, hands slowly stroking the skin of your sides, travelling up. He hovered over you for mere seconds before mashing his lips against you once more, different. He was no longer gentle, and it was with the contact on your tail that you lost all control. When he gently moved it out of the way, backing up.

You were a mess.

Not that you tried to be, you’d been doing your best not to enjoy his touch. But it was hard when your core heated up so fast, mashing both legs together in hopes he wouldn't notice. You knew he would, any action beyond that was just you trying to save your dignity.

He sat there like he was enjoying the sight, the first time you’d seen him actually portray any visual confirmation of satisfaction towards the chains. He’d drink dry any ounce of control you gave him, and it was impossible not to give him it all when you were visionless and vulnerable.

But the dignity you struggled so hard to keep shattered when his hands brushed against your inner thigh.

Fingers slowly made their way to the padded fabric of your undergarments, two digits rubbing the area slowly with expertise. You bit your lip, muffling any groan of anticipation, hiding the way your hips tried to rock back into the gesture. Desperate, oh so desperate. Hiding back the whimpers as he slowly quickened the pace of his fingers against your garments. “Archons Y/n,” he murmured. “I haven't even put anything in and you’re already a squirming mess.”

“Shut u-up,” was all you managed, trying to shift away from the pressure against your clit. But his other hand was on your hip, holding in place. You could only watch and press your thighs tightly together as he slowly slid down your panties, resuming hovering over you. Distracting you with kisses, his fingers gently stroked your core, two fingers slowly sliding into your cunt using your juices.

He was gentle when pumping both fingers in and out, too slow when you thrust your hips to meet his fingers, pleading for him to go faster. But he liked hearing your cries, slowing down when you begged, quickening when you whined and just lay there, taking it.

You shuddered the first time electricity jolted from his digits.

It was when he had three fingers that he sent the static up your body, back arching with such intensity that it even had him chuckling. “Oh? You like it that much?” And then it is like something buzzed against your body, fingers vibrating against your clit as your thighs tightened around his hand. So much that you thought you’d crush it, but it didn't matter, not with the electrifying feeling against your body. It felt so odd, so overwhelmingly good that it had your legs sliding up and down the bedside, toes curling as the static grew and you fell paralyzed to his touch.

It didn't take long with his fingers thrusting in and out of you to cum. Moaning mess when he gave you the time to breathe, teeth biting your bottom lip and then mashing against yours. Your eyes grew fuzzy and most happened in a haze, and all you knew the entire time was that you’d given yourself to him, and that it felt good. You couldn't see the childlike wonder in his eyes anymore, not the need of a beacon or of support. No, the look he shared was feral, the smile tinting his lips almost scary. But it felt too good to care, and you let yourself enjoy his ministrations.

He pulled out and suddenly his own shorts were undone, boxers thrown to the side of the room just like all your other clothing. You didn't see how big he was, just felt his hard shaft against your throbbing cunt, pussy dripping and legs open wide and tired after your first go at it.

You expected him to be gentle like he’d been with his fingers. But he pressed the tip against your core, and in one full motion he was in. Teeth grinding against each other, you held back a scream, shock coursing through your body, overwhelmed with pain and discomfort. It hurt. But it was quickly overshadowed by his movements as he slid in and out of you, slow when pulling his hips back, and rocking himself completely inside you each time. A pattern that let you catch your breath and lose it all the same. Like he was continuously having a go at hitting the deepest parts of you, pulling back before fully thrusting into you and sending waves of pleasure and pain alike.

It was expected, but you couldnt hear yourself.

Not with your mind trapped in a haze of how he felt, body still buzzing after how he’d pulsed his vision through you. And now you were at the mercy of his member, hips swaying along with his, no energy for you to rock with him and try to push him deeper.

Archons, you didn't even think he could go deeper.

But you were proven wrong again and again as he kept the steady pace, hands clawing at your ass and hips. Stabilizing himself and trying to press himself against you, as far as he could go. Slowly, his hands drifted up to your hair, playing with the soft sensation of your furry ears. Pinching and rubbing, fingers coaxing the back of them like a massage. So gentle, but it paled in comparison to the harsh treatment of his dick.

You came first, gripping the chain with your hands in an attempt to stay stable. Walls clenching around him one last time before you got your release, your moans turning into cries when he continued to thrust into you. Your body felt numb, all nerves centred on the way he pounded into you, chasing his own release.

When he did, he pressed his head into your chest, his own breaths heavy with pleasure. Not pulling out, you could only lay there helplessly as his seed filled you, warm in contrast to the electricity he’d shot up your body just earlier. He didnt pull out, and laying in your chest, your heavy breathing didnt stop until he was asleep, collapsing on you and using you as support yet again.

Taking only a minute later to regain control of your senses, you shifted uncontrollably at his member inside of you, sending waves of pleasure every time you moved. Your wrists were restrained and you were stuck in this position till morning.

Achingly, you looked down at the boy, wondering how you would ever manage to escape.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact hc #genshin impact oneshots #genshin headcanons #genshin impact scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #genshin smut #scaramouche smut #genshin fluff #smut #writing

[irishprincess89]

LEAVING ( CAPTAIN SYVERSON)

JUST A LITTLE SOMETHING THAT POPPED INTO MY HEAD, HOPE YOU ENJOY.

CAPTAIN SYVERSON X Y/N

WARNINGS; NONE JUST SOME ANGST.

WORD COUNT:: 2881

ALL MISTAKES ARE MY OWN.

,MIGHT DO A PART 2 IF ENOUGH INTEREST.

............................................................................................................................

Standing outside the grimy rundown bar, the blinking neon lights capturing your teary gaze, distracting you from the man who stood but 2 feet in front of your trembling body, your mind trying to digest the words he spoke just mere moments ago.

You were out celebrating the end of your first year at college with your group of friends when your best friend Sy had pulled you outside to talk, the music and chatter inside the bar making it difficult for you to hear him, you were confused as to why he wanted to speak to you alone, you never had secrets among your group so him not wanting to say what he needed in front of the others left you stumped, but nothing could have prepared you for what left his lips.

Feeling his fingers lightly graze your shoulder snapping you back to reality, tearing your eyes away from the lights you look up to meet his steel blues, tears burning in your own eyes, how could he do this to you.

‘’Say something Y/N, please’’ his voice shaky as he pleaded with you,

You continued to just stare at his face, taking in his every feature, his sharp jawline to the dimple on his chin that you liked to poke whenever you both where messing about, then to his chocolate curls laying messily upon his head, god how many times have you fantasized about running your fingers through those luscious locks, wondering how soft the would feel under your fingertips, not forgetting his plump pink lips with the cute little freckle on his lower lip, how you imagined the softness of those lips smothering your own as he kissed your breath away, but those where only hopes and dreams, he was your best friend nothing more, no matter how much you wished for him to be more, he would never see you as more than just his best friend, the girl who he had known since diapers, that rolled around in the mud on his parents farm, you where basically one of the guys, not some prissy stuckup girl afraid to get dirty or break a nail, the usual girls he seemed to always capture his attention.

You didn’t notice the raindrops starting to surround you both as you stood like a statue in front of him, trying to process his words, ‘’leaving’’ the only word that kept repeating inside your mind, he’s leaving, but not just leaving your hometown, he’s leaving the country, going halfway across the world, thousands of miles away from you.

‘’I can’t do this Sy, I gotta go’’ turning away from his frame as the tears started to flow down your cheeks, you ran across the street ignoring the shouts from Sy, you needed to be as far away from him as possible at this moment, you didn’t want him to see your tears as your heart was breaking into a million pieces, this was not how you saw tonight going, it was supposed to be a night to let free with your friends, enjoy the freedom of no lectures or homework for the next couple of months, the start of a wonderful summer, but all that’s down the drain now, with one little sentence your whole world had collapsed.

Pulling the door open of the parked cab you jump in and slammed the door closed before telling the driver your address, you take one last look out the window toward the man who just broke you, his body slumped over as he watched you drive away, the sight causing the tears to flow harder.

Sy had dreaded tonight, from the moment he woke up he had a heavy feeling weighing on his heart, he needed to tell her, he couldn’t hold it in any longer, it had been hell the past couple weeks since he got his letter, but he couldn’t put it off any longer, he would be leaving in a weeks time.

He always knew that college wasn’t for him, but he gave it a try, he remembers the day you got your exception letter, you were so excited that you had rushed straight over to his parent’s house, letter flying about in your hand, hair going in every direction, your short PJs clinging to your body, even in your disheveled state Sy had never seen a more beautiful sight, how he wished he could just grab you close to his body and kiss you until he couldn’t breathe, to feel your soft curves molding with his own body, but he would never speak his thoughts out loud, you where his best friend, he didn’t want to lose you if he was to confess his love to you, he would ruin a lifetime of your friendship for some silly feelings. 

He had arrived at the bar a bit earlier than his friends, taking a gulp of his drink emptying the contents of the glass, he signals for the bartender for another, needing to build up some courage before he dropped the news on you, he was on his 3rd drink of the night when everyone started to show up, his gaze stopping on you as you walking into the bar laughing at something one of the girls said, he couldn’t help staring at the way your whole face lite up as the sweet sound of your laughter could be heard even from where he was sat at the bar, he watched as you all sat around a table a bit further back in the bar before downing his drink before making his way over to your group.

The night seemed to roll by agonizingly slow for Sy, he watched as you seemed to be enjoying yourself with your friends, he knew that he needed to tell you soon, he couldn’t take the feeling eating him up inside for much longer, but he felt guilty, he didn’t want to ruin your night but he would be leaving soon he couldn’t put it off any longer.

Leaning over the table closer to you, his lips almost brushing your ear as he requests you to step outside with him, pulling back as you look at him with confusion writing on your face before you nod at him, stepping up from the table as you followed him outside.

The night air was crisp as he stepped outside, holding the door open as you made your way past him, he felt nervous now that he had you alone, the words he had been practicing all drifted from his head, his mind going blank now that it was time to tell you.

‘’What’s up Sy? you’ve been quiet all night, are you ok?’’ the question snapping him back to you,

Its now or never Sy, he told himself, before taking one last look at the beautiful smile on your face, the smile he was about to wipe away any moment now,

‘’I’m leaving for Houston in a week for military training, then deployment in Baghdad’’ he spluttered out, he hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, he wanted to ease into but the moment his lips parted it was like word vomit spewing out, he couldn’t stop it, his heart was racing waiting to see your reaction, your face was blank no emotions giving way as to what you were thinking, at that moment he really wished he could read minds just so he could see what was going on inside that head of yours, 

‘’Say something Y/n, please’’ his voice laced with emotion when what felt like hours but was only a couple of minutes passed without a response from you, he started to panic, would you hate him, has he ruined your friendship, he wanted you to speak to him, shout, scream, anything but the silence you where giving him,

‘’I can’t do this Sy, I gotta go’’ he watched as you turned on your heal and ran from him across the street towards a cab before jumping in and taking off, he watched as the car took you out of sight, his shoulders slumped, a pain aching in his heart, he hadn’t expected that sort of reaction, he taught you would be upset yes but not that you would run, he didn’t know what to do, he wanted to talk about it, he didn’t want to leave without talking to you, without saying goodbye, but he knew you needed time, it must have been a shock, the news coming out of the blue.

You hadn’t left the confines of your room since Sy had dropped the news on you Friday night, as soon as you got home that evening you ran to your room and threw yourself onto the bed, the tears wouldn’t stop, you couldn’t breathe, it all felt like a dream, well more like a nightmare, how could he leave you, did he not care about you, even if it was just as a friend, its always been you and Sy, nothing would tear you apart, or so you taught.

Now he was going halfway across the world, somewhere dangerous, somewhere you wouldn’t be able to be with him when you needed him.

Your phone vibrated against the wood of your bedside table, you had turned the sound off after 2 days of constant ringing from both Sy and your friends, you didn’t feel up to speaking to them right now, the news of Sy leaving still felt too raw.

Sy had left you voicemails after voicemails, begging you to call him, he needed to explain things, he didn’t want to leave things the way they were before he left, but you just couldn’t face him or speak to him without breaking down.

It was late Thursday night when there was a knock on your door, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders you made your way to the door, looking through the peephole see some of your girlfriends standing outside, opening the door the push past you into the living room, one holding up a bag of takeout while the other holds up some wine,

‘’We think you need a girl’s night, some cheering up’’ your friend says as she makes her way into the kitchen in search of a bottle opener for the wine.

With the food gone and almost an empty bottle of wine shared between you, the girls bring up the topic of Sy, they had been in contact with him and though they were sad for you they knew you needed to stop ignoring him and call him, they wanted you to tell him how you feel claiming he felt the same, that both of you were just so blind to each others love.

You sat among the girls as they laughed and chatted trying to cheer you up, but you were lost in your own thoughts, could they be right, did Sy love you back, but if he did why hasn’t he ever said anything or hinted that he had some sort of feeling towards you, they must be mistaking there’s no way he does, he just sees you as his best friend, he loves you like a friend.

It was almost midnight when the girls had left leaving you to your own misery once again, Sy would be leaving tomorrow, everyone was going to the airport to see him off, they begged you to come, that you would regret it if you didn’t, but could you really see the man that held your heart walk away from you, not knowing when or if you would see him again.

