#the war of the golden stool

[aestheticsyoutubers]

the professor, watcher ↳ the war of the golden stool • puppet history

#the professor #shane madej #watcher #puppet history #the war of the golden stool #aestheticsyoutubers #youtuber aesthetics #aesthetics #youtube #i hope he falls into a volcano frankly

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐝

pairing: pre outbreak!joel miller x f!reader, one sided tommy miller x f!reader

genre: angst, smut, romance, slow burn, mutual pining, secret relationship

series summary: After your grandfather’s passing, you find yourself moving into his home in Texas. You meet the Millers; Tommy, his older brother Joel and his daughter Sarah. With time, you and Tommy become close friends and Sarah visits you often. But Joel…Joel keeps his distance. The reason for this is due to one crucial fact you don’t know but he does; Tommy has a crush on you. Which means you’re off limits no matter what. But as your own feelings for Joel grow, things start to get more and more complicated.

word count: 4.8k

chapter summary: Your brother comes for a visit and of course, he wants to meet the Millers. Things with Joel come to a boiling point, threatening to pour over.

warnings: joel dissociating, family dynamics, criticizing of war, some angst, arguing, hints of grief, brief mention of parents being emotionally distant, explicit make out scene at the end

a/n: August is the reader's stepbrother, reader still has no physical descriptions. His face claim ended up being Oscar Isaac, ofc you don't have to imagine him that way, but I just wanted to let y'all know lmaodbf I was trying to think of what he should look like and it kinda happened

Chapter Seven || Chapter Nine

Your brother is already sitting on the kitchen stool when you walk in with silent, socked feet. He hears you though. Always does. Perking up, he turns with a smile. Your heart jumps as you notice a magazine in his hand, but  realizing it can’t be the one with Joel’s picture in it, you relax, making a beeline to the coffee machine. 

“You still like your coffee black?” 

“Yup. Just like my wretched soul.” 

You shake your head. Smiling, you grind the coffee beans, the sound breaking the peaceful silence of the morning. When you’re done, you turn to him and pour the coffee into the portafilter. You tamp it down. 

“Your soul isn’t black.” 

“Hmm?” He rests his cheek in the palm of his hand, his elbow propped up on the kitchen counter. A soft smile tugs at his lips, always amused by your rantings. “And what color is my soul?” 

“Golden. Sparkly, shiny.” 

“You’re just saying that because of my name.” 

“Why would Auggie remind me of gold?”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. Idiot.” he grins. He leans over and squeezes your cheeks with one hand, hallowing them out. You let out a whine. “Come on now. Say it. Say my actual name and not the one you would call your sheepdog.” 

You push out your bottom lip, pouting, you glare at him. He laughs. 

“I’m not letting go until you say it.” 

“Fine,” you snap, your voice muffled. “August. There, happy? Now let me go, you menace.” 

“See, was that so hard?” he lets go and you stumble back. His strength always coming a bit of a shock. You draw your brows together, rubbing your chin. August rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you be normal and just call me Gus if you’re going to be lazy about it.” 

“Because it sounds like goose and I don’t like geese. And Auggie sounds cute,” you answer. The hiss of the coffee maker fills the kitchen and you take two mugs from the cabinet. “How’s mom and dad by the way?” 

“Not thrilled that you’re here on your own. Living with ghosts.”

Shaking your head, you place a red colored mug in front of him. Your parents had a habit of think you were drowning in melancholy. Which…was true, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be on your own. You’re about to say just that, looking at him but the thin gold chain on his neck reflects the soft morning hue and catches your gaze. Briefly, you stare at it, blinking. 

“You’re wearing it again?” 

August raises a sole brow, confused, that is until he looks down and realizes what you meant. He licks his lips and smooths his palms over the marble counter. 

“Well…no point in being mad at him anymore is there? The old man’s gone.” 

“He’d be happy knowing you still care.” 

“I always cared,” he snaps with a hint of annoyance. “Need I remind you that pops was the one mad at me. Not the other way around.” 

“He was mad because you were throwing your life away,” you level him a serious look and add. “You still are.” 

“I don’t want to do this first thing in the morning,” he groans. “You’re just saying that because you don’t like the idea of your big brother with a gun.” 

You fill his mug with piping hot coffee. Steam curls into the air. You start warming up milk for yourself, your back turned to him. 

“I don’t like the idea of my big brother being shipped off to war on a whim. It’s not a hunting trip. Don’t act like it’s not a big deal.” 

“It isn’t.” 

“You’ll die.” 

You suck in a sharp breath. You hadn’t meant to say it like that. He’s already aware that he can die. You close your eyes and keep them like that. The sounds of the kitchen fade into the background. The sound of a clock echoes in your mind. You remember the last time August was here, in this house. Your grandfather was alive then. The house was full of his voice and scent. Unlike your parents, who were somewhat distant, your grandpa hated the thought of August wasting his potential. Meanwhile, August was trying hard to prove that he didn’t have any potential to waste. You’re not even sure what your big brother does anymore. You stopped asking the day you and him buried your grandpa. 

It’s been the two of you for the longest time. Your mother remarried when you were four, August was six. Not having many friends, you were quick to leach on to him, and he seemed happy by that. He was your family, and you were his. Blood didn’t matter. And your grandfather, and grandmother, agreed with the sentiment, never separating the two of you. 

You remember when you were still in university, August didn’t tell you he was in the city. And one late night he was on your doorstep. Rain soaked through his shirt and his hair curled at the ends. Your heart breaks when you remember those times. He refused to tell you what happened that night. Later on, you learned he came to meet his mom. The exchange hadn’t gone well.  

You jump when you feel a set of hands on your shoulders. The sound of your name follows soon after, it sounds rushed like it had been repeated a couple of times before you heard it. 

Everything comes flooding back. The coffee. The milk. Your brother standing behind you. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Christ. Where’s your head at?”

“Shit—” you hiss, seeing that the milk had overflowed. You quickly turn off the stove. “Sorry, sorry. Must’ve zoned out.” 

“This is why I said I didn’t want to have this conversation first thing in the morning,” he grumbles, picking up a handful of napkins. “You need to stop worrying about me okay? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don’t want to constantly fight about this. I’m tired.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

You realize your answer is less than ideal but it is what it is. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, fine. You’ll at least make him highly aware of how you feel about it. 

After cleaning the stove and finally making yourself a decent cup of coffee, you sigh into the mug. “So what do you want to do during your visit? Sightseeing?” 

He chuckles, “Why are you acting like this is my first time here?” 

“I don’t know. I feel awkward now. I probably need breakfast.” 

“You’re fine,” he answers, booping your nose. Your wrinkle your nose, a soft smile blossoming on your lips. “I’ve seen your paintings, they look good.” 

You nod, silently sipping your coffee. 

“Any plans on showing them off, or whatever it is that artists do—put them in a museum?” 