You decided not to think about it tonight and just sleep on the idea, you would make up your mind in the morning.

waking the next morning, you had decided you couldn’t let Sy leave without knowing how you felt, even if it meant he didn’t feel the same, but you knew that if you didn’t tell him you would regret it for the rest of your life, he needed to understand why you were so upset that he was leaving, so you sat down at your kitchen table, a pen in hand, as you wrote down everything you felt for your best friend.

Sy.

Let me start off by saying sorry,

Sorry for running away from you,

Sorry for not calling,

And sorry for leaving it so late to tell you this,

I’m just gonna come out and say it, I love you Sy, and not just as my best friend,

I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember,

I love how you make me feel safe,

How no matter how shitty I feel, you can always make me feel better,

I love how kind you are, 

I love how your eyes sparkle when your happy, and how when you smile the cute little dimple that pokes out on your one cheek, 

I love that your so honest with me, even if it’s not something I will like,

I love the feeling I get when I’m with you like there are thousands of butterflies dancing in my stomach, how you make me feel protected and safe,

But most of all Sy I just love you.

I know it’s shitty timing, and that you may not feel the same, but I just couldn’t live my life without you knowing how I really felt about you.

I’ll be here waiting for you to return, as my best friend or if you decide maybe more, until then, please keep safe and know that I’m so proud of you no matter what,

Love always 

Y/N

xxx

You felt nauseous as you stepped through the doors of the airport, in just a few moments you would be face to face with Sy for the first time since you had left him standing outside the bar in the pouring rain, you didn’t know how he would feel seeing you after his countless failed attempts at contacting you, but you needed to see him, to give him the envelope that is burning a hole in your bag.

You spot your group of friends just up ahead, taking a shaky breath you urge your feet to move in their direction, the closer you get the more your heart starts to pound in your chest.

‘’Hi guys’’ your voice comes out in a whisper, too afraid to speak any louder, everyone turns in your direction, but the only face your eyes can meet is Sys, you’re unable to read the expression on his face, ‘’you made it’’ he says still looking at you with a blank face, your stomach drops, he’s mad at me, I shouldn’t have come it was a mistake, you think to yourself, just as you go to turn around and head back from where you came one of your friends grabs your hand, ‘’we’ll leave you two to talk while we get something in the coffee shop’’ she gives the rest of the group a look and they take her lead and leave you both standing alone in awkward silence.

‘’Glad ya came’’ Sy mutters without looking at you, his head pointing down towards his feet,

God, why is this so awkward, we’ve never been like this, like strangers, I’ve ruined everything between us, you think about the letter again wondering if it’s a good idea to give it to him now, maybe I should just let him go, but I can’t I need him even if it’s only as a friend, I can’t live without him in my life, it would be like part of myself is missing if I didn’t have him.

‘’I’m sorry for running, and for not calling’’ still staring at the top of his head hoping he will look at you, and he does his head snaps up at your apology,

 ‘’no, Y/N you got nothing to be sorry for, I’m the one who sorry, I should have told you sooner, but I was so scared to lose you’’ he reaches out his arm, his fingers taking hold of your hand, pulling you towards his body so he could wrap you in a warm hug, the feeling of his chest pressed hard against your own sends a warm familiar feeling shooting through your body, your gonna miss his hugs, how his large body wraps around your whole body, keeping you safe. 

Pulling back you take the envelope out of your purse, ‘’I’ve been thinking about what to say all night, and I just couldn’t seem to find the right way to say what I’m feeling, so I wrote them down, but please wait until I’m gone to read it’’ you hand him the letter watching as his large fingers slid across the cream-colored paper, holding your deepest feelings in his palm.

Nodding he puts the item in his pocket, just as the rest of the gang arrive back, you all chat for a couple of minutes before the lady comes over the intercom announcing Sys flight for departure.

With one last round of hugs, you squeeze Sy a little tighter before he makes his way towards his boarding gate, looking back one more time giving you one of his dimpled smiles before he disappears down the gate taking your heart along with him.

#captain syverson #captain sy #captain syverson x reader #captain syverson x female reader #henry cavill #Sandcastle #captain syverson x you

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

customer service, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: You're the simple owner of an erotica shop. Known for being non-judgmental, non-kink-shaming, and for providing pleasant customer service. So what happens when a certain customer asks for a little... extra service?

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; non-idol!AU; mentions of toxic masculinity and kink shaming; dom/sub themes; smut (restraints, body appreciation, praise, nipple play, handjob, edging); softdom!reader x firsttimesub!Jungkook

--

“Thank you for your patronage.”

The older woman bowed politely and took the inconspicuous brown paper bag from you. You smiled at her as she tucked it safely in her purse before thanking you again and walking out. The sky was already pitch black, with only a few people walking about. It was late, almost closing time. There was only one other customer browsing the shelves.

You knew him well.

You turned from the counter and continued calculating the day’s sales. It had been a surprisingly busy day for an erotica shop. Lots of people had purchased books today and even a good number of toys. Being one of the few adult shops in the whole district got you some… interesting customers. Thankfully, everyone was too nervous or awkward to start shit. This made your job a lot easier and you didn’t have to hire a second person. It was a small business, but you were quite proud of owning it.

You heard the clearing of a throat.

You punched in the last number. It took you less than a second to record the total in the book before shutting it. A deep breath coursed through you. You lifted your head, a small smile on your lips.

The young man shifted nervously on his heels. Curled, dark brown hair past his ears. A sharp jawline, mole quivering under his lower lip. A permanent deer-in-headlights look, at least when it came to visiting the store. He was wearing an over-sized, navy blue dress shirt and tight black slacks with black oxfords.

“How can I help you, Jeon Jungkook?”

His ears turned red. “Oh… you remember my name.”

You bowed ever so lightly. “Of course. Did you enjoy your book?”

The blush crept to his cheeks. He coughed awkwardly. You didn’t look away, keeping your small smile on your lips. You were wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved, floor-length black dress. Completely covered except for your head and hands. Your hands were perched one over the other, calmly waiting for his answer.

“Er, yes.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Over the course of his visits, you had learned a lot about Jeon Jungkook. He bought books and porn primarily BDSM-themed, either lesbian dom/sub or female dom/male sub. He bought only a few toys, but all were marketed for self-pleasure. He did not purchase any of the clothing, despite always eying it as he checked out. He was very hesitant to ask questions when there was a lot of people in the shop. He did, however, ask when there were no people in earshot. He requested opinions and recommendations a lot. He listened closely to your responses, dipping his head a bit as if he was afraid someone would know what he was asking.

At the moment, Jungkook seemed to be collecting himself. You patiently waited, watching his body language. Trembling shoulders. Chewing on his lower lip. Eyes flickering, looking in every direction except you.

“Could I… Could I please try that on?” he finally asked, raising his hand to point at something behind you.

You turned your head, following the direction of his finger. It was a black leather top for men, cut high, just above the nipples. There was a steel circle at the center of the chest that would lay under the collarbones, against the sternum. High-necked, with studs at the seams to prevent it from getting ripped with use. It had long sleeves, except instead of an opening for the hands, it ended in a closed, flipper-like encasement with straps. The back had a zipper to get inside the top.

You took a moment to let your eyes roam over the piece before facing him.

“You will need someone to help you put it on.”

You saw his hand falter. He lowered it, expression falling.

“Perhaps you can come back with someone to see if you two like it.”

Jungkook shifted his feet uncomfortably. “I don’t... have anyone who could help me.” His eyes darted from side to side. “No one knows.”

Your brows furrowed at his sad tone. “I’m sure there is someone who understands.”

Jungkook shook his head quickly. “Everyone I’ve even suggested that kind of… thing… they laughed at me,” he said tearfully, chewing on his lip harder. “They told me I was weak for wanting something like that. They told me I should be a man.”

A sharp tinge of annoyance shot through you. What kind of fucking bullshit was that? To be so vulnerable and admit what you liked – that was being a man, or any human for that matter. Jungkook blinked rapidly, pushing away his tears. He had been repressing this side of him for a long time, it seemed, only revealing a little when he was at the shop. The thought made you angry. Not having sexual freedom was soul crushing.

“It’s expensive.”

Jungkook nodded. “I saved up for it.”

Your eyes flickered to the clock. “It’s ten minutes before closing, Jungkook.”

He bowed his head. “I understand.”

You winced. He looked so lost and alone, like a bunny who couldn’t find home. You tapped the counter sharply, making him snap his head up.

“The fitting rooms are in the back. Let me close up a little and I will be right with you,” you said, sweeping your skirts back to walk around the counter. Jungkook watched you stride to the door of the shop before scurrying towards the back. You locked the door and pulled down the metal grate before turning off the front lights. You could never be too safe, after all. You made your way back to the counter and grabbed the tall metal hook to bring the leather top down. He had good taste. This was one of your favorites.

Simple, yet effective.

You placed the metal rod back and walked to the fitting rooms, heels clacking on the hardwood. You always liked to wear heels. They gave you a sense of power, even though no one could see them under the maxi-length dress. It was like announcing your presence.

Your hand grasped the red velvet curtain and pulled back, revealing an awkward-looking Jungkook. He was picking at the peach fuzz on his face in the floor length mirrors. You blinked at him and he pulled away from the mirror quickly. He saw the top on your hands and gulped.

“Sorry, I–”

You cut him off. “Remove your shirt.”

Jungkook looked down. “R-right.”

You watched his fingers fumble with the tiny buttons of his navy dress shirt. He had long fingers, large hands. Small tattoos on his right hand. Lightly tanned skin, toned chest, dark nipples, sculpted abs. The silky fabric slid off his right shoulder. Tattooed arm as well. He slipped out of the other sleeve and held his shirt awkwardly in his hands. You indicated the hook to his left with your free hand. He swallowed and placed his shirt on the hook. His black pants were very tight. You could see his muscular thighs and calves.

Interesting.

“Move the ottoman to the center,” you said softly. There was an edge of command to your voice.

Jungook spied the black leather ottoman in the corner and gently pushed it to the center of the dressing room. He looked back up at you for approval.

“Sit.”

He did, but facing you. You smiled, just a little.

“Face the mirrors, Jungkook.”

There was an inflection on your tone when you said his name. He started and scooted around, facing the three floor-length mirrors. You could see Jungkook’s nervous expression in the mirror and he could see you standing behind him at the entrance of the dressing room. You pulled the curtain closed behind you as you stepped in.

Now you two were alone, in the red velvet room.

You calmly removed the hanger from the leather top. “Raise your arms.”

He did. He had nice forearms and biceps. Even his triceps were nice.

You unzipped the back. Jungkook was watching you closely. You separated the zipper and reached around him, placing one sleeve on and then the other. Your chest was very close to his back but not touching. You placed two fingers around his wrist and yanked the leather down, making sure the fit was smug. Jungkook gasped. You did the same to his other hand before backing up and rolling the sleeves up. He shivered as the steel ring touched his skin, flush against his sternum. You had to pull a bit to fit his broad shoulders in it. The top could accommodate some stretch, but it was a little tight due to his build. Your eyes flickered to his face. He seemed fine with it.

Maybe a little too fine with it.

You zipped the back, careful not to catch his hair in it. Jungkook peered at his flipper hands and flapped the straps. He smiled. You almost did, but instead cleared your throat. He straightened.

“So,” you began, voice dropping an octave. “The nice thing about this top is that it can be fastened two ways.” You reached around him and took his left arm, crossing it over his right arm, over his stomach. Your hands lingered on the straps for a moment before snapping them behind him with the proper tightness. Restraining, but not circulation-cutting. You looked up. The position made his pecs push together and his biceps bugle against the leather. Jungkook gawked at his body in the mirror, eyes wide as if seeing himself for the first time. You could see his dark nipples harden.

Hm.

“And,” you continued calmly, unsnapping the straps. “It can be done this way.”

You undid the snaps and maneuvered his arms to cross them behind his back. A few steps and you were in front of him, slipping the straps under the steel ring and pulling them taut. He inhaled sharply as you touched his hot skin. Quick few adjustments and you were done.

You let your eyes trail to his face.

Jungkook’s brown eyes were quivering, staring at you.

You moved out of the way and let him see himself. Now his chest stuck out a bit due to his arms pinned behind him, forcing him to arch his back. Jungkook tilted his head, tugging at the restraint. He flexed his muscles. It didn’t budge. His lips parted. Curls of dark hair framed his wide, inquisitive eyes. He looked at himself in every angle, the confidence evident in his features.

You stood about a foot behind him, hands behind your back. He caught your eye and blushed, looking to the floor.

“Like what you see?”

One, two, three seconds passed. Then he barely nodded, not making a noise.

“Jungkook.”

He looked up slowly, chewing on his lip.

“Tell me how you feel.”

You could tell he was struggling with lying or telling the truth. You waited patiently.

“I feel… sexy,” he said, quietly at first, but with added sureness as he looked at himself in the mirror. “I really love it.” His eyes shifted towards you. You could see them sparkling with gratefulness. “Thank you.”

The side of your lips curved upwards. You took a step towards him. Your hand curved around his head, hovering just under his chin. “You don’t have to thank me,” you murmured, making eye contact through the mirror. Those brown orbs full of wonder and open possibilities. The mole under his lips trembling as they parted. Your other hand pointed to his reflection, where he looked at himself once again.

“Look how pretty you are, Jungkook.”

He whimpered.

You heard it. Jungkook heard it. You blinked slowly. His teeth sunk into his lower lip. Your hand was still under his chin, not touching. Gradually, very deliberately, he lowered his head, right into your palm. You observed him through the mirror. He rolled his hips, ever so slightly. The tight black fabric molded to his obvious erection, revealing everything.

You dropped your head a few centimeters lower, lips against his ear. Eyes still on his.

“Jungkook, I’m the shopkeeper,” you breathed.

He nodded in your palm, breath hitching. You tucked your tongue in your cheek. His breathing was getting heavier. You pulled your hand back, against his neck. He gasped as your fingertips touched his skin, your index and middle on his pulse. It was racing.

“I know,” he pleaded, so quietly you barely heard him.

You breathed deeply. “Wouldn’t this be your first… encounter?”

He nodded, short, quick nods of his head. You waited.

“P-please…”

Shit.

His voice was a whisper, fear mixed with arousal. “I know you won’t… laugh at me.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Your hand slipped down the leather. “You’re right,” you murmured. “I won’t.”

His bangs shrouded his eyes a little, but he was watching your every move. Watching your fingertips trace the steel ring, watching your hand splay across his chest, whimpering as you touched his skin. You kept your eyes on his as he watched you stroke his abs, tracing the muscles.

“Look at you, handsome boy.”

His ears turned red at the compliment. You smiled, just a little. Your other hand snaked up his side, making him gasp. Your hands roamed over his body, his tanned skin, his taut muscles. He moaned softly, music to your ears. Your thumbs slid up, pressing against his nipples. Jungkook trembled as you rubbed them slowly, exhaling lightly onto his earlobe.

“Pretty boy,” you whispered, “No one is allowed to call you weak.” Your breathing was getting heavier, heated against his skin. “What a beautiful body.”

You pinched the small nubs tightly. He groaned, bucking into your hands. You let your nail graze against them and he jerked into it, sinking your nail into his skin. His head lolled back, leaning against your shoulder.

“You can take a little more?” you asked, pressing a little harder.

“P-please…”

You pinched again, harder. He really moaned this time, loud and clear. You pinched again, twisted. His eyes slid closed, thrusting his hips in his pants. You placed a soft kiss on his neck as you rubbed his nipples roughly. They were turning a little red. Jungkook was leaning against you and you supported his weight, planting your feet solidly on the ground. You flicked his nipples repeatedly with the back of your nail until he was squirming against you, dragging your name out in long moans.

You could feel wetness pooling between your legs.

You stopped, sinking your nails into his chest and raking down, down. Jungkook gasped in pain, lurching forward. You scraped down his torso, ripping your hands away sharply. He whimpered, panting hard. Swiftly, you moved in front of him to push the ottoman out from under him. He pitched forward, knees hitting the hardwood. You held him up until he straightened, kneeling.

His black slacks were very, very tight.

You moved back to your position behind him, sitting down on the ottoman. You spread your legs and scooted forward so your chest touched his back, making him shudder. You pressed your covered breasts up against him. Jungkook was staring at the ground. You impatiently reached forward and yanked his chin up.

“Don’t look away,” you warned.

He gulped. “O-okay.”

His dark, curled hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat. You pushed it aside gently, revealing his forehead, placing your lips softly on the top of his head. He made a small noise, appeased. Your fingers slid down his torso, tracing the scratches you had made. Pink, lightly raised. You traced the waist of his pants, playing with the button. Made eye contact with him.

“What are you hiding down here?” you purred, teasing the button from its hole. You could feel his chest rise and fall sharply as you pulled the zipper down, down. The bulge slid out slowly, now unconstrained by the zipper. You traced the outline with your nail and Jungkook whined, thrusting his hips lightly in your hand.

“Nice and hard, all for me?” You licked his earlobe ever so slightly.

Jungkook moaned as you palmed him, pushing his slacks down. “Yes. Oh, god, yes.”

You pressed your lips against his ear. Made sure to add a hardness to your words, like poisoned honey.

“There is no god here. Only me.”

You dipped your hand underneath the waistband and grasped his cock. Jungkook gasped, arms straining against the leather. You used your other hand to push down his underwear as you freed his cock and balls, your fingers wandering over them, cupping him. You massaged his balls, squeezing them, before dancing your fingertips on his cock. You nudged his head so he could watch you in the mirror.

“What a perfect cock waiting for me.”

Jungkook moaned, pupils blown wide with lust. His eyes darted from his face, to the leather top, to the reddening scratches on his stomach, to your hand on his cock. He rolled his hips in your hand, trying to get more friction. You took pity on him, wrapping your hand around his thick cock. It felt nice, you against his hard stiffness, veins pressing against your palm. He thrust his hips into your hand and you let him. You watched him fuck your hand, precum glistening from the head of his cock.

With your free hand, you hooked a finger around a stray strand of hair, tucking it behind his ear as he continued rutting into your hand. You placed your lips against his ear.

“Aren’t you a desperate, needy boy?” you purred.

“Y-yes,” Jungkook panted. “Yes, I am.”

You tightened your grip a little and he groaned, eyes rolling into his head as he thrust harder. You let him go on, until his breathing became shallow, tight, brows furrowed in pleasure.

Then you squeezed the head of his cock, hard.

He squealed in protest; orgasm cut short. You spread the pre-cum over the head, roughly. He whined, pressing his back against you, tears clinging to his eyes. You rubbed the angry red head, carefully but firmly, earning a choked sob of your name.

“P-please…”

You pressed your lips against his jaw. “Shh.” You only intended on edging him once. If he continued acting like this, you might go full dom on him. You needed to be in control of yourself, for his sake. One by one, you wrapped your fingers around his cock again, this time dictating the pace. Your hand was slick with his pre-cum, adding to the pleasure. You kept the grip solid and tight, making sure to rub just under the head. His eyelids fluttered, moans filling up the store.

“What if someone hears you, Jungkook?” you mumbled against his shoulder, smirking. He cracked his eyes open as you continued jacking him off, fast and hard. His breathing was in short, rapid pants.

“Don’t care,” he whined, eyes fixated on his reflection and his cock pumping in your hand. “Wanna cum so bad, just for you.”

Jungkook, please, you thought, inhaling deeply. He smelled like fresh laundry and pre-cum. Delicious.

“Please… please let me cum for you.”

How could you not give in to his sweet pleas, his eyes finding yours, begging you so earnestly? You increased your pace.

‘You going to cum for me, handsome boy?” you growled. “I’m going to make you cum all over this mirror, all over your pretty reflection.”

Jungkook was becoming a moaning, ruined mess in your hands as you went harder, faster, tighter. His entire body jolted and he threw his head back, screaming your name hoarsely as he came, long, thick strings of white splattering across the mirror. You sucked in a breath, jerking his cock so it shot in different directions. All over his reflection, until it dribbled against the hardwood, dripping fat drops onto the ground.

“You’re so fucking sexy, Jungkook,” you breathed, marveling at the cum sliding down the mirror.

Jungkook slid down, head between your covered breasts. His chest was heaving, hair stuck to his face, lips dry. He nestled against you comfortably. Your hand was covered in cum and a few drops fell onto his muscular thigh.

“I-I’m sorry…” he gasped, cheeks turning pink. “I made a mess.”

You chuckled, petting his hair.

“I’ll just make you clean it with your tongue.”

He whipped his head towards you, but you were smirking at him. You winked.

“Just kidding.”

-

part ii.

--

masterpost

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook x you #bts smut #jeon jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you

[the-darklings]

Heartbeat with the elder ?

⤫ pairing: elder x v

⤫ word count: 862

⤫ verse: high table!v au

11. — heartbeat

“Brooding?”

The Elder doesn’t respond right away, his broad back to you, and you approach him, cutting across the open tent briskly.

“You may call it brooding, viper,” he says smoothly, not turning towards you till you halt at his side, both of you looking out towards the desert. “But I call it contemplating.”

“Contemplating,” you repeat slyly with a deliberate hum, arching an eyebrow with a curious slant of your head. “Fancy way of saying brooding.”

A glint of amusement shines in his dark eyes at those words, his severe expression easing, smoothing. His eyes drag over you, your robes, the necklace around your neck that you wear proudly as his right hand—a symbol of your power.

“You are in high spirits today,” he notes, and you remind yourself to breathe when his scrutiny ends and gaze returns to your face. “Looking forward to your journey?”

There is an edge to his voice and your own expression falters. Warm breeze tickles against your skin and you watch his profile when he turns back towards the landscape, your fingers itching to reach for him.

“It’s nice to see the world,” you admit after a pause because it’s the truth. “But I often wish I didn’t have to go,” you say and note the way his jaw flutters at those words, and add a deliberate, “I know you don’t, either.”

It’s your duty as his eyes and ears to make sure the Table abides by his rules but there is such acute sense of dread when you do go. He never says anything about you leaving but you feel the yearning for you to stay.

You love your freedom. Always have and always will. He lets you be whatever you want to be, have whatever you want to have, yet it does not amount to happiness. The only true happiness you do know is quiet evenings by the fire and secret brushes of your skin against his, sneaking into his tent and stealing kisses and time.

The trembling in your limbs is near overpowering sometimes. You always want more. Even now you can feel the whisper of his fingertips between your inner thighs.

“Will you say nothing?” you force out when he continues staring out towards the golden sand.

A quiet breath nearly lost in the wind of the desert answers you.

“What would you wish me to say?” he demands, and the quiet steel in his voice makes your bones tremble. He finally turns towards you, looking at you properly and you take a step closer too. “That every beat of my heart longs for you every time you depart? That much I confess readily, viper.”

His low, deep voice washes over you like rays of the sun, burning at your senses and igniting your heart anew.

Despite that, you can’t quite hold back the bitterness in your next words, “Yet you let me take other lovers.”

His eyes spark, his folded hands loosening and dropping to his sides, and he cuts the distance between you. “Would you prefer if I didn’t? If I forbade it?” he questions sternly, and there is a flicker of shadow and darkness there.

So you close the distance between you, demanding a greedy, selfish, “Kiss me.”

He touches your face and your eyes slip close. “You do not know how much I want to,” he breathes, leaning so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your skin, feel the way he draws tiny patterns where his fingers linger over your jawline.

“Then do.”

“I cannot.”

You partially closed eyes open at that, your anger sparking anew, “Why?”

He looks near pained, just a little angry, just enough to be yours but not enough to kiss you. “Because if I do I will not be able to stop,” he confesses in a hushed breath and your expression screws up in pain.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

A brief smile appears—a rare sight, yours alone—and he presses a kiss to your forehead, breathing deeply as if he could memorise the scent of you, and hold you in his lungs until you return.

“I can be selfish with all, my viper,” he murmurs and just for a second his arm slips around you, holding you close to him. In the folds of his robes you feel unfairly safe, warm. “But not you. Never you. What would I do without you?”

“Be just fine, I imagine,” you return weakly.

“No, ya amar,” he rebukes softly. “Not even close. You may leave this desert but you carry a piece of me with you always.”

Your head lifts till you can see his strong features again, still pressing close to his body despite the heat. “You let me take from you,” you note shrewdly.

His features soften and he shakes his head a little like you’re not getting something. “Who else would I share this with? You alone are worthy. You alone are capable of holding this world the way I do. My equal.”

Yes, you think greedily and let your eyes slip shut, snuggling back between his arms for another stolen moment. I am.

#the elder john wick #the elder x reader #john wick #john wick imagine #john wick drabble #the elder #s: equals in all #do you ever just.... [honk honk] #march blurbs

[mariamermaid]

The witches wrath (1/3)

Tommy Shelby X fem witch reader

Summary: You meet Thomas when you were just a little girl travelling as a gypsy…

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: swearing, drinking, smoking

A/N: This doesn´t follow the plot of the show really

Halloween Masterlist

 You´ve met Thomas Shelby when you we´re eight- he was ten at the time- when his parents took him, Arthur and Baby John to the first Gypsy party ever. You stayed out of town from Birmingham with your trailers, back then you were a large group of gypsies, almost 50 people. People back then weren´t too bothered by you, not like today. Of course, from time to time there were some numbskulls who bore hatred towards the gypsies, but things were different back then.

They used to shout my name, now they whisper it.

He remembered the exact moment he saw you for the very first time like it was yesterday. He and Arthur had his first beer- he chuckled thinking back when today only whisky made him feel that way- and he sat by the fire. The cold night didn´t seem to bother any of the people, women danced in short skirts with tinkling jewelry and when his eyes glided through the crowd, he spotted you. You stood across him and he saw you through the flames- how ironic he thought. He saw you in flames for the first and for the last time…

You grinned at him devilish, waking a sense of adventures inside him like only you could do. He immediately followed you and watched you running through the rows of trailers. Then you disappeared, but he caught sight of a single candle shining from a trailer. Carefully he took the few stairs and then opened the door. A wave of heat hit him and he remembered the smoke from the build-in ovens rising above the small colony of gypsies. He remembered you sitting at the table, watching every move he made precisely, your hands softly grabbing the crystal ball, which mysteriously glowed purple.

“Do you want me to read your future?” He was unsure what to say, nervously he nodded and sat down across from you. You wore a headband with jewelry that hung over your forehead. Even back then there was smudged eye makeup that made your eyes shine in the dark.

“I see great fortune in your future, Thomas Shelby.” He opened his mouth, wanting to ask you about his name, but then kept quiet. Chills ran over his skin. “But it´ll be hard to get there, a long way is ahead of you. Don´t forget to seek your family in difficult times, they will always stand behind you supporting.”