“Gallery.” you correct him. “And I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Not so fun is it? Being questioned?” when you fix him a glare, he grins. “Anyway…I love what you’ve done with the room. About time something changed here.” 

You finally crack a proper smile and he quickly follows up with more series of thoughts. With a soft giggle parting your lips, you shake your head. 

“Which one was it that helped you?” he asks. “The brothers?” 

“Both helped. But the credit has to go to Tommy, he’s the one who came up with the idea.” 

“Wise man,” he hums, tongue moving over his teeth thoughtfully. “Was he the one in Desert Storm?” 

“Yup,” you answer unenthusiastically, popping your lips at the p. 

“When am I going to meet the famous Millers? I want to thank them for helping out my baby sister.” 

“Tonight. They’re coming over for dinner.” 

Another unenthusiastic response. It’s been almost a week since your date with Tommy, and since you’ve moved out from Joel’s and back into your own. You’ve seen Tommy a bunch after that, but the older Miller not so much. Guilt burrows in your heart. You might’ve been a bit too short with Joel, now that you think about it. His intentions obviously weren’t bad. But that didn’t really matter to you, did it? Your heart skips a beat every time you think of him. And you stared at his picture nearly every night since you returned. 

Meanwhile, despite seeing him almost every day whenever he came over to fix up the room, your friendship with Tommy felt…off. Some part of you thinks he knows about your feelings, and Joel’s. He never said anything about it. He hadn’t even mentioned the date, it was like business as usual. 

It was just a crush then. It has to be. You and Tommy were close, he was lonely, figured he’d ask you out. Nothing serious. You preferred to think about it that way. 

“What are we having?” your brother asks, drawing you away from your, not so fun, thoughts. 

“I was thinking chicken.” 

Joel holds a bottle of wine in hand and Sarah is holding a tupperware full of homemade brownies. Upon getting the invite, Sarah had been adamant about perfecting her recipe to bring over. Joel was not allowed in the kitchen. Deeming to be a jinx whenever Sarah tried to cook. He had no objections to that. He was more than happy to listen to his daughter hum in the kitchen as he watched TV in the living room. 

They walk toward your place with her arm crossed over his. Tommy is getting out of the truck just as they reach the porch. His younger brother meets Joel’s gaze briefly before turning his head, walking up to them. He ruffles Sarah’s hair, greeting them both with a small nod of his head. 

“Better get this over then,” Tommy mutters, reaching from between the father and daughter duo to knock on the door. 

But before he can, Sarah smacks his hand away. The gesture earns her a solid fix of Tommy’s glare. Joel’s shoulders raise, his eyes nervously flitting between Sarah and Tommy. He’d kept Sarah out of the loop. It felt like the right thing to do. Your dating life should be no concern to her. And as far as Joel was concerned, Sarah wasn’t ready to hear about his love life with another woman. 

“Sarah.” Tommy warns, the last syllable of her name bouncing off his grit teeth. “What do you think you’re doin’?” 

“You two have been so weird all week,” she chides, the crease between her brows similar to her father’s. “If you’re not going to be nice, you should leave.”

“Dammit Sarah, I—” he lets out a stuttering breath. “Fine. Just knock on the goddamn door.” 

It’s instinct. Sarah knocks on the door and at the same time Joel brings a hand down to Tommy’s shoulder. Hard. The younger Miller’s entire body tilts to the side and Joel squeezes, making sure that his fingers make dents into Tommy’s skin. Tommy tenses under Joel’s hold but doesn’t move, he doesn’t even look back at him. He just patiently waits until the door opens, warm, soft light pouring through the door. 

Sarah takes the first step, hugging you and handing you the Tupperware. You’re wearing a green dress that hugs your figure perfectly, his mouth floods with saliva. Joel already feels his cock twitching uncontrollably under his jeans. The way you smile is always so bright. 

But first things first. 

“Don’t you ever snap at my daughter like that again. You hear me, Tommy.” he says in a hushed tone, leaning into Tommy’s ear. Sarah already disappeared inside, and you’re patiently holding the door open for them.

“Your daughter?” he grimaces, taking a step back so the two of them are out of earshot. “You mean my niece? I didn’t do anythin’ Joel. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” 

Tommy takes the lead. He kisses your cheek and mutters pleasantries. Without waiting for Joel, Tommy takes his shoes off, heads to the kitchen. Joel huffs, glaring at his brother’s back. 

“Is something wrong?” 

Your voice peels him away from his anger, his hands suddenly feel foreign to him. He robotically hands you the wine. 

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “Just brothers being brothers.” 

“O…kay then. Well in any case, welcome. Thanks for the wine.” 

If Tommy being mad at him isn’t enough, it looks like you’re still frustrated with him as well. You don’t look at him. And the smile you have on is nothing other than polite. It’s a small little curve. The type you would give to a stranger walking past you in the street. He hates it.  

Thank god for Sarah. At least she’s not mad at him. 

“Don’t mention it,” he mutters, purposefully brushing his arm against yours while passing you by. He hears you letting out a soft sigh. The hairs on his arms stand with delight at the sound. 

He enters the kitchen where the dining table is at. Tommy’s already chatting up your brother, and Sarah is dragging her fingers through one of your dried oil paintings. She likes the texture of it, he told him once. The brother’s eyes meet Joel’s and he already feels his muscles growing taut. Tommy follows the brother’s gaze and nods. 

Joel nearly jumps when your hand comes around his shoulder. The brother narrows his eyes. 

“This is Joel,” you say, giving him a gentle shove. “And you already met Tommy. Joel, this is August. My brother.” 

Joel takes in the brother’s appearance. He has sharp, angular cheekbones that give his face a chiseled look, and his intense gaze is accentuated by thick, dark eyebrows. His wavy, dark hair falls messily over his forehead. He has broad shoulders and a defined jawline. He exudes a quiet confidence that draws Joel's attention.

Swallowing multiple times, Joel quickly extends a hand. A weird sense of relief washes over him when August takes it, giving it a firm squeeze. 

“Nice to meet you,” he says, sitting back down. “I heard so much about you.” 

“Good things I hope,” Joel grins sheepishly. A blush crawls up from his neck to his cheeks when the other winks. Joel’s gut is telling him that August already knows what’s going on in his head and it’s unnerving. 

“They’re all good, don’t worry.” he smiles and pulls out a chair for Joel. “She tells me you two helped her with the room. Well, you have my thanks. I was a bit worried about her moving in here after…” he clears his throat. “I’m sure you know.” 

August utters the last sentence with his eyes fixed on Joel. He shudders. 

“Auggie, stop making me seem like I’m a damsel in distress. I’m not a child that needs to be taken care of.” 

“That you’re not,” August answers. “But everyone needs help sometimes.” 

You frown, “Says the man who never accepts it.” 