 For a long time, you two were inseparably, constantly hanging around each other. His family, especially his brothers were first unsure about you, but they quickly learned to mess with you. Even Aida found a liking in you, since you often braided her hair.  His father loved you. He loved the wild spirit gypsies had, just like you. He loved it because when he, Tommy and you took the horses out for a run, you didn´t need a side saddle. And when the horse went faster and faster, you stretched out your arms, embracing the wind. Smelling the scent after rain had fallen. Closing your eyes and feeling sincere freedom. They admired that about you, Tommy and his father. “Get a hold of her, Tommy, ey? You gotta keep a girl like her!” He often told his son and Tommy would dutifully nod. Tommy admired your sense for adventures, he couldn´t even remember how often you had gotten him in trouble. But he remembered that every damn time, you had found a way out. Every single time. He still didn´t know how you had talked him in to stealing a horse, or when a new mayor was elected you had exchanged the pig with a dead dog. On his birthday the school was unexpectedly cancelled. You had dressed Aida´s cat in doll´s cloth when little John didn´t stop crying. You had wandered with him for two days straight to find a crystal for his mother´s birthday present. His dad had taught you how to shoot and while you were a natural, Tommy needed a lot of practice. But not once you laughed about him. Not when you came to his house and Arthur had stolen his clothes. Not when he cried because an older boy had punched him. You punched back, because you always had his back. You were partners in crime.

But then the gypsies left town and so did you. It broke his father´s heart to see his son like this. Tommy didn´t eat for days. And every night you laid awake in your bed, wondering about young Thomas Shelby. Praying that one day you could go back to him. And you did, but the circumstances weren´t as you expected them.

In a blood moon night, men had overrun the colony, they killed almost all men and they had taken the women, often raping them. You had to run away, knowing that if you looked back, there would be nothing left but ashes. And so, you returned to Birmingham. As a broken young woman with no qualification for a job. All your hope laid on Thomas Shelby…

 Your hands were shaking when your finger finally grabbed the bell to ring. It sounded off key, emptier and not how you remembered. A young boy opened the door, first tears formed in your eyes. “John.” You sighed. The young boy didn´t recognize you. “Yes?” He asked boldly. You chuckled. “Is Tommy here?” He nodded unsure and you followed him into the house. The smell of smoke laid thick in the air. You followed John to the kitchen and there sat they all. At the end of the table Tommy´s father, to his left Arthur, Thomas on his right. A young man with an angular face and piercing blue eyes. Aida sat on Arthur´s side and Polly ran around the kitchen. His father was just explaining something to him, when he realized a new person entering the room. Aida´s and Arthur´s fight also broke off and all of them suddenly stared at you. You had changed a lot over the years. You still had long hair, but it was now hidden under a scarf. Your face was denoted by a scar just above your eyes. It was also the eyes Tommy recognized. You had grown to a beautiful young woman and the minute his father saw you, his hope for Tommy to marry you, came back. But there was no smile on your red lips. “Y/n?” He asked confused. You couldn´t hide the pain behind your eyes. “Hello Thomas.” He still could read you. He knew you didn´t want them to see you cry. Immediately he jumped off his chair and a hand laid on your back while he pushed you in his room. You broke down in tears and he sat down next to you, his arms embracing you. He had missed you; it was undeniable. But over the years he had gotten used to it, used to being without you. But now you were back and he felt a missing piece coming back. “What happened?” He asked quietly. “They´re all gone.” You sobbed while inhaling his scent so deeply, hoping you would forget the horrifying pictures in your head. “We were close to the border to Scotland when more people started to riot against us. One night, men came and the killed our men and they took the women.” He pulled away, his hands grabbing your face.  A sudden wave hit his body, his stomach had this tightening feeling, that he couldn´t quite get a grip on. “Did they hurt you?” You shook your head. “I was able to flee.” He nodded and embraced you again. “I don´t know what to do. I have nothing left.” You then finally admitted after a long break of silence. “You have me.”

 He was right, he still had your back and you were endlessly thankful. Within a few months you were able to open a shop with healing herbs and medicine. And with the help of the Peaky Blinders, people more and more accepted you. You often helped rather poor workers who couldn´t afford a real doctor. And the shop filled you with hope. Hope for a new beginning.

It must have been three months after you moved to Birmingham, you just closed the shop for today. The night was already settling in, giving you cold shivers. You locked the door and packed the key away. When turning a man suddenly appeared. Surprised you recognized Tommy. “Geez Tommy! You scared me to death!” He chuckled lowly, a cigarette hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth. You could see the smoke in the soft shine of a lantern evaporating in the night sky. You smelled the bitter scent of whisky, he had been drinking. “What is it, Tom?” You asked while starting to walk. Your small flat was twenty minutes away from the shop and the walks often helped you clear your mind. And since you had moved there was one particular thing that was very often on your mind. Thomas Shelby himself. Of course, you had realized the man he had become and you admired him. He was brave, courageous and smart, sometimes bold but always reading the situations right. But not only his traits, but physical as well. His strong jawline, his bewitching blue eyes, his full lips. You both had grown up and you cursed at yourself every time your thoughts slipped. He was your best friend. “Can I walk you home?” You laughed. “I don´t know, can you?” You grinned when he hearing his drunken accent. He loved your laugh. It was one of the few things that still seemed carefree about you. You tucked your arm into his and together you walked to your flat. For more than half of the time you were silent. It drove you crazy not knowing what exactly was on his mind. Drunk Tommy was fairly new for you. He was unpredictable, especially when he had too much. But you liked his rebellious side, you found it remarkable attractive. You were only a few minutes from your home away when he finally spoke up. “Y/n?” “Hm?” You hummed in response, acting like you hadn´t waited the past minutes for him to speak up about what he wanted. “You know dad always hoped that we´d marry.” You huffed. “I know.” “Do you know I hoped so as well?” You stopped, looking up to his steel blue eyes. “What do you mean, Thomas?” And then, without a warning he leaned down and pressed his lips sloppily on yours. He wished he hadn´t been that drunk, that the first kiss wouldn´t be so messy. You pulled back, the action took you by surprise and stumbled a few steps back. He could´ve slapped himself. Good job, you fucked it up! “I´m sorry Y/n, I don´t know what has gotten into me.” You tried to calm down your breathing and after a few second you were able to look back into his eyes. “Maybe you should sleep off the whisky.” You suggested and he chuckled sadly. “You´re right.” He was hurt and for once, he couldn´t show it to you. You had pulled back, you didn´t want him. And the worst part? He was relieved! He hated when he drifted off in the middle of a meeting just because he suddenly thought about you. He hated it because he was afraid. Damn right, Thomas Shelby was afraid. Afraid to lose his best friend.

He turned to leave, but suddenly you grabbed his arm. “Maybe… Maybe you shouldn´t go back on your own. You´re not in the best condition.” You admitted and smiled at him devilishly. Oh, how he had missed that smile. And then you pressed your lips against his. First, he didn´t respond, but when finally realizing that you were actually kissing him back, his hands cupped your face and pulled you closer. He literally pulled you off your feet and carried you to your flat. (You still don´t know how he did that.) But when arriving at the front door of your house he already pushed you against the doorframe, his kisses getting more passionate and less sloppy. While his kisses even travelled down your neck you fiddled the key into the keyhole and opened the door. You walked up the stairs, there was no light in the house. Under you lived an elderly woman who went to bed early. She seemed nice but if you were honest, you didn´t talk much with her. One hand laid on the railing while the other hand pulled Tommy up behind you. He didn´t know the house like you did, but he trusted you and followed you through the dark. When you finally entered your flat and you turned on a small candle, he could finally see your face again.

“Do you know how often I had thought about kissing you?” He admitted and you watched the flame reflect in his orbs. “Why didn´t you do it?” He swallowed and pushed a strand of your hair, his finger travelling down the side of your face to your neck. “I was afraid”, he admitted. You smiled softly, grabbing his face with both of your hands. “Thomas Shelby, whatever happens, I will always be there for you, no matter what. I promise.”

 “I´ll come back, I promise.” Thomas nodded, his head leaning against yours. Tears had dried against your cheek, it didn´t help anymore. War had settled between humanity and desire for power and men were called to fight. “Tommy, we gotta go”, his father stepped to the two of you. To his right Arthur, fear and pain in his eyes. Neither of them wanted to go. “Bring him back to me, will you?” You asked and he nodded, his eyes travelling to the ground. Tommy´s hands were still grabbing your waist, but you felt the cold when he left your starving touch. A last time, he pressed his lips on yours. “I love you, Y/N.” A sob escaped your lips again. “And I love you, Thomas Shelby and if you don´t come back, I´ll come and get you myself.”

#tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #cilian murphy #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #mariamermaidimagine

[intotherumiverse]

Chapter 2

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: I’m still on my fae bull shit so yee have fun with this  ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: blood, violence, pov changes ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ: @lilsparkyswife​, a brief mention of @katsumiiii​ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.9k 

Yvonne’s Pov

The Summer Court was known for a lot of things. Yes, we did the dirty work for people who didn’t want to be seen doing it. We lied for liars, stole for stealers, and cheated cheaters. But we were big on loyalty. I mean if we couldn’t trust one of our own, who could we trust? But driving back home, knowing what we had to tell Bakugou….

Maybe it was better if we lied.

We found him training. Sweat dripped down his face as more and more holograms blur around him. His muscles tighten in frustration as the holograms look like they are about to win.  Power training was something I always hated. We were already fast and strong, why work yourself to the bone to gain some other ability. But some people did it, Like (Y/n), but others have tried every day to improve themselves to no avail. All of us has given up at some point, Bakugou was just a matter of time.

The hologram knocked his sword out o his hand, and he glances at it as if something miraculous was going to happen. When he realizes nothing is happening, he lets out a grunt of anger.

“He’s rarely happy anymore,” I think to myself. “ Well, it wasn’t unusual, well for Bakugou at least, but his obsession was going a bit too far”

“Good luck with him,” Mina says while Mira walks away.

“If you live we’ll see you in the meeting room. You know where, so don’t die.”

“Gee, Such wonderful friends,” I say back.

. Turning back towards the entrance of the training room, I walk, cleared my throat, and spoke up

“Bakugou?”

All I get is another grunt as a reply, knowing he was somewhat listening. He continued his workout, concentrating on summoning a weapon in his hand.

“Bakubitch!”

He gives me a glare. Well, that got his attention.

“Whatdoyouwant?”

I hated when he was like this, not wanting to listen to anyone else even his friends. Steeling myself, I spit out the ugly truth to him

“(Y/n)gotkidnappedanditwasn’tourfault.”

“What? You said that too fast for me to even hear.”

“(Y/n) got kidnapped-”

“HUH?? HOW’D YOU IDIOTS LET THAT-”

“Will you shut up and let me explain?”

Rolling my eyes I wanted until Bakugou was calm, well calm enough, to begin.

“We had a mission. One assigned to us by the King. Someone from Spring Court wanted someone from Autumn off their back and they had enough money to pay for it. Shit went sideways and long story short, (Y/n) got taken… by Izuku Midoriya.”

I barely had time to doge before the knife was embedded into the target behind me. Such primal behavior, attacking me without warning.

“So you’re telling me… Izuku Midoriya took (Y/n) and you and the rest of the team, just fucking stood there?”

Another knife dodged. He’s making it harder and harder for me not to hit him

“Will you stop using me as target practice long enough so we can get her back?”

“It’s the Autumn Court. Who knows where they took her? She could be halfway to the gates of hell and back before we figure it out.”

Walking over to the target and prying the daggers off of it, I threw them back in rapid succession. He dodged the first one, but the second one scratched his face, leaving a thin line of blood in its wake.

“Next time you throw a knife at me make sure it hit its intended mark”

And with that, I leave the training room.

(Y/n)‘s POV

Being interrogated by the Autumn Court was… It’s an experience, let's just say. They had a lot of ways of making you talk, and once you open your mouth there is no stopping them.

Due to their power, vocals are the thing that they focus heavily on. It’s easy to fall into their trap but easy to evade it if you know what you’re doing. Just don’t say anything. I’ve been doing that for three hours now.

Granted it was hard. They tried everything short of laying hands on me. Ripping my dress, threatening my family and friends, you know the usual. But they couldn’t get me to talk. Then they called the motherfucking prince, who also happens to be the person I wanted dead.

“Just answer the question, doll, and you can go home.” Stupid motherfucker, staring down at me with that condescending smile I think.  The haze of his power swirling around me, deep and smoky. Izuku was powerful, yes. But against me, he was nothing.

Smiling at him, I think to myself ‘You’ll get me to talk when I’m dead and gone’

Tracing his hand on my jawline slowly, like I was glass, brittle and ready to break. He stares deep into my eyes and for a moment, a hint of a second, I see the pain in his eyes. Something indescribable, intangible, but somehow there. And the moment is over. Harshly grabbing my chin, the pain is covered with feral, oddly flat green eyes.

“Tell me. Or else we’ll have to resort to… uglier methods of gaining information from you. And trust me, darling, you won’t like those methods.”

I took the saliva from my own mouth, aimed carefully, and spit on him. It landed directly on his eye.

“You fucking cunt!” He recoils in disgust, wiping his eye fervently. I smile in pride, knowing I got under his skin.

He backs up away from the cell I was in, taking one more look at my triumphant face, before saying to the guards, “Make sure she doesn’t escape.”

I heard his angry footsteps echo, and finally, the silence came.

The guards snicker at the recent events, before one of them saying,

“You’re going to regret that, you know? No one messes with Prince Midoriya and lives to tell the tale.”

“Guess I’ll be the first,” I replied back.

And then I broke the chains.

Izuku’s Pov

Fuck I missed her. She was the part of me that I never knew I needed. She was my blood, my bones, framing me into what I am now. And seeing her now, it made my bones ache, my blood sing. An agonizing, beautiful song. Placing my head into my hands, I bite the insole of my palms.

‘Where did it all go wrong?’ I thought to myself.

Sorting myself out, I walk through the quiet corridors of the Autumnal Palace. The sun shining through the high glass windows, mocking me with its beauty. It seems fit, having such a wonderful day go on outside as I suffer internally. With hastened pace, I make my way towards my personal team.

Stopping in front of the common room, I fix myself, running my hairs through my hair before walking in.

“Oh hey man,” Sero was the first one who saw me, giving a toothy smile “How’d the interrogation go…” he trails off, seeing the scowl on my face.

“So not well” One of Shoji’s many arms pops up and says.

Choosing my words carefully I say “It didn’t go as expected. (Y/n)’s a difficult one.”

Difficult wasn’t even the basis to cover it. She was infuriating, complex, and every time I see her it spurs my heart on erratically. But how could I say that in words?

My team was a good one, personally trained by myself, but sometimes they were a little too bit much.

Ochako pipes up from where she was sitting “Izu, don’t worry. We finally caught (Y/n)! After two and half years no less. All your hard work won’t be for nothing.”

“Yeah, man! This is cause for celebration! We finally caught (Y/n), Summer Court’s deadliest assassin. It’s time to kick back and celebrate-” At that moment, Ojirio storms in, face in pain as blood soaks his normally white clothes. The look on his face said that something was clearly wrong.

“(Y/n) escaped)”

Cocking my eyebrow I stare at Sero.

“Celebration huh?”

(Y/n)’s Pov

I hated being chased. Everyone talks about the exhilarating feeling of almost not making it but does anyway, but all I feel is annoyed. Turning another corner I hear in the distance. Luckily the guards tattered the ends of my dress, so it was easier to run in it

“Don’t let her escape! We need her alive!”

‘Autumn Court’ I thought to myself ‘One person escapes and they go bat shit crazy. Well, it is me.”

I look around looking for a place to hide out until the guards’ pass. Then looking up I spot...

“A vent. Perfect.” I whisper to myself. Working quickly, I made my way into the ventilation system. I keep myself there, holding my breath until I hear footsteps. It was two of the workers there.

“It’s such a shame,” one says to another. “King Toshinori has never done anything helpful since the Prince had been announced.” The other one shakes their head shamefully.

“I know right? Even since Izuku became prince, he’s nowhere to be seen or heard. It’s like he just placed all the burden on Prince Izuku and moved on with his life.”

Oh? Izuku’s being packed with the burden. I guess Von will find that information useful. Waiting until I couldn’t hear the voices of anyone, I get down from the vents.

“Easy as pie.” I smile at my genius.

“Spread out and find her! She couldn’t have gone far!” I see one the second in command, Ochako Uraraka yells. My smile turns into a grimace at her figure. I’ve never liked her but after the incident three years ago…

I didn’t let myself think of it, rather waited until I couldn’t hear footsteps anymore before dropping out of the vent.

Corridor after corridor, I run the palace. The orange-gold of the palace becoming a blur as I see the doors towards my freedom.

“THERE SHE IS. AFTER HER!” Fuck they found me. I was almost there, just a little more… Then I feel a large object knock into my back.

Giving a little as I went down, I turn quickly. Seeing the familiar hair of…

“(Y/n) don’t do this,” His soft voice rings out, power laced in it even now. “Just come back and we can get you home safely” Gritting my teeth at Izuku, I clench my fist and throw a punch. All the while my other hand summons a small dagger before dipping it in some poison and stabbing Izuku in the thigh.

How dare he. How dare he pretend that he cares, after all, he did to me, to my Court.

“Fuck!” Izuku screams.

Pulling him up by his collar I spit it out.

“Rot in hell.”

In the back, the rest of his team runs, seeing their leader hurt.

Not sticking around, I take off running, getting the doors of the front of the castle.

The night was dark as I fumbled slightly down the stairs of the castle.

‘Shit, shit, shit. I need a place to hide’ I think.

Running towards the car area of the courtyard, I see a black party bus sitting fairly near the gates. Sneaking into the back doors, I sit in the darkness.

“She couldn’t have gone far, split up and search.” I hear the voices agree before splitting off in different directions.

“Well, Well, WELL.” I’m suddenly knocked off my feet, and without another chance to regain my balance, my chin is grabbed. Sharp nails meet my flesh, threatening to make me bleed.

“What should we do with her Dabi?” a feminine voice reaches my ears.

“Drug ‘er. We’ll deal with her when the others come back. Shiggy will know what to do with ‘er”

“Sure.” Something stabbed into my neck and everything goes dark.

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[ashintheairlikesnow]

Enough, Always: Izzy

CW: Newly adult child of whumper and whumpee, whumper in prison, references to romantic/intimate whump, referenced child emotional abuse, verbal abuse, brief gendered appearance insults with single line of brief homophobia at end, plus final crowning moment of badass for Izzy.

Izzy’s mother Savannah Marcoset has been locked in prison on a life sentence without parole for eleven years for abducting Izzy’s father Jax, keeping him captive, and forcing him into a horrifying facsimile of domestic bliss - and Izzy last saw her in person fourteen years ago, when her father escaped with her and her infant brother in one desperate final bid for freedom.

Newly eighteen and feeling the need for some kind of closure in one of the foundational aspects of her identity, Izzy decides to visit America - and pay a visit to her incarcerated mother. 

During the visit, she learns that Savvie Marcoset, in the end, couldn’t change - but Izzy fucking Gallagher did.

For the first time with her mother, Izzy finds her voice.

Jax Gallagher (referenced) belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with permission.

---

“Is this how you dress now?” Her mother’s voice is sharp-edged and still familiar, even fourteen years since Izzy last spoke to her face to face. It’s funny, how she barely remembered it, but as soon as she hears it, her heart starts to race, and it’s the feeling of her heart beating wings inside her chest. It’s the way other people might remember the sense of a warm hand to forehead, checking for illness, or laughter, or praise.

It’s a voice like a fever, a rush of chill down her spine and through her arms and thighs. Is it familiar from real memories, or because Izzy has heard it in interviews and documentaries and recordings, during her nights spent researching the woman who makes up half her genetics and absolutely none of her life?

She almost gets up and leaves right then. 

Almost. 

But Izzy Gallagher fought for this trip, had declared herself able and willing to do this, had more importantly convinced her father she needed to do this. She can’t just give up because it didn’t start well.

Even if he wouldn’t judge her, or at least he wouldn’t show it, Izzy Gallagher sets her shoulders and declares herself her father’s stubborn strong daughter, and not her mother’s weak and frightened one.

She steels herself against the instinctive uncertainty, the rush of anxious shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have tried. Instead, she gives her mother a faint smile as a plastic-and-metal chair is pulled out and she sits down across the small round table, just enough space there isn’t any danger of accidental - or, hopefully, purposeful - touch. 

The walls are beige, the top of the table is a wood so pale it might as well be. There are bars on the window that lets in a pale and faded winter sun. There are some others, nearby, people younger or older than she sitting at other round tables, seeing mothers, wives, aunts, sisters. Izzy wonders if all of them are scared, or if none of them are. If it’s only her who has to remember how to breathe, in her mother’s presence.

She can do this. She told him she could do this.

“Um.” Izzy looks down at herself - just a band shirt and faded jeans worn with holes, her still-knobby knees showing through, the boots a birthday gift from Nana she’d thought would help her crunch through the grayish snow in the parking lot, a light hooded sweater over it all - and then up again. Her mother’s eyes are still wide-set in her face, which is less rounded as time has passed. 

Those eyes are still overbright, and very blue.

It’s been so long since Savannah Marcoset saw her eldest child, and Izzy can’t ever remember having been the focus of her mother’s all-consuming interest before. It feels like standing in the eye of a storm, where everything is still but the air carries weight, electricity, and threat. 

“Mostly,” Izzy says, finally. “Mostly this is how I dress. I mean, I couldn’t wear gray, could I? They wouldn’t let me leave.” She tries to sound lighthearted, then winces. Bad joke.

Her mother, in what looks almost like flat gray scrubs, with a high-cut V-neck and a waist without a drawstring, smiles back, apparently unoffended. There’s a shift - subtle as a cat moving onto its back paws in grass, eyes focused on a nearby bird. Izzy has always been sensitive to changes in the tension of a room, and her own eyes - hazel leaning towards brown, her father’s eyes through and through - move to a nearby guard, reassuring herself with his presence.

Savannah Marcoset is firmly locked in prison for life, with handcuffs and ankle-cuffs that ensure she can’t make herself a threat here, and still the soft nearly-buzzed hair at the back of Izzy’s neck stands up, and she feels like she is being inspected, a bit of bacteria in some scientist’s microscope.

“I had hoped for a little more color, is all,” Her mother says, tilting her head to the side, giving an impish little smile. “As you can imagine, there isn’t exactly a surplus of art here. You look lovely, Isabella.”

Izzy swallows against a lump in her throat. Absurdly, she feels outnumbered, one-to-one. “I, yeah. Thanks.” She tries for a responding smile, maybe half-successful at it. “You have-... you have art classes here, I read.”

“You read up on me.” Her mother’s expression changes a little, opens up. She sits up a little straighter, then, and there’s a flash of still-white teeth in her smile, now. “You know about me. I would have thought you wouldn’t be allowed to know a thing.”

“I’m, um.” Izzy’s hands fold in her lap, and she rubs over the shredded white threads along a hole that’s worn over one thigh, the softness of a patch of fabric she’d sewn herself beneath. “I’m eighteen now, so. I get to pick what I know, more or less.”

“You’re eighteen?” Her mother’s surprise is genuine, and she glances sideways at the clock as though it will become a calendar, back to Izzy. “When did that happen?”

Why that question hurts, she doesn’t know - but it does. It’s not like Savannah Marcoset has anything to do here but remember, and yet-... she didn’t.

“About three weeks ago, actually,” Izzy says, and hears herself sounding embarrassed, like she should have not grown up at all, if that wasn’t what Savvie wanted, or expected. Like the turn of the Earth is her fault, something she did on purpose just to spite Savvie by stealing time. 

“Oh. Well.” Savvie folds her hands with a soft rattle as the cuffs knock into the shiny, sealed tabletop. She leans over, and Izzy can see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, now, the hint of them around her lips. Her jawline seems stronger, more carved, she is a statue version of a parent that Izzy remembers as a kind of terrifying whirlwind. Her hair is less overwhelming, the deep brown graying at the temples, pulled back simply against the nape of her neck. It isn’t so long, as it once was. Savvie pauses, waits for Izzy to look her in the eyes. “Happy birthday, Isabella.”

The name is wrong - it’s always been wrong - but Izzy smiles, anyway. “Thanks. Eighteen is a bit weird, it doesn’t feel any different than seventeen did, but-”

“My no-contact orders were signed here, in the US,” Savvie says, interrupting her, thinking this through. “So you, what, had to be eighteen to come see me? Have you wanted to before?” She leans forward, and Izzy leans back, feeling her back press into the chair behind her, letting her right hand drop to rub at the seam of her jeans on the outside of one thigh. Her heart beats harder. “Did he keep you from seeing me?”

He.

“No,” Izzy says, and her voice is thin at first, but she clears her throat and the second try is stronger. “No, he didn’t. He would have, if I’d have wanted to, before. I just didn’t ‘til now. We’re, um-... we’re doing an American holiday, more or less.”

Shit. She shouldn’t have said-

“‘We’?” Savvie’s expression brightens, with real interest now. Her eyes pin Izzy like a butterfly to a display case, jam tiny needles through her wings, hold her fast. “He’s here? Jax is here?”

“He’s not,” Izzy lies, smooth as silk, without hesitating. She’d planned for this question, prepared for this. She’d sat up til two in the morning prepping for the ways her mother might try to talk about her father, and more importantly, the ways that Izzy wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She’d just been hoping to hide it better for longer. “He didn’t come with m-me here. It’s just me, Mom, and some friends.”

Savvie clicks her tongue against her teeth. “He didn’t think I was too dangerous, for you to speak to?”

She can’t help her slight, sardonic laugh at that. “You’re in prison, Mom.” It feels weird, to hear herself say Mom out loud, as though that was ever what Savvie had been. She was four the last time she said Mommy to Savvie’s face, and even then it had been an apology Izzy can barely remember now, her own sense of a small voice saying, I’m sorry, Mommy, I won’t do it anymore, but she can’t remember what she’d done to get in trouble.

Breathe, probably.

“You’re in prison,” She repeats, and her heartbeat settles a little, reassuring herself with the words spoken out loud, made real. “You’re the least dangerous you’ve ever been, to us.”

Savvie sits back, less pleased now. “I was never dangerous. Did he tell you I was dangerous to you? I never was. That was a lie he made up, so they would help take you and your brother away from me. I only ever wanted us to be a family, Isabella.”

“Mom.” Izzy’s voice wavers, and Savvie might smile a little at the sound, but if she does, it’s because she sees the wrong reason for the waver, or… maybe she enjoys the annoyance, the anger, as much as she would fear. “We both know that’s not true, none of that is true.”