The rest of the evening passes by with soft jazz music in the background and all of them setting the table together, which isn’t a five-man job, but they do it anyway. Sarah is rather bubbly, talking about school and a boy she doesn’t seem to like. He takes a mental note to ask about that later. You listen with interest, checking the rice and mixing the salad. Tommy and August hit it off instantly. Which isn’t at all a shock to him. August laughs at something Tommy says while placing a plate. Joel looks around, his pleading eyes landing on Sarah and you in the kitchen. 

Neither of them notices him. He’s left standing awkwardly between kitchen and dining room. He rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans, gaze dropping to his socked feet. 

He doesn’t want to bother anyone, so he slips away to the hall. 

Maybe he should’ve asked you first, before going exploring. But he can’t really help it. Joel finds himself in the renovated room. It’s basically done, the room fully painted and bookshelves back in place. You even have a couple of easels holding your latest artwork. He stumbles inside, the conversations fading into the background. 

It’s hard not to feel upset. He isn’t sure what he’s doing wrong. At the time, not allowing you to say what you had swirling in your mind felt like the right thing to do. Joel doesn’t know if he could’ve held back if you confessed. Even though he was rather close to confessing himself, that was before Tommy took initiative. 

He observes the first painting. His initial thought is that it looks nice. There are a lot of colors in geometric shapes. He sees a lot of red and pink. Some blue. Some white. His eyes move up and down, and as it does, he slowly begins to realize the smaller shapes form a bigger one. It’s human. A naked one. He follows the vee of the adonis belt, the softened stomach. Suddenly it’s very clear to him that this is a man. Joel takes a step back. The face hasn’t been painted yet. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. A somber smile touches his lips. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t have any of those. Maybe he won’t fuck up so badly if he doesn’t. 

Joel’s about to leave when he sees it. The smallest stain on the front of the silhouette’s hip. Tilting his head, he steps closer. His skin tight over his muscles, his breath hitches.

It’s a bullseye. The tiniest, you blink you miss it, bullseye.

He leans closer, it’s definitely a bullseye. Smaller than his tattoo, but it’s the same shape, in the same spot. 

What the fuck? 

He lifts his gaze, eyes flitting across the round shape that’s meant to be a face—his face. Is this…supposed to be him? 

Shitshitshitshit

Joel jolts out of the room and stumbles into the small bathroom that’s on the first floor. He turns the faucet so hard that his fingers ache but he doesn’t care. He splashes cool water over his face until his breathing calms down. Then he flushes the toilet for some noise.

When he opens the door, his head is spinning. The walls wiggle and dance, the hardwood floor underneath his feet slips. Joel can barely stand. His fingers itch to have something pressed against them, something that can pull him out of the fog of his mind. 

He doesn’t look inside and silently closes the door, his eyes glazed over. He makes his way down the hall. His heart is beating too fast. He can barely breathe. Some part of him believes he’s making it up. That the tattoo wasn’t there, that it was just smudged paint. He’s not an artist. It wouldn’t be hard for his brain to make something up. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

The voices grow closer. He closes his eyes, lashes touching with his cheeks. He should’ve let you talk that day. At least then everything would be crystal clear. He hates not truly knowing. The heave of his chest forces him to open his eyes. 

Everyone is already at the table. You’re serving the food, putting a chicken leg on your brother’s empty plate. His space is reserved next to Sarah, right across from Tommy and you, August is at the head of the table. Only Sarah notices him. She looks up, brows pinched together as she mouths: are you okay dad? 

Joel nods and takes his seat. His vision finally clears. The scent of chicken and roasted vegetables wafts through the air, grounding him to the present. He feels the brush of Sarah’s fingers on his forearm, she still looks worried. 

“I’m fine,” he mutters, reaching for the salad. With his tongue between his lips, his gaze follows your movements as you divide the chicken. “Everything looks amazing, tea. Thank you for having us.” 

“Yeah,” Sarah chimes in. “It looks great. I didn’t know you could cook.” 

You let out a snort and shake your head. “Why does everyone in this house think I can’t look after myself? What kind of image am I giving you guys?” 

Laughter follows, Tommy, says something but Joel doesn’t catch it. His mind still in the room with the painting. He eats silently. Biting into his fork and savoring the taste of white meat. He watches Sarah neatly wrapping the base of the chicken leg with a napkin before she starts eating, he rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. 

No one really discerns his silence. Which he concludes to be a good thing. The food is good and helps him settle down. His eyes flit between you and Tommy, a pleasant conversation taking place between the two people closest to him. 

Suddenly he sees Tommy in a tux, you in a white dress. The sun is bright and Sarah is the flower girl. He’s standing next to his baby brother, waiting to hand the ring to Tommy as soon as the priest finishes his speech. He stares at you from above Tommy’s shoulder. Your smile is wide. 

You meet his gaze and Joel fights the urge to jerk away. Your smile broadens into a grin, you wink at him. 

You look back to Tommy. His heart sinks into his stomach. 

If that ever happens, at least you'll still be close. Joel will forever have your eyes. He’ll get to stare at them as often as he wants to. Tommy doesn’t have to know. But that doesn't change the fact that Joel will still be lost, he'll still be lonely after Sarah leaves to live her own life.

He would always be searching for something more, something that he couldn't quite name or articulate. That yearning would remain, like an ache that refused to subside. He would try to fill that void with other things, other people, but it would never be enough. He would always come back to that sense of restlessness, that nagging feeling that there was something missing.

He’ll never be satisfied. 

Joel hands you a wet plate and you smile, patting off the access water, you place it on the dishrack. Soft steps come from upstairs. A door closes, and the sound of the shower softly adds to the ambiance of domestic bliss. 

Joel hands you another plate. 

It’s been a while since dinner came to an end. Much to your delight, it turned out to be a pleasant evening. August and Tommy got along swimmingly, which came as no surprise to anyone. With her stomach full and warm, Sarah was practically sleeping on the couch. Joel had to nudge her awake, and you offered to show him the spare room, but he shook his head and woke her up. Sarah was briefly confused, but she managed to make her way back with Joel. Tommy left a bit later, thanking you and squeezing your hand as he left. You were quite surprised when Joel returned ten minutes later, offering to help with the dishes. August had already gone upstairs to take a shower.

You hate doing the dishes so you had no objections to that. 

“I really should buy a dishwasher,” you say, breaking the silence. “Thanks again. You really didn’t have to.” 

His lips part with a low chuckle, his gaze fixed on the sponge that suds up the plate. “I’ve heard you complain more than I can count, sweet tea. There was no way I was going to leave you with this monstrous pile.” 

“My hero.” 

A comfortable silence stretches between the two of you, though you're not sure how that's possible. He's been avoiding you for a week and has been silent all afternoon. You're not even sure he talked to Auggie much, except for introducing himself. 

Some part of you doesn't want the stacks of porcelain to end. You internally curse at yourself for washing the pots and pans before dinner. This time, you take a bowl from him. It's slippery, and you nearly drop it, but his fingers curl around yours, tightening your grip before it can shatter against the floor.