“I wanted a family,” Savvie says, in a low voice, not quite a whisper. Regretful, mournful. She trails a fingernail along the top of the table, and Izzy tenses at the scrape of it. Barely audible but it grates on her nerves nonetheless. She swallows, presses her lips together, tries not to watch it move.

Fails.

Savvie’s nails aren’t painted - in Izzy’s blurry remaining memories of her, Savvie’s nails are always painted colors - but they shine, perfectly filed edges moving, catching a hint of light. 

“Your dad,” Savvie says, in that same mournful, grieving tone, “didn’t want you at all. Did you know that? He never did. He hated the very idea of you, and your brother. He thinks I don't know that he cried over the concept of you. No… you were never wanted by anyone but me, until he realized he could steal you to hurt me. He could always be cold that way. He took you and hoped I would-”

“Stop.” Izzy struggles to say it. Even now, with therapy a constant foundation of her life and a stronger one than her mother’s terrifying rage, it’s hard to make herself say the word. She has to fight to make it audible, but it’s still clearly surprising - Savvie goes silent, watching her with those unnerving wide blue eyes. “Please-... stop. I, I know how he felt. You can’t-... you can’t rewrite history, Mom. I know… I know how it was, or I know enough.”

“It’s the truth, Isabella.” Her mother’s expression is so earnestly sincere. Izzy licks at her lips, suddenly dry and chapped, and thinks that if there were a lie-detector test, her mother would pass it, stone-cold. No way to tell she didn’t believe her own words. She might, actually, believe the story as it leaves her mouth, believe it so utterly she can lie without even knowing she’s doing it. “That’s all I ever wanted to do, is have the chance to tell you the truth. But he got that no-contact order and made sure you would only ever know how he saw it.” Savvie smiles with wistful regret, every inch the mother mourning her lost children. 

Izzy knows better. 

Jamie, her little brother, fifteen and with no memory of his mother at all, might fall for this. She's a stranger to him. But Izzy remembers the hours locked alone in the dark, and the sound of her father screaming in pain. 

She swallows trying not to think too much about that memory. “It’s not about-... there aren’t two sides, Mom. This isn't like any other divorce. You held him prisoner.” She’s falling into a trap, and she can feel it but she can’t stop herself. Her mother hasn’t tried to so much as reach for her - it wouldn’t be allowed, the guard would step forward if she did - but Izzy still feels like she has been pinned, claws sliding into her shoulders and a heavy weight holding her to her seat. A bird that didn’t see the threat in time to take flight. "You-... held us all-"

“Well, now he’s made sure I’m a prisoner, hasn’t he? Must be nice, to pin all your problems on the Big Bad Witch in prison who can no longer defend herself. But, of course, everything is always my fault.” Savvie shrugs as she cuts Izzy off, almost idly. 

"Mom, he has-..." Izzy feels unmoored. Drifting, like this can't be real, this conversation. This can't be real. "You abducted him, you-"

"Everyone has problems, sweetie." Savvie's head tilts a little more, eyes moving over Izzy’s face with an awful, palpable weight. “Don't try to make it a competition." Something gentles, then. The hard planes of her mother's face soften. "You know, you look like him.”

Izzy warms, a little, at that. She shouldn't and she knows it, but still, she does. She smiles, slightly lopsided, and raises one hand to touch the silver rings in the shell of her left ear, two of them right next to each other, one for Jax and one for her brother Jamie. “I hope so,” she admits. “I’ve always wanted to.”

The moment of gentleness in her mother’s expression slips away, replaced by a brittle frigid chill that washes over Izzy, a wave that breaks against her. 

Oh, no. I cared more about him than her. Even now, fourteen years on, she still shivers in an old fear.

“He is handsome,” Savvie says, tapping her fingernails again, scraping them along the table. The sound is starting to grate on Izzy’s nerves. “He always was, even in the earliest days. He never knew it, I don’t think. I tried to tell him.”

He didn’t want to hear it from you.

“He hears it enough now,” Izzy says, and her heart goes cold with dread as she realizes she’s nearly given away something much, much worse to say than accidentally admitting her dad came on the trip with her.

Damn it, Izzy, don't let her know about Kieran. 

Savvie doesn’t seem to notice the clue. She just keeps tapping. “Do you play music, Isabella? I wondered if either of you would have talent, in the end.”

It’s an abrupt change of subject, and Izzy doesn’t see it for the trap it is. 

“I play-... um. I can play some things,” Izzy hedges, shifting uncomfortably from the simple truth that she can play almost anything, if she hears it a couple of times, remembers note-for-note the songs on the radio or the forbidden ones she still hides in playlists buried in playlists, the soft strains of violin that draw her but she would never admit to. “I’m-... in a band, actually.”

Savvie’s eyes are back on hers, then, that unnerving total focus. “What do you play in that band? Is it a real band, or just noise?”

Izzy rubs at the back of her neck, flushing in embarrassment. “Um. I guess it’s about fifty-fifty noise and real. I play bass guitar, actually.” 

She’d read somewhere that bass guitar was easy, and figured if she played that, no one would realize the music was inherent in her, demanding expression. She could say she wanted to be in the band because of her father, who had been in one once upon a time, too. She wouldn’t have to admit that the music didn’t come from Jax, but from Savvie’s blood in her veins. She could pretend, with the bass guitar, to be worse at it than she really was without ruining the songs. 

Her mother snorts, derisive. “Anyone can play that,” She says, waving one hand in dismissal - but the other has to come with it, and it’s a reminder that, no matter how Izzy feels in the moment, there is no real danger here. “That hardly counts. Can you play a real instrument?”

“It is a real instrument.”

“Hardly.” Savvie looks disappointed, and it’s weird - she hasn’t seen her face-to-face since she was four, and she hasn’t said a word to her in that time, and still… the disappointment hurts, a little. “You weren’t allowed to do music, were you? He forbade you, because of me.”

“No, he absolutely didn’t.” It’s Izzy’s turn to lean forward, her hands closing into fists in her lap now, an old habit from childhood she’s mostly broken but it comes back, now, as her irritation rises in eternal defense of Jax. “He’s always supported whatever I wanted to do-”

“Because he doesn’t care enough to make sure you’re doing something worthwhile.” Her mother’s sigh cracks open a dark door inside her, it’s familiar even to her fading memories. It’s a sigh she knows from birth. Before Izzy can respond again, she changes the subject, deft as a dancer. “What are you doing for school, then? Are you going to go to college?”

Izzy blinks, thrown off track. “Um. Yes, I do plan on it, I’ll be going to university next autumn-”

“You’ve got the accent, too. Guess they’ve painted over everything they didn’t like, didn’t they?”

“Wh-what?” Her heart stops as her mother’s voice is sharp again. Her fists tighten, pressing down into her thighs until they nearly ache. “What’d you-”

“You look like him, dress like the dime-store version of him - honestly, Isabella, look at you, you look… grimy. You even talk like him. What is this, trying to look like the daughter he might have actually wanted? Is that it?”

Izzy swallows, sitting back again, thumping into the back of the chair. Someone nearby is crying, soft, muffled sobs. Someone else is whispering, in vicious intensity, in fury. The guards are impassive. There’s no sign they even hear Savvie speaking at all. “It’s just who I am-”

“No, it isn’t. I saw your name, Isabella Gallagher. You were born a Marcoset, but he was happy when he changed it, wasn’t he?” Savvie’s eyes won’t let her look away. She feels completely captured, the center of Savannah Marcoset’s world, the most terrifying place on Earth, somewhere Izzy has never once been. “I asked you a question, Isabella. He was happy to have you change your name, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She’s not sure why she answers. The anxious shivering inside of her is stronger than it should be. Her voice is a whisper, a rush of air with only a hint of sound. “But it was-... my idea-”

“I’m sure he let you think that. I feel sorry for you, you know. I really do. He must care for James so much more than he does you, don’t you think? My beautiful son wasn’t old enough to even speak to me, but you… you’re a reminder, aren’t you? Oh…" Savvie's lips purse, in a sort of smug smile. "Oh, you are. God, what torture it must be for him to be around you."

She’s supposed to be stupid. Izzy has watched all the documentaries that mention the case, she read an awful unauthorized true crime book she found in a thrift shop once that just had a little teensy chapter on Savvie buried between other femme fatales. She’s done her research, to understand the woman she was going to meet as best she could.

Savannah Marcoset is supposed to be… well, stupid.

Izzy wasn’t prepared for cunning not being the same thing as smart. And she didn’t think through what eleven years in prison, with almost nothing to do but think, and no chance of leaving ever for the rest of her life, might do to hone her mother’s ability to wound. That Savvie might have taken a blunt instrument and whittled it into a blade.

“I-I’m not-”

“You are.” Savvie hums, and the tapping of her nails is going to drive Izzy up the fucking wall. “Even just being alive, you are. And your hair, well…” Savvie’s eyes go up to Izzy’s hair, the same deep chocolate brown as Savannah’s own, a shock of curly brown that falls over her forehead and against one side, nearly shaved on the other side and along the back. “You can cut it, but it’s still my hair. You walk around a living reminder of what he stole from me, just to hurt me, what he didn’t even want. You were never wanted, Isabella. That’s why your birth is part of my crimes, don’t you think? You and James both. You’re a crime I committed against him, right?”

“A crime-” Her voice cracks, but if she sounds uncertain, it’s only her nerves, her inability to stand up for herself sometimes. It’s not fear. She is not afraid of this woman, and she doesn’t believe her. 

Okay, a little afraid.

But she doesn’t believe her, she doesn’t. She knows better, because she knows how hard her father has worked to build the life around her, the one she’s living now. She knows how many times he has held her after nightmares - hers and his both. She knows he could have left her and James behind, but he didn’t.

Every chance he had to set them down, he chose to hold them instead. 

Most of all, she knows the way her father has carefully, day by day and year by year, taught her that love is not the same thing as danger.

Her shoulders square, and her back straightens. “You keep saying that, b-but… there’s a difference between not wanting someone who will be hurt to, to be there to be hurt, and caring about someone. There’s-... you can’t see the difference, is all, but I can. I know-” She swallows. “I know how it looks like when he loves someone, and you don’t.”

“Hm.” Savvie’s fascination flags, a little, at that. Her stare is unnerving, unblinking, but Izzy feels the anger coming off of her, hidden and still plain as day. “Changing the subject, I see. So much of you is just a walking reminder. You’re just a tragedy on two legs, aren’t you, Isabella?”

Part of Izzy thinks wryly, how long ago did you think of that and how long have you been waiting for someone to say it to? but the rest of her can’t find the breath to say it out loud. “You can’t make my life worse than it is, Mom. Not anymore. I didn’t come h-here for this, I came here for-”

I came here to see if you could see me, even now, or only a reflection of what you can’t have. I guess I have my answer. 

Savvie hasn’t stopped talking. “What of you is even yourself, Isabella? Are you just… trying not to be me? Do you not want him to think of me?” Her smile widens. Flash of teeth. For a second, just one brief second, Izzy sees fangs. “Oh, sweetie. You can’t ever change that, no matter what you do. I was important. I ruined his life, remember? There was a whole court case about it. Two, really. It’s why I’m here. Because I’m the Big Bad Wolf, or so I’m told.” She snorts. “You should have worn red, Isabella. Or something.”

“Or something,” Izzy whispers, looking down at her hands, at her knuckles gone white, her fists. The round clock is ticking on the wall, and it’s only an hour. She told herself she could last for an hour, when she walked in here. She told herself she could make it, and she would.

“Isabella-”

“You didn’t, by the way.” Where the words come from, she’s not sure. But they come out sure, and strong. "You didn't ruin his life. It’s better, it’s good.”

“Oh? Is it?” Savvie feigns disinterest, but she’s so bright and sparkling, pulling Izzy in. “What about it is so good, Isabella? What does my husband do, in his whole new life without me? What can he do? Show me how I’m wrong.” Savvie’s presence is heavy, it takes up too much space, feels like Izzy is pressed against the wall, suffocating. How did they live like this, surrounded by her on all sides, all the time? How had Jax ever survived so long alone with her? 

Her voice trembles more than she wants it to when she speaks. “What?”

“You say I’m wrong - about him, about you.” Savvie is a shark, and Izzy is blood in the water. She seems bigger, suddenly, or maybe Izzy is smaller. Younger. Has too much hair for her age and a frilly dress she hates and she has to be good, and so quiet, and do exactly what she is told or her father will be hurt, and it will be her fault, because it’s always, always her fault-

Savvie’s voice is not quite a whisper. “Tell me, Isabella, all these things I am so wrong about. Even if you believe his side of the story, he’s all I thought about, the only thing that mattered, right? So I know him better than anyone else, don’t I? And you’re mine. I know everything about you, without even trying."

“You don’t-... know anything about me.” Izzy knows she’s getting quieter, and knows as she retreats, her mother presses forward, thrilled to play a game she hasn’t played in… in eleven years, more or less. “And you don’t know a single thing about him.”

“I know every fucking scar on his body.” Izzy’s stomach flips, but Savvie is leaning forward again, and the blue of her eyes is overtaking everything else around them. Plain beige walls and plain table and plain bars over plain windows can’t compete. The gray of everyone’s prison outfits, her own black-and-slightly-less-black, none of it is a good enough distraction, enough to tear her away. “That’s what I know. You’re sweet, Isabella, and it’s lovely of you to try and be the dutiful little daughter all over again. But I know things you don’t, I always have. I know I still do. He hasn’t told you half of it, and he won’t.” 

It’s a strike, a feint and then a jab, and if this were a real fight Izzy would be ready for it, but words are so much harder to defend against. “I was a little kid, I didn’t need to know it, I didn’t want to. I don’t need to know-”

“You had colic, for a month or so.” Savvie cuts her off, raising her voice a little. One of the guards behind her shifts, might look at them from behind the dark of his glasses at the volume. “When you were little. Cried like a banshee, day and night, no reason. I could hear you in my practice room. Still think you know everything?”

“This isn’t-... I don’t know why you’re telling me this."

“I had my responsibilities, sweetie. I mean, I was a new mother, but I was still a person. I didn’t need to change all that much, really. Jax spent half his time trying to keep me away from you, your own mother, and the other half trying to shut you up.”

“You could be-... he said you were up-upset, sometimes, um, you c-could be-”

“Violent? Never. I was tired, maybe - we both were. Jax has never slept well."

Because of you.

"Oh, here we go. One of my favorites of his little insults… does he say I was unstable? I’m sure I’ve heard it all. Probably in court, no less, he very much enjoyed getting on stage to put on his little show. Taking the jury around and around in circles acting like I never did anything kind for you.” Her eyes move back to Izzy’s hair, shaking her head slightly, one lip curling upward in a sneer. “I certainly would have been kind enough not to let you make yourself look like that.”

“Mom-”

“Shut up, Isabella. I am talking to you, and I am not done yet.”

Izzy’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking together, her nails digging into her palms. Her eyes flicker to the guard, trying to catch him, but no, she’s going to last the whole hour, she promised herself she could do it, she promised. 

Besides, it's… sort of harder than she thought, to look away when Savvie is talking.

“We ended up getting my, well, Isaac’s servant Hannah to help with you. Because of the colic. He asked for her, really. I was prepared to bring in someone else, but Jax had his demands, and when he really wanted something, well.” She shrugs, calmly, casually. She is talking about a reality that never existed, moving all the pieces around until the past suits her and not the court documents. Until her story is the one circling Izzy’s head, and not the story she knows has to actually be true. “How could I refuse?”

“He asked-... but when he wanted-”

“What did I just say?”

“Mom, I need to-”

“Let. Me. Finish.”

“N-No, I don’t want to hear this-”

“You know what he started to do? Once we had Hannah around, a few days a week? When the steward began to come as well? Do you know what the number one change your father made to his life was, once that happened?”

“Mom, please. Please don’t do this.” Her voice is nearly gone, and Savvie leaps.

“He started getting the hell away from you.” Savvie throws her head back and laughs, loud enough to make people look over at them. Izzy wonders, face burning in embarrassment, what they see. Do they know who Savvie is? Is she really famous, here, like Izzy thinks she is? Does everyone know they’re watching Savannah Marcoset push her daughter under the water and watch her struggle to breathe?

But… the words hurt. He got the hell away from you. “He did-... he did what?”

“Fucking escaped you. He thinks I didn’t notice. Everyone always thinks I don’t notice, didn’t know things. Your father - my Jax - thinks I’m a fucking idiot, I get that now. But I saw that, him handing you off to Hannah or the steward and get as far away from you as he could without-” Savvie lifts her hands to tap at the side of her neck with a slight, almost dreamy smile. “Everyone says I’m the bad mom, the bad parent, but I’m not the only one who shoved you aside every chance I got.” Savvie hums, almost idly. She’s playing, Izzy thinks dimly. Cat with a ball of yarn. Somehow the words hurt a little less when the realization comes. “That’s the thing, though, isn’t it, Bella-”

“Izzy,” She whispers, but her mother doesn’t hear her, or doesn’t care.

“You know you are, fundamentally, his fucking nightmare. Your father sat up there before judge and jury and told everyone that I only had you so I could control him just a little bit more. Did you see that, in the documentaries you watched? Did you hear about it? Did he tell you that you only existed to be a weapon, that you're just a pretty little tool in my toolbox?"

She doesn’t want to answer any of those questions, and keeps her eyes down, focuses on the knuckles of her hands. How they sit over her lap so nicely, if you ignore that they are fists. Her face still burns bright red, and her eyes are hot with tears she blinks rapidly away before her mother can see them fall.

“He’ll say I didn’t love you.” Savvie’s expression is chilled, disdainful. “But your father had whole days he could barely stand to touch you. He had days he couldn’t even look at you. You ran around after him begging for, what, for someone to pat you on the head and say you were good just as you are? No wonder he couldn’t give you that.”

“He did give me that, over and over-... how you’re saying it isn’t how it happened, you’re not remembering what actually happened, Mom-”

“I think, deep down, you know it’s because no matter what you do with your hair, or your clothes, he is always going to look at you and see me. That’s the fear, isn’t it? That you're me, or you will be. That’s why you’re here, why you flew all the way across the fucking Atlantic to pay Mommy a visit. You wanted to see how much of you is me. How much of me is in you. How much of a fuck he can even give, in the end, for my daughter." She laughs again, and Izzy flinches. "He must hate you, deep down, and part of you knows it. Am I right?”

Izzy can’t answer at first, and her mother clicks her tongue, falsely sympathetic.

“Oh, sweetie. It’s okay. I can’t do a fucking thing to you, or him, or anyone now. But I’m glad you came to see me. I'm glad to see that you're just the same, easy to break as ever. You'll end up with exactly the love you deserve, Bella. Won't you?"

Izzy's eyes are blurred, struggling to focus. What rises in her isn’t fear, or doubt, or even sadness. It’s anger, the same simmering slow burn that that comes whenever someone tries to push her and her father down, when they have to force their way back up. "N-no-"

"Yes. You'll get what you were born for, one way or another. Don't worry, sweetie. You're not like me at all. You're just… a mirror, and the reflection isn't even a good one." Savvie laughs, cold and cruel, delighting in the pain on her daughter's face. "Here I was worried you’d be angry, but I don’t think you can be. Is that too much like me, too?”

“No, I’m… I get a-angry sometimes, I can… it’s not like that-”

“Not like what? Speak up, Bella. Stop mumbling, you were always a mumbler. Most children shout, you know.”

“Most children don’t get locked in closets if they do.” Izzy is still whispering at the start, but the words come more strongly as she works her way through them, eyelashes heavy with tears she tries to pretend don’t exist. “Most-... most kids can throw a fit without their dad getting hurt, and most kids get to leave the h-house sometimes, and if I-... if he couldn’t-... it was because of you, not because of m-me.” 

“Tell yourself that.”

“I do. I do tell myself that. I only have to tell myself that because of you, and you-... you just wanted to be his whole life and the only thing in it and you’re n-not, and this isn’t even about hurting me, is it? All of this-... telling me about, about him-...”

She can remember it, can’t she? Faint traces remain, of asking for Jax and being told by her Aunt Hannah that he needed some time, of asking and having her Papa Stewart give her a hug instead, of asking and asking and then learning not to ask…

“You aren’t telling me this to hurt me. You’re telling me this to hurt him.” Izzy raises her eyes, aware of the bright red blotches on her cheeks, aware of the tear tracks, aware of her hands in fists and the zinging anger in her that simmers underneath her fear. “You want me to take this out into the-... into the world, back to Dad, and tell him what you said because it’ll hurt him to hear that you said it, and you’ve been in prison for eleven years and missed most of my life and nearly all of my little brother’s - who you haven’t asked me a single fucking question about, by the w-way - and all you can think about, even now, is the… the one who got away from you.”

The balance shifts, some of the glittering brightness fades from Savvie’s eyes, the fascinated sadism seeps out of her expression. “Isabella-”

“Izzy. I’m called Izzy. And you know that, because you’ve known it ever since the trial. And maybe I was-... was hard, for him, when I was a baby and I can’t fix that or make it any better, it’s all already happened and I’ve had to learn not to feel guilty about it since I was four years old, but of the two of you, only one has ever bothered to give any solitary fucks about who I am! I came here to see if you could-... if you could change, or rethink, or even just, just feel something about me, and all you can feel is the parts of me that are him!”

“Isabella-”

“You shut up! You do it, now, and you listen to what I have to say! I was sc-scared, all the time, because of you, not him. He was the one who came to let me out, and he was the one who held me when I was scared, and even if he didn’t want to be near me, he still tried! You don’t-... you don’t get to change the story and make it not what it was, Mom, I know what it was.”

“You know what he told you it was.”

“No. I know what it actually really was. There is no other alternative world where you’re the good guy, or better than he was! Maybe I was a hard baby to l-love, because of whose baby I am, and I-I carry that forever… that I'm not the kid he would've wanted to have... but he tried, and if he didn’t love me at first, at least he tried until he learned how! But… but I know he did. I know he loved me, and Jamie, so much that he did the scariest thing he could imagine by running with us and having to hope we could make it to Grandpa before you could catch us again. I think you don’t know him at all, and you’re going to die in prison still not knowing, and that’s why you’re doing this now. It is killing you that you could lock us up and put that thing on his neck and keep us trapped and you still don’t know any of us at all.”

“I made every single scar-”

“Scars aren’t who someone is! They’re just marks of you being shitty to him! They don’t say who he is now, or how his mind works, or how fucking brilliant he is at being a dad! You know some marks on his skin, but I know who he is when he’s safe, and strong, and happy, and you will never know that man. You won’t ever know what he looks like really in love, and I do, and it is absolutely nothing like he looked around you!"

Her eyes flare. “Bella, what are you talking about, in love? With who? Who would-”

“I came here to see if-... if any part of me really is you, and it’s not, because all the parts of me that matter are from him and Grandpa and Papa Stewart and Nana and my aunties and none of the important bits are yours at all! No one loves you, because you can’t love anyone, but I can, and he can, and Jamie can. You are never ever going to see him again… and I’m going to walk out that door and give him a fucking hug."

She shoves her chair back, making a metallic screech along the floor that makes her mother wince, adrenaline pumping through her veins. It’s a kind of fight, this, she’d been pinned to the mat and fought her way back to standing in the end. 

“I am proud of him, for all he’s done to make an even better life for Jamie and me, and I am proud of him for finding Kieran, after you - and Kie’s a better bonus dad by a million years than you ever were a mom - and… and he’s proud of me. He’s proud of the person I am and not just the person he thought I was supposed to be. That’s more important than, than anything, is that he and I-... we can be proud of each other, and you can’t be proud of anything but yourself.”

Savvie looks startled, now, struggling to regain the surety she’d felt before. She can’t stand or the guard will come, and so she stays seated, and looks up at Izzy, no taller than her father but wiry still. “I think we’re done here,” Savvie says coldly. “You’re clearly too swept up in your father to be worth talking to.”

“Maybe,” Izzy shrugs, shoves her hands in her hoodie pockets, finds the comfortable weight of her phone, switched off for during the visit like the guards had asked. Wonders if her dad, sitting in the rental in the parking lot, has started pacing yet. If he’s watching the clock, waiting for her text to come through, bouncing his foot like he does sometimes. If he’s pretending to read or texting Kieran or if he’s just staring at the squat building that stretches wide on either side, waiting for her to come out. “Did I disappoint you, then? How I am, just me?”

“Oh, sweetie.” Savvie shakes her head, ruefully. Her expression shifts into mournfulness, just a few seconds too late for it to be convincing. “I had high hopes for you. But he ruined you, in the end. Absolutely ruined you.”

“That’s… that’s probably good. I don’t think I’ll come back, Mom. But I might-... I might write a letter.” Why she throws the offer out, she doesn’t know, only… only some part of her will always, always want to keep hoping that this will change.

Savvie’s eyebrows raise. “I might answer it. Can you fix your hair, if you ever come again? And wear something… nicer than this?”

Izzy blinks, rolling her eyes back to look up at her hairline, down to look at her shirt and jeans, and then back to her mother. “Why? Because it’s shorter than you want it to be? Because you don’t like my clothes?”

“Because you look like a lesbian, Isabella.”

Izzy blinks, too thrown to find the words at first, and then she shrugs, rubbing her thumb along the side of her phone in her pocket, her palms aching where her nails had dug in so deeply, over very old scars. She can’t quite help her smile. “Oh. Well, fuck, Mom, my girlfriend will be shocked when she hears you feel that way.”

“Your what?”

Izzy turns and walks away, past the other tables with crying or hurting people, or people who look like they want very badly to hug and can’t, and she doesn’t look back.

The door clangs open and slams shut behind her, the hallway stretching out ahead, and she walks down two sets of stairs and around a corner before she sees the big heavy doors that lead out into the world, the huge parking lot warmed by sunlight with no trees to break the glare of it. She gives the guards manning the checkpoint a little wave of one hand, pushing the door open, and moves into the glaring, brilliant light, turning to face the corner where her father has been waiting by the rental.

He’s definitely been pacing.

She smiles and heads towards him, giving him a big wave. He’s moving towards her before her hand is even fully in the air.

If her mother’s words are designed to shatter, her father’s love - starting with his desperate attempts to protect her, his whispered be brave for me, Izzy as they boarded a train, written across every single day of her life - is a foundation too strong to be broken.

Her mother, Izzy thinks, can’t understand love like that.

But Izzy does.

And it's more than enough.

Always.