Your breath catches in your throat. Joel's fingers remain on your hand, and a soft caress follows. Goosebumps rise over your body; it's so sudden that it tingles, a slight pain etching over your skin. Slowly lifting your eyes, you see that he's already staring at you. Joel holds your gaze, his eyes warm and inviting. A blissful sigh raises in your throat, threatening to spill, but you press your lips together.

Joel inhales, and on the exhale he asks, “Your date with Tommy must’ve been a good one, I reckon. You guys came back late.”

Blood rushes to your ears. You pull your hand back, like you’ve been burned with boiling water, soap bubbles fly into the air. The bowl slips back into the sink and you hear it crack but refuse to look down. Your heart is beating too fast, too hard—shit. Why is he saying this out of the blue? Rage pounds underneath your fingernails. You’re not sure why you’re so mad. And you’re not surprised Tommy didn’t tell him anything. Those two are constipated when it comes to talking. 

Your glare and his soft gaze clashes, lighting crackling in the still air. 

“Why are you suddenly mentioning Tommy?” you hiss out. Tears sting your eyes. “And it’s none of your business. If you want to know you should ask hi—”

“I saw your little art project.” 

Your mouth dries up, the rage replaced by a childlike terror. You pull your hand close to your chest. Breathing heavily. 

“What?” 

Joel takes a step forward, leaning into you and crowding your personal bubble. You’re glued to the floor. The blood rush loud in your ears. You feel so vulnerable that it hurts, your body trembling uncontrollably. 

“It was…me, wasn’t it?” he shakes his head. “What if Tommy saw? You can’t do shit like that when you’re datin’ him. You can’t just paint another man.” 

His voice is both hushed and forceful. You’ shake your head, attempting to blink away the tears. All the emotions you feel like a balloon in your chest waiting to explode. Your head drops. You stare at his chest. It’s moving with every rapid breath. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Excuse me?” Joel sounds flabbergasted. He takes a step back and stares at you—really stares at you with narrowed eyes, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. 

“I said,” you bite out through clenched teeth. You step forward and shove him in the chest, it does little to move him and his fingers wrap tightly around your wrists. You refuse to look at him. “Fuck. You. You don’t get to shame me in the ways I heal. The art I create. You’re the one who has a girlfriend. You’re the one that allowed me to get as close as I did, saying cryptic shit knowing that I had a crush on you! So yeah—” your eyes snap up, looking him dead in the eye. His mouth hangs open, shock etched between his brows. “Fuck you, Joel Miller.” 

His grip tightens, it’s rough and it stings. A shiver runs up your spine. “I’m not dating your brother.” you say with a sense of finality. 

“I didn’t know you had a crush on me.” Joel’s thumb moves down your wrist. His hardened gaze softens, the smallest of gasps escaping from between lips. “Asha and I broke up.” 

“You did?” 

Your world starts spinning, your stomach flips in your stomach. He nods. 

“The day you came to the garden. Before your date with Tommy. I broke it off.” 

“Why?” you ask, holding your breath. 

“Because I had someone else on my mind.” 

He’s fully stroking your arm now, the roughness of his hold gone. Textured fingertips move up and down your skin, sending shudder after shudder up your very being. Heat gathers between your legs, and you feel a dampness that makes you ache. Joel leans closer and you feel his hot breath fanning your cheeks, mixed with the lingering scent of beer. You hold your breath. The kitchen doesn’t seem to stop spinning. 

Without another word Joel tugs you flush against him, his firm chest pressing up yours, a tingle starting from your pebbled nipples and buzzing throughout your body. He sucks the air from your lungs. He groans into your mouth. You feel his hands skimming the frame of your body, dipping into every curve. Joel pulls and tugs at the fabric of your dress. You hear a small rip. You don’t care about it in the slightest. But he must’ve heard it too because a soft growl emanates from his chest. He tugs at the fabric again, the following noise louder. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, pulling it along with him as he parts. You let out a debauched whine and you swear he grins, the cocky bastard. 

His hands cup your ass, kneading it tenderly. You sigh into his mouth, your hands feeling numb and weak from where they rest above his chest. He lets go of your bottom lip, pressing his mouth into the swollen flesh before moving away. 

You gasp and let out a shaky bubble of laughter. “If this ‘someone else’ you speak of isn’t me this is about to get really awkward really fast.”

“Don’t worry that pretty lil’ head of yours darlin’,” his forehead touches yours, the skin damp. He breathes heavily, the tone of his voice oddly serious and deep. “It’s you.” 

a/n: THEY KISSED! FINALLY. I think this is the longest thing I've ever written without the characters getting at it immediately, it's been a fun ride lmaodfbfd

Normally, this chapter was supposed to have smut as well. But I loved the ending "it's you" so much that I decided it was a good way to end the chapter. But believe me, the next chapter is going to get as filthy as it gets. I already have it outlined. (feel free to hop into my askbox to tell me what filthy things you want to see them get to 🤭)

Thank you to everyone who is still with me on this little journey that started out with a mere thought after seeing a bts Instagram story, I never thought so many people would be eager to read such a thing and all of you have my appreciation. I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, in all honestly I'm nervous as hell posting it. Hopefully I hit all the right parts.

Sending all of you many hugs and kisses 🧡

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x female reader #tommy miller x f!reader #tommy miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

[humanpurposes]

My Heart Belongs to Daddy part vi, modern!Aemond

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // take the breath that's true

modern!Aemond x step-daughter

Warnings: 18+, language, family tensions

Words: 4500

A/n: Here we go, the penultimate installment! Part vii is going to be the last part and I can't really believe we're almost finished 🥲

And this is a complete coincidence I finished this today but HAPPY BRITHDAY to Ange aka @ewanmitchellcrumbs!! Consider this a little gift from me as a thank you for all your love n support 💚

Also available to read on AO3.

She wakes startled, her heart beating furiously to the sound of raised voices coming from the kitchen. 

She’s in the middle of the bed, curled up on one side with the bed sheets bunched up around her.

After the mess of last night, Cregan had gone to the pub with Jace and Baela. Evidently he hadn’t come back but his things are still strewn about her room, the brown leather holdall by the wardrobe, his t-shirt on the floor, his aftershave on her vanity.

She runs her hands over her face and forehead, groaning at the headache pulsing in her head as the shouting continues.

It’s a rarity for Alys and Aemond to get so heated, usually their arguments are a cold war of curt remarks and furious glances. She holds her breath, listening for specific words but she can’t make anything out.

It concludes with Alys shouting at the top of her lungs, “FUCK OFF THEN!” followed by the kitchen door slamming, a pair of loafers clicking against the floor of the hallway and then the front door opening and closing.

She goes to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to see Aemond’s silver Jag pulling out of the driveway. Something about seeing him leave feels so final.

Once she’s thrown on a t-shirt and some shorts she treads carefully down the stairs, afraid to disturb the eerie silence that hangs about the house.