---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

#izzy fucking gallagher #jax #referenced intimate whump #romantic whumper #(past) #referenced past child abuse #child of whumpee #adult child of whumper #verbal abuse #savvie marcoset #is a monster #gendered insult #brief implied homophobia #with izzy getting her goddamn moment right after #izzy tells savvie off spectacularly #whumper in prison #writing izzy was a fucking joy you guys #even when it was hard and even when it hurt #writing is perfect for catharsis #there is a reason izzy took me over in january #if nothing else for these last two pieces of hers

[llogllady99]

INTERMISSION

CHARACTERS | Levi, Erwin, Hange, Petra, Nanaba, Mike, Eld, Gunther, Oluo, Moblit

RELATIONSHIPS | Erwin x Levi

Genre | Reincarnation, Afterlife

IV | Afterlife, Hurt/Comfort, Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence. Alternate Universe - Modern Setting/ Reincarnation, Fluff, Reunions, Introspection.

SUMMARY | Levi dies and reunites with Erwin and the others in the Afterlife. 

WORD COUNT | 2.5k

It was one of those sunny days that Levi passed away. The kind of days that occurred in the middle of summer, sun shining proudly in the centre of the sky, beaming with light in all directions; its yellow rays placing gentle kisses and giving shape to everything around them. A breeze blew gently, ruffling the blades of overgrown grass, flowers, and other plants that were blooming by a pristine and crystalline river. A river so clean and fresh that even the tiniest of rocks could be visible. Southern Magnolias, Flowering Dogwoods, birch, and oak trees lined the river and gardens of the people resided in the area. On such particular days, Levi could be found gardening away his late adulthood; his garden was the most clean and organised with freshly mowed lawn and colourful flowers, trees, and bushes placed meticulously around the alleyway that lead to the entrance of the house, the backyard, by his windows and entrances, and inside the house. Therefore, it should have been no surprise when Levi spent his last day doing exactly that: cleaning, organising, and arranging things.

It came unexpectedly, like death often does. It should have upset Levi, he was still considered too young to die by the rest of the world, but he himself couldn’t have been more happier, more relieved, and at peace. It had started with a soft breeze, blowing through his now white strands of hair that were still arranged in the same familiar undercut and under his white cotton dress shirt that was a bit oversized. Then came a wave of unfamiliar fatigue, causing Levi to lie on his back on the grass, his eyes now on the sapphire sky, watching the different sized clouds move along in slow motion. Somehow he knew his time had come, he always had great intuition. With black now cornering his vision, the man closed his eyes, letting the sun rest gently on his face, warming him one last time. He smelled the sweet aroma of his flowers, he listened to the almost silent buzz of a bee in the distance, appreciating the things he had become so used to. Finally ready, Levi inhaled deeply, and with a contented smile spreading on his tired and wrinkled face, exhaled slowly as everything went black, sounds and sensations ebbing away gradually.

However, the world didn’t stop, the sun still shone, the birds still sang their relaxing songs, their high pitched chirps sounding through the valleys, the wind still blew, and the clouds in the sky still travelled their never ending journey; a perfect day for humanity’s strongest soldier to pass away.

-

Levi was now engulfed in deep darkness, thick and relentless. Silence reigning over the infinite void. It wasn’t a heavy silence or an uncomfortable one but rather comforting and warm, making him feel at peace in god knows how long. He looked down at his hands, they weren’t wrinkly anymore but soft and smooth again. He was back in his original form, his old inky black hair hanging daintily on his forehead, his cheekbones once again high and sharp, his eyes now a strong grey steel, and his lips rosy red. His body was also young again. Now that he was in this purgatory of sorts, a giant screen appeared in front of him, displaying moments from his life in chronological order. He saw himself as a baby, his mother cutting for the first time his hair in an undercut, his mother telling him stories, embracing him, loving him. Then came her death, her horrible death, leaving Levi alone. His uncle Kenny made his appearance on the screen, taking him under his care, teaching him how to fight and defend himself after walking away never to be seen again. It showed how he met Isabell and Furlan, the days they spent together in the underground. The blonde boy reading to them by the fire, Isabell snoring in Levi’s lap, his hands in her hair, twisting the ginger strands, Levi defending the redhead in a fight, and Isabell telling them jokes one night whilst playing cards. All of the precious moments now unfolding before his eyes. It made Levi’s heart swell with happiness at seeing their faces again. He had forgotten their faces after so much time but seeing them now reminded him of their bond, their brother like bond. Then he joined the survey corps and shit hit the fan.

Next came memories of joining the survey corps, of seeing Erwin for the first time, their first kiss, first time making love, moving in the same room together, going out with his comrades, Hange, Nanaba, Mike, Moblit, everyone made an appearance on the screen. Then came the brats, their round baby faces and bright eyes full of determination. Retaking wall Maria. Erwin’s death…

It displayed the four years in between their battles. The years when he moved in with Hange and having tea with them every other afternoon before making the plans for the attack on Liberio. The shit show started, the whole fucking rumbling, Eren going batshit crazy, Mikasa killing him, and them staying behind in Marley. His friendship blossoming with the other two brats and finally tasting true freedom, a world with no walls where the sky was the limit. Other sequences also played, like how he returned to Paradis, Gabi and Falco’s visits, who were now married and living happily in some exotic country, and then the day he died. He would have argued he lived a beautiful life, one which he certainly didn’t regret, but after Erwin’s and Hange’s death his only purpose was to survive the day, get through it and ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

If this was the after life, why wasn’t anyone here? Did he do something wrong? Where was Erwin? Didn’t he promise he’ll be waiting for him? For the first time in the darkness, Levi felt suffocated, he couldn’t breathe, the overwhelming feeling he did something wrong washed over him, imbuing his every cell and tissue. Luckily, before he could finish that destructive train of thought, a glimmer of white appeared in the distance. As the small dot got bigger and bigger, Levi realised it was some kind of vortex that was sucking everything in it, including him. It sucked in his feet first then his hips, stomach, arms and finally his head. Everything went white around him, his spirit was travelling with so much speed that he felt he was inside an airplane engine, the turbines spinning faster and faster, the noise getting louder and louder, and finally the plane took off. As the noise reached its apex, Levi’s surroundings became silent until he was pushed out of the vortex and into the afterlife, the one in which his comrades also seemed to be.

Levi landed bottom first and with a thud, his backside coursing with pain. He flinched and got up. He scanned his surrounding and noticed that in the far off distance there was a group of people. Relief washed over his entire being as the feelings of panic and loneliness left him entirely. One by one he willed his feet to move, each step becoming more hurried, until he broke out in a run. The shape of the group was getting bigger and bigger as Levi closed the distance between them. The closer he got, the more he could make out their faces. Wait! Was that blonde and messy brown? Hange and Erwin? Happiness started blossoming in his chest, like a bush of Camelias in spring, the flowers opening up more and more, becoming bigger and bigger covering the whole green bush with their beautiful pure white and milky pink. A smile grazed his features and tears started falling down his face, each droplet streaming down his jawline then falling on the ground behind him.

“Erwin!” Levi shouted, finally getting his lover’s attention. Erwin turned, wide eyed as he recognised his voice and broke into one of his famous full mouth grins. He extending his arms, inviting the raven in. Levi gladly took that invitation, jumping on Erwin and sending both of them tumbling down, wrapping his arms tightly around the blonde, sniffling that familiar cent of cologne and tobacco. “You waited for me! I can’t believe you waited.”

“Of course I did, in fact all of us did. Look around Levi, we’re all here.” Levi lifted his face and looked around, his eyes landing on Hange grinning maniacally at him, Nanaba and Mike close to each other, Moblit, and his squad.

“Heya guys! Long time no see I guess.” Levi stood up from Erwin and made his way in between the group, taking everyone’s faces in. They were all here. He looked in Hange’s direction, they now looked truly happy without a care in the world. He approached them and wrapped them in a tight embrace, one which he so seldom offered when they were alive.

“Hey short stuff. Gotta admit watching over ya from up here got kinda boring. You were never up to any shenanigans, you just sat there all day reading your damn newspaper and drinking that awful tea.” Hange playfully reprimanded him. Levi snorted then play kicked their feet. Petra came up and hugged him from behind, burying her soft ginger hair between his shoulder blades. She inhaled shakily and choked out:

“Missed you so much, Levi Heichou.” Levi turned around and tucked some of her hair behind her year, setting his hand on her cheek, rubbing with one thumb a tear that spilled from her left eye. The raven then wrapped her tightly in the same hug he’d given Hange, burying her small head in his shoulder. “Missed you too.”

Mike came up and sniffed his hair, his nose scrunching up taking up as much of the sent as possible and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, trying to pin point the smells. He then patted Levi on the shoulder and told him:

“You still smell the same, maybe except with a hint of a flowery touch to it.”

“Always so romantic.” Levi replied, shaking his hand like brothers do. Nanaba came up behind Mike and offered him one of her beautiful smiles. “Great seeing you Levi, but Mike,” she then grabbed the tall man’s hand pulling him towards her, “it’s time for us to go.”

“Go where?” Levi asked frantically, he just got here why were they going already?

“We will get reincarnated, me, Mike, and Erwin.” Nanaba replied casually as if it was the most natural thing. Levi started hyperventilating.

“Why?” He croaked. “I just got here, you can’t go! Not yet! Erwin please don’t go!” He looked around and found the blonde standing next to Mike, he grabbed his hand tightly, urging him not to go, however it was for nothing as his lover wouldn’t budge.

“I can’t Levi, my time has come.” Erwin grabbed both of his hand and kissed his knuckles and fingers, rubbing them against his cheek. “I need you to watch over me and when your time comes too, join me. We’ll meet again, in a world with no titans and infinite time on our hands. We will truly be happy there.”

“Fine, but promise me you won’t do anything stupid Erwin. Wait for me.” Levi demanded, raising himself on his tip toes and pulling Erwin down for a passionate kiss. After they parted, Erwin stepped next to Nanaba and Mike again and waved his big hand at the others before all three of them vanished from sight.

Over time, the same exact thing happened to the others. Eld and Gunther went, shortly followed by Auruo, the other people also gradually disappearing to god knows where. After some time, only him, Hange, Petra, and Moblit were left. Now it seemed that Moblit’s time had come too, if the bear hug he gave Hange was anything to go by. Offering them one last kind smile, Moblit vanished, leaving now only the three of them. Hange cried that day, harder than he ever saw them do it and Petra rested her head on Levi’s shoulder, sorrow and longing also emanating from her being. For a few years, all they could do was watch. Watch Erwin’s seventh birthday party, Mike and Nanaba chewing on their toys, Eld being adopted, guess he didn’t have much luck in this life either, Gunther ride his bike, Auruo playing his first song on the piano and so on. On a not so special day, when they resumed their seats and watched over the others, Hange stood up and with a kind smile and wave their hand they vanished too. Levi cried and so did Petra, they missed their friend dearly but it was bound to happen. A few short months after Petra also left, leaving Levi alone, drowning in the familiar feeling of loneliness.

A month after, Levi got visitors in the after life, they were Armin, Mikasa, and Annie. They greeted their captain and took their seats next to him, joining him in watching over his friends.

“I guess now I have you brats to watch over me when I’ll go down there.” He joked, getting a pat on the back from Armin.

“Hopefully, in the next life I won’t be a midget anymore, You guys don’t know how fucking hard that has been for me.” That earned him a laugh from all of them. Over the next two months all of them got closer together, Armin and Mikasa telling him about how his death impacted everyone. Apparently it has been a national funeral, all the nobles and even queen gathering around his coffin. How ironic.

One day, Levi woke up groggier than usual and much more heavy. It felt as if the ground was pulling him towards it. It was no doubt: his time had come. Armin was the only one that was watching the world down below, Mikasa and Annie sleeping soundly a few feet away. Levi sat next to him and cleared his throat, redirecting the blonde’s attention to him.

“This reincarnation thing is so beautiful, getting a second chance in a world not as cruel as ours.” Armin began. “I’m glad we aren’t stuck here forever, it gets more boring every day.”

“Try doing that shit for seven years.”

“That’s really long. I can’t stand this place anymore and I’ve only been here for what? Two months? If you don’t mind me asking, who was the first to go?” Armin asked, a little bit shy in case he was prying too much.

“Erwin.” Armin’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I just got here and he was already gone. But now is my time and I’ll finally be reunited with him.” Levi stood up and grabbed Armin’s hand also pulling him to his feet. “See ya Armin, you were always my favourite cadet.”

Bringing his fists and arms to his chest, delivering his last salute to the 15th Commander of the Survey Corps, he vanished, white clouding his vision. Everything went black afterwards.

-

The next time Levi opened his eyes, he was crying his eyes out and shouting like a mad man, his little legs and arms kicking and moving in all directions. He had been born into the new world.

Notes: 

A song I would recommand while reading the fic is It's been a long, long time. Anyways, thank you for taking the time to read it and notes and comments are welcomed, Obviously, I do not own Attack on titan or any of the characters that take part in it. They are inspiration for my works and I love them to the core. Thank you again lovelies for taking the time to read it! <333

#attack on titan #attack on titan fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin #snk fanfiction #levi ackerman #erwin smith #erwin x levi #hange zöe #aot moblit #petra ral #oluo bossard #eld jinn #gunther schultz #mike zacharias #nanaba #reincarnation #afterlife #aot fanart #aot fanfiction #snk fanart #snk mikasa #armin arlert #annie leonhart #annie snk