Alys is leaning over the counter, cradling her forehead in her other hand. She breathes deeply and slowly, the cup of coffee in front of her long forgotten. 

Finally she tries to compose herself, taking a sharp inhale through her nose, looking at her and forcing a smile, as if there aren’t tears welling in her eyes. “That’s it then,” she says, her voice hoarse from the shouting.

Panic strikes her gut like a knife, twisting and twisting until it burns. “Did he say why?”

Alys huffs bitterly. “He said it was ‘differing priorities’. Says he wants to reconnect with his family–” she licks her teeth and makes a sucking sound with her tongue– “he thinks I’ll just get in the way.”

“Is that actually what he said?”

“No.”

“Well how do you–”

“I just know!” Alys snaps and she flinches. Alys waves her hand vaguely in front of her face before she starts to rub circles against her temple. “I just… know.”

She looks down at the counter, hoping to find some way to make herself useful. There’s another cup in front of one of the stools. Black coffee, half-full. She reaches for it instinctively. She can’t see the prints of his fingertips and lips on the white ceramic, but she knows they’re there. He’s left a packet of cigarettes behind too, the same packet from the dinner party.

She pours the leftover coffee down the sink and squeezes some dish soap onto a cloth to clean it out. Her hands are shaking and she almost drops it twice.

“Gods, as if I even cared enough to interfere with his family,” Alys tuts behind her. “They never liked me.”

She can’t bring herself to disagree, but it’s not like the Targaryens are renowned for being welcome to outsiders, let alone the woman in her forties who took Alicent Hightower’s precious golden boy from her. She feels cruel for thinking that, especially because she knows she would never say that to Alys’ face. 

There’s a tapping sound coming from the counter, a nail against cardboard. She glances over her shoulder as Alys drums her fingertip against Aemond’s packet of cigarettes. Her head is tilted and she hums distantly.

“I never meant for things to go this far,” she says, “but it’s done now.”

She can still feel Aemond’s hands on her waist and stomach, pushing her against the sink and pulling her back into him.

Why end it with Alys now? Had he told her the truth? Surely this would have turned out to be a very different conversation if he had. So why didn’t he?

“I just know these last couple of months have been fucking unbearable without you.”

She slowly places the clean cup by the sink, squeezes the water and soap from the cloth and dries her hands on a tea towel.

She can feel her heartbeat in her throat, and wonders if she’ll be able to speak if she tries.

“Mum?”

Alys doesn’t look up at her, still preoccupied with the packet. “What is it darling?”

When she doesn’t respond right away Alys turns to face her. Her mother can often be distracted, even when she tries to talk to her, there always seems to be something that’s more important. Not now though. She looks at her, really looks at her, with red cheeks, dried tears and her eyebrows raised in a sympathetic expression. Focused, ready to listen to her.

There’s an old harbour down by Blackwater Bay, two tall stone walls cutting out a little corner of the shore. In the summer people like to go down to swim there because the waves aren’t as rough as they are in the open sea and the kids in King’s Landing have made a tradition of jumping from the harbour walls. She used to go with Harwin and Jace, before Luke was really old enough to swim. The wall is highest right at the end, from a slab of concrete which everyone called ‘the table’ looking out on the other side of the harbour. Every year she told Jace she would jump from the table and every year she walked along the wall and clambered up onto the concrete. She would look down at the waves, rolling, colliding and roaring as they splashed up against the harbour walls. Suddenly her body would start to tremble and she’d forget how to breathe. She never managed to do it.

Now she thinks she’d take jumping into the bay over what’s about to come.

“I’ve done something really awful.”

The train from Oldtown to King’s Landing takes four hours. Four hours when she has nowhere else to go, nothing else to do but put her headphones in and watch the snow covered hills and fields of the Reach race past in a blur of white and green.

In the end she had accepted the Masters programme at the University of Oldtown. Alys’ reaction couldn’t be described as enthusiastic, but she would have been less excited for her to stay in King’s Landing. 

Looking back, her first term had been good. She enjoyed her modules, liked all of her lecturers (even the stricter ones), was doing well on all of her assignments and she had access to the Citadel Library, which was far older and more impressive than the library at KLU.

She moved into a dorm room in the middle of the city just a few minutes from the main campus and made a few friends who all shared a flat in the well-to-do East District, which was where she did most of her socialising. On her free days she took herself to explore the city’s museums and bookshops, or she’d get herself a coffee and a cinnamon pastry and sit by the bank of the Honeywine, watching the boats and the flow of the water.

It should have been perfect, and it was in some ways. She threw herself into everything, research and essay writing, afternoons in pub gardens and parties full of strangers. Her life had become a tangle of possibilities and it was easy to let everything else slip away.

She ended things with Cregan well before she left for Oldtown. She told him half of the truth; she hadn’t been feeling like herself lately and she wanted space to feel like a person again. She didn’t tell him about Aemond or the incident at the dinner party, and she didn’t tell him that she felt like she was wandering through her own life like a lost puppy, looking for something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, something that would fill the space in her chest that seemed doomed to remain hollow forever.

He seemed shocked but he took it well. According to Jace he’s been getting rather close to Aly Blackwood, a KLU graduate from her year. Aly Blackwood is best known around King’s Landing as a goth with a heart of gold. She has tattoos and piercings, wears sleek eyeliner and black platform boots and spends every weekend going to concerts or music festivals. She’s smart and a people person, just like Cregan. If things are heading that way then she’s happy for them. He deserves someone like that, someone who doesn’t lie to everyone around her, someone who doesn’t fuck her mother’s boyfriend halfway through a dinner party, while her own boyfriend was only in the next room.

Oldtown was the perfect escape, until the 1st December came around. Everywhere she went there were lights and trees, couples huddling close together to keep out the cold, while Last Christmas played somewhere in the distance. She enjoyed as much of it as she could, especially when her new friends dragged her to go ice skating or to Oldtown’s annual Christmas market in the square. But she couldn’t shake the dread of having to go home and spending three weeks in the house alone with Alys. Three weeks of sleeping in the bed where Aemond used to fuck her.

She watches the window as the treeline of Kingswood vanishes, and the shoreline of Blackwater Bay stretches before her, which means the city is only minutes away.

She takes her phone from her pocket and looks at it with the same nagging impulse that so far, she’s successfully ignored for months. This is her last chance to call him before she gets to King’s Landing. She doesn’t even know what she would say. She doesn’t want to talk to him or see him, but she thinks it would be nice to hear his voice or just know that he’s thinking about her– if he is thinking about her.

She opens her notes app and the note titled really good advice.

Don’t engage.

Don’t listen to songs that make you sad.

It’s okay to let go.

The train emerges from a tunnel and slowly starts to halt as it comes into the glass canopy over the platforms of Central King’s Landing Station. She slips her phone back into her pocket.

Alys picks her up from the station. She’s not wearing her usual red lipstick and she’s cut her hair into a stylish bob that makes her look older– in a good way– but other than that, she looks the same. 

They hug stiffly and exchange the same mumbled greeting. “Hi. You alright? Yeah, good thanks.”

Snow drifts down from a dark grey sky, but it’s not cold enough for it to settle, despite Ella Fitzgerald’s wishes for a “White Christmas” through the car speakers. The traffic is busy so she has plenty of time to admire the lights and displays in shop windows, and the trees twinkling inside the houses as they get closer to Queen’s park.

The house is gloomier than she remembers, but then she left it in early September when the weather was still warm. That’s her least favourite thing about winter, it’s dark and it’s only 4pm. It’s cold too. She wonders if Alys came straight from the office.

She leaves her bag at the bottom of the stairs and follows Alys through to the kitchen. She squints at the harsh lights as Alys rummages through the fridge. “Didn’t have any time to think about dinner,” she says, “the last few days have been non-stop.”

“That’s okay,” she mutters, familiarising herself with the feeling of the white marble countertops under her palms. “I can walk down to the shops, if you need?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alys says, “you’re a guest.”

That’s a new feeling, being a guest in her own house.

To Alys’ credit, she’s making an effort to be around more. She comes home from the office earlier than she usually does and on the weekends she brings her laptop to the lounge and works from there. 

She has reading she could be doing for uni but she’s too tired to read. Lately, every time she picks up a book the words blur and fade into one another. When she’s bored of scrolling through her phone or flicking through the TV, she tries her hand at baking gingerbread to get into the festive spirit. They turn out surprisingly well but then she’s just left sitting in the kitchen by herself, nibbling cookies and feeling utterly ridiculous for it. Why does being alone have to be so embarrassing, surely there’s no one around to care?

The worst part about being home is how obvious they’re both avoiding a certain topic.

They’re eating dinner around the island in the kitchen. The fridge is stocked up in anticipation for Christmas day (which seems unnecessary if it’s only for two of them) and in the meantime they’re living off simpler meals, mostly pasta or something with rice.

“Rhaenyra’s coming over for drinks on Christmas Eve” Alys says after a few minutes of silence.

She pauses her mouthful. Alys hasn’t so much as mentioned Rhaenyra since the dinner party after her graduation, and before that the wedding. She dreads to think this get together might include some other Targaryen relatives.

She swallows. “Why?”

Alys frowns. Rhaenyra and Harwin used to alternate their Christmases between their fathers, one year with Viserys, one year with Lyonel and the Rivers. That tradition had apparently been abandoned after Lyonel died not long after Harwin. Last year it had just been the three of them.

Alys shrugs. “Rhaenyra suggested it. We’ll just have a few glasses of wine. You’re welcome to join us if you’ve not got other plans.”

Other plans are unlikely; none of her friends are in King’s Landing. So far the holidays have just been a waiting game, but the festive season seems to drag on when you’ve got nothing interesting to do and no one to see. 

“I’ll be around,” she says.

“Perfect.”

Then they come back to silence, apart from the scraping of cutlery. She worries if she’s chewing too loudly, it sounds loud in her head.

Then Alys starts talking about a new client of hers. She becomes surprisingly animated, clearly excited about the new venture for Rivers PR, until she mentions an issue with contracts and some legal dilemma, then she goes quiet. It was Aemond’s job to sort that stuff out, make things more manageable for her. 

She tries to change the subject by telling Alys about Oldtown, her new friends and the possibility of a graduate role at the Citadel Research Institute. 

“One of my lecturers is a partner there,” she says. “They usually reserve two placements for Oldtown students.”

“How long would it be for?” Alys asks.

“Two years,” she says, taking a quick sip of the bittersweet grapefruit soda Alys had insisted she try, “it’s paid work, and then I’ll have a job by the end of it.”

“Sounds like you’ve got everything planned out nicely.” Alys doesn’t say it like a compliment. Her voice falls as she speaks.

“I mean, it’s only a possibility,” she says, “I’d have to get accepted. I was thinking about applying for some stuff in King’s Landing too–”

“Do you like Oldtown?” Alys asks. Her expression is utterly unreadable. She might be furious. She might not care at all.

She places her glass down. Her stomach aches with hunger but she finds that she doesn’t feel like eating. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well then I see no reason to force yourself to stay here,” Alys says and promptly goes back to eating. 

Her chest feels like it’s about to burst.

She told Alys the truth. She didn’t try to justify what she did. She watched her mother cry, stood there as she screamed at her and gave her space when she wanted it. Seven hells, she had moved to the other side of the continent to give her space.

She knows there’s no version of this where she isn’t the villain, where she doesn’t wake up every morning and feel like a shit human being. Part of her is still trying to accept that her mother might never forgive her, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to try.

The edges of her vision start to blur. “You’re here,” she says.

She watches Alys’ chest rise and fall and her lips start to tremble as she sets her cutlery down. She breathes as she hangs her head, gnawing slightly on her bottom lip.

She anticipates another argument like the one before, that will leave her with a hoarse throat and a tightness in her head.

Then Alys turns her head to face her with glassy eyes. “I hope you don’t think I’ve held you back.”

“What? No, why would you say that?”

“You seem so happy in Oldtown I just… I hate to think that you only went to KLU for me. Don’t get me wrong, I loved having you at home for another three years, but I just wanted you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you–” she gasps a small sob but snatches it right back. She wipes her eyes with her fingertips, careful not to smudge her makeup. “I’m sorry if I’ve made things… difficult.”

She can hardly believe what she’s seeing. “No, no, no…” she utters, reaching for one of Alys’ hands. Her throat feels thick and when she blinks she feels hot and heavy tears trailing over her cheeks. “This was all my fault. Mum, you’ve given me everything, and what have I done with it but just be selfish and stupid and–”

“Oh come here,” Alys huffs. They both stand and Alys wipes her daughter’s tears away with her thumbs. 

“But you must hate me,” she whimpers, “I lied to you. I hurt you.”

Alys strokes her hands over her hair and cradles her, bringing her into her chest like she used to when she was a child. “I wanted to at first,” she mutters, “of course I did. I never would have thought…

“You know, I never actually thought I’d have kids. My parents weren’t exactly great at making me feel like a priority, and I used to think I could never be a parent because, well, I didn’t know how to be one.

“But you were so perfect. From the moment you were born I just knew I loved you, like I had never loved anyone before, and I knew I never would love anyone more than you, ever.”

She clings onto her mother like she might fade away, with the material of her blouse between her fingers and her ear pressed to her heartbeat.

“You’ve always been my everything,” Alys whispers, “I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

She pulls herself away from Alys’ embrace so she can look her in the eye. “I really am sorry, for everything with Aemond.”

Alys hums shortly. “Was it just sex?”

She’ll never forget that night in the hotel room, how stupid she felt, how empty it left her, how lost she was for months after. Sometimes she wonders, if she could, would she take back what she said? There’s no point in getting hung up on what-ifs. 

She still feels lost in a lot of ways, but the dust seems to be settling now. She just hopes things will be a little clearer now.

“I think it was for him.”

Alys frowns sadly. “Oh you stupid thing.”

She wants to cry all over again, but it’s a fair statement. “Are you sure you don’t hate me?”

Alys considers the question. “Maybe just a little.”

By Christmas Eve her mood has significantly improved. The weight has been lifted from her body. She doesn’t have to spend an hour convincing herself to get out of bed. She doesn’t lose herself under the warm, running water of the shower. She doesn’t feel so exhausted from the simplest of tasks.

She and Alys finally get not one but two trees up. The ‘proper tree’ is in the dining room, with golden lights reflected in the silver and glass ornaments. In the lounge they have a smaller one that sits in the window. It has fairy lights shaped like stars and mismatched decorations, little wooden snowmen, plush reindeer and polar bears they’ve had since she was little and golden birds that belonged to Alys’ grandmother. She likes the small tree the best because every decoration has a memory. She feels like a little girl again, buzzing with excitement to spend Christmas day with uncle Harwin, aunt Rhaenyra and her cousins.

Tomorrow, she'll wake up slowly, have mimosas with her mum, roast some potatoes, eat too much food and fall asleep curled up on the sofa. Nothing else will matter. She won’t keep second guessing someone else’s every move. She won’t cry herself to sleep thinking of every little thing about her that isn’t good enough to be loved.

Alys is adamant tonight will be nothing like the dinner party in June, thank the Gods.

She changes into a mini dress with a colourful floral pattern and styles her hair nicely. She tilts her head at her reflection and puts in some pearl drop earrings, but something still feels missing. She shrugs it off.

She helps Alys put out snacks and drinks on the kitchen island and choses a playlist of all the essential Christmas songs, just in time for their guests to arrive.

Rhaenyra looks as stunning as ever, in a black two piece that fits snugly around a growing baby bump, bright red lipstick and gold jewellery on her neck and wrists. She hugs both of them tightly and smiles beautifully in a way that makes her think she might be genuine. 

Baela and Rhaena follow behind her, which is a pleasant surprise.

“No boys with you?” Alys asks as they all walk through to the kitchen.

“Thought we’d keep it strictly pleasant company,” Rhaenyra says, “nice to have a bit of calm before we go to dad’s tomorrow.”

“Right,” she and Alys say at the same time.

They all sit in the kitchen. The twins are a year older than her. Baela’s been working at her grandfather’s company while Rhaena’s found her way into being a stylist, always posting from film sets and photoshoots. She looks the part too, she tends to wear bright, bold colours and pairs them with patterns and materials that shouldn’t work together, but somehow they do.

They ask about Oldtown and she doesn’t feel bad about repeating everything she’s already told Alys. The attention is quite nice.

Given the baby, Rhaenyra can’t actually drink but she pours some cranberry juice into a wine glass and sips it elegantly. “Jace told me you and Cregan broke up?” she says once the charcuterie boards have been finished off.

In that moment she tries to think of all the ways someone might react when they’re not bothered by something. Unbothered people smile vaguely and play with their hair without it seeming nervous. Unbothered people crack jokes at their own expense and laugh things off. Unbothered people don’t take as long as she’s taking to answer a question. “Um.. yeah.”

“Oh well, that’s life,” Rhaenyra sighs. “You know I broke up with my first girlfriend before I went to uni.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And then she married my dad.”

She and Alys look at each other. They both try to look concerned at first, until she sees a flicker of a smile on Aly’s lips. She slips too, and they simultaneously snort into laughter. 

But once the amusement wears off and Alys and Rhaenyra retreat to the lounge, she still feels guilty. 

Baela and Rhaena are gossiping about some shared friends. She only half pays attention.

Maybe Rhaenyra meant it to be reassuring, empathetic, validating, but Oldtown wasn’t the reason why she ended things with Cregan, more a symptom of a single problem.

She has a sudden urge to reach for her phone, but she’s left it upstairs.

She was doing so fine in Oldtown. She was happy, busy, things didn’t seem to bother her as much as they do in King’s Landing.

“What are you doing for new years?” Baela asks. 

“Oh um, nothing. Mum has a fundraiser she usually goes to.”

“Are you not going to go with her?”

A ballroom full of canapés, elevator pitches and entrepreneurs making small talk sounds like a living hell. “Definitely not.”

“We’re all going to Dracarys,” Rhaena says, “you know that club on Silk Street? Why don’t you join us.”

She starts to shake her head. Hanging out with Aemond’s cousins sounds like it could be a bad idea. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Baela says, “but don’t worry, it’s just us, Jace and a few other girls. Cregan won’t be there, he’s gone back to Winterfell.” 

She releases a shaky sigh of relief. Right. Cregan. The person she should be worried about.

“He and Aly Blackwood are a thing now,” Rhaena says.

She keeps her eyes on a space on the counter. “Yeah, I heard.”

The kitchen falls to an uneasy silence. Baela and Rhaena look at each other and she can feel the anxiety radiating off them, restless and uncomfortable without something to fill the lull in the conversation. She doesn’t mind the quiet. 

They don’t stay too late. When they go to leave the snowfall is a little heavier and leaves a light dusting over the drive and the cars.

“Let me know about new years,” Baela says, “we’ll have fun!”

She supposes so, and besides, she could do with getting out the house and drowning her sorrows with a sensible amount of margaritas. 

She and Alys stand in the doorway as Rhaenyra’s Escalade pulls away and disappears down an otherwise empty street, leaving a trail in the snow that is quickly covered again. 

Alys checks the time on her phone and shows her the time: 00:02. “Happy Christmas, darling,” she says, wrapping her arm around her shoulders.

She smiles and leans into her. “Happy Christmas, mum.”

Alys grins and nods towards the stairs. “Now get to bed or Santa’ll skip our house.”

She giggles softly as she goes, entirely pleased that Christmas isn’t turning out to be a complete shitshow. Alys has left a new pyjama set on her bed, white, fluffy and impossibly soft. It makes a difference from her old Black Sabbath t-shirt. She readies herself for bed, brushes her teeth and takes a few sips of the glass of water she’s brought up with her. 

Her phone is plugged in on her bedside table, but it must be fully charged by now. 

The moment she reaches for it, the screen lights up and it starts to ring. The glare of the white text makes her eyes sting: Aemond Targaryen.

All the months of distance are gone in a moment. All the time she’s spent trying to move on are lost for just one glimmer of hope. It would be so easy to accept the call. She doesn’t care what she should or shouldn’t say. One movement of her thumb and she’ll hear his voice. 

Don’t engage.

It’s okay to let go.

She watches the phone ring until his name disappears.

A/n: I also realised that I've been referring to Harwin's father as Simon Strong which is incorrect, it should be Lyonel, so I've gone back and corrected that.

General Taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy

Series Taglist: @marthawrites @urmomsgirlfriend1 @aaaaaamond @boundlessfantasy @sahvlran @tinykryptonitewerewolf @arcielee @tssf-imagines @aemondsfavouritebastard @skikikikiikhhjuuh @queenofshinigamis @lost-and-founds @izzydlb @dc-marvel-girl96 @xcinnamonmalfoyx @padfooteyes @castellomargot @pet1t3 @okfashionista @khaothick @babygirlyofthevale (I'm so sorry I said I was gonna add you for last time and I completely forgot 😭)

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond x original female character #aemond smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction #modern!aemond #modern au #house of the dragon fanfiction #stepdad!aemond #my heart belongs to daddy

[thatcrazypercyjacksonfan]

Now, I’m not sure if anyone in the TOA fandom has ever mentioned “Tongs A Lot, Dad”, a short story found in Camp Half-Blood confidential, but I strongly believe it adds (or perhaps reinforces) a lot when looked at with the additional context and characterisation the Trials of Apollo provides. 

An almost diary entry like addition in the short book, the story is told by Connor Stoll, following him and his brother as they poke around the old attic where the Oracle of Delphi remained for decades in the interest of scoring loot. At this they are semi successful, as they are made almost ridiculously vital to the canon plot of HoO with the find of celestial bronze tongs, which are inscribed with the instructions “for plucking the Tartarus Napkin from fire”. And if you are reading this post, you probably have a pretty good idea of why that’s important.

Now, what does this have to do with Apollo? Well, I find it highly probable that this was Apollo’s doing, for multiple reasons. 

1. The tongs were found in the oracle of Delphi's old abode, which is obviously Apollo’s domain, a place you would think he’d be very familiar with- the original place of the Oracle of Delphi was sacred ground, in fact, and even if that doesn’t quite translate to modern day... there is that theory about him being Camp Half Bloods Patron, pioneered by @tsarisfanfiction, I believe. Whatever hold the ancient laws have on the gods, I think we can somewhat assume that places such as these allow more wriggle room. 

 2. This notably happened basically simultaneously with Rachel becoming the Oracle, as seen here, “While everyone else was waiting to see if Rachel, the new Oracle, would survive....we made our move around to the back door of the Big House.” At this point, we’ve just wrapped up PJO. How would Apollo of known to set this up now? Well, we already know from Octavian in SoN that Apollo talked to him personally, and that their talk must of happened before Olympus closed, because he was stuck on Delos after. So if Apollo can put that into play, why not set up this? After all, Apollo is the god of prophecy - he could of understood it was needed. He obviously knew there was a threat. 

3. In the books (before ToA) we only see Apollo in Camp Half Blood twice- once to take Percy’s group and the hunters there in TTC, and once at the end of PJO to, as Conner so delightfully puts it, wait to see if Rachel would survive the Oracle. He was right there. And if that’s not enough for you, the reason Conner picks out the bag with the tongs? A “beam of golden light, shot upward from the floor” startles him. We find out later in another story that Apollo is directly confirmed to have been the one to do this- gifting Rachel the famous tripod stool of the Oracle. It fits almost to well.

“But!” You might say, protesting, “The title confirms who did it! I mean, it’s not like Apollo is Connor Stoll’s dad!” And to that I say- although the title does suggest that Hermes is responsible, it’s never confirmed, and more importantly- it’s in Connor’s POV. Why shouldn’t he assume it’s his dad? And why would he know otherwise? Perhaps you could make another connection with Hermes due to his shrine in Tartarus and point at that as his involvement, but wouldn’t it make more sense if Apollo knew it was a Child of Hermes who had to have the tongs, and acted accordingly? Afterall, last we saw Hermes he had a significant grudge against Annabeth, and more importantly has done nothing to suggest he’s capable of such foresight, especially at this point.

Now that I have (hopefully) convinced you of Apollo’s involvement, another titular question must be answered- why does it matter? What’s the ramifications of this? Well, considering that this napkin basically ends the civil war between the Greeks and the Romans... a lot, actually. Specifically, it allows Annabeth to communicate that reconciliation can be reached if Reyna, a Roman, returns the Athena Parthenos, an important Greek statue to the Greeks. (Also interesting to note she addresses this to Rachel, Apollo’s Oracle... another subtle connection). 

In ToA, Zeus punishes Apollo mainly for two stated reasons: Revealing the Prophecy to soon, which becomes pretty clear is not how prophecy works. And encouraging Octavian to declare war on the Greeks. But wait? If the Napkin succeeds due to Apollo, that means that he is trying to stop the war, which in my opinion follows more along with his characterisation in ToA. So what happened with Octavian? The fact of the matter is, people more clever then me have attempted to solve this question, such as @zazzander and @fearlessinger (Highly recommend this post if you are interested in the topic!) 

The tongs (and thus the potential for the Napkin) was put into place months before any true threat would be realised by most characters. So it wasn’t a frantic backpedal of trying to fix his mistakes to avoid punishment by Apollo. It was deliberate. Premeditated. Now, it could be that Apollo just knew the tongs would be needed, but not what for. Unfortunately, we don’t know how his powers work. But that’s boring. However, if you take the view that Apollo’s communication with Octavian was part of a larger strategy to reunite the camps... (again, see the linked post). Well. Funny thing, because that’s exactly what the Napkin facilitates. The two camps stop fighting because of this one, simple message, and the effect it had. They focus on the true enemy. Gaia.

What does this tell us then about Apollo, then?

Well...not much new, surprisingly. ToA does it’s job well. We know Apollo cares, deeply, about his kids and demigods as a whole. We know he often acts subtly, through quiet actions that he’ll never admit to. It’s maybe the final piece of evidence you could point to and say definitively that Zeus’s punishment was unjust, but we already knew that (although funnily enough, Zeus doesn’t- and even if he did, he’d probably just point to the violation of the interference laws and punish Apollo anyway.) What it does is add on to a very firm characterisation that ToA finalises, and showcases how once again Apollo is so much more then he first appears. 

#Did I focus way to much on a story of dubious canon? #Yes #Do I regret it? #No #Apollo meta #Apollo #ToA Apollo #Pjo Apollo #PJO #TOA #Trials of Apollo #lester papadopoulos #I have been meaning to do this for ages #I just think it's a really neat detail... but it just kept getting longer #Oh well #this meta is just me being insane for #roughly 1k words erbherf

[infernalodie]

𝐌𝐲 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐱 || 𝐉𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐎𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐚

“𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯', 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦? 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘦 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯' 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, "𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯, 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺" 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦“

Inspo: G-Eazy - My Next Fix

Pairing: Jenna Ortega x Black!Male!reader

Summary: She had you on a string...

Warnings: Sexual tension, Sub!Jenna Ortega, Dom!reader, and oral.

Words: 1283

DNI IF YOU’RE YOUNGER THAN 18!

She hadn’t left you a chance to relax.

She was toying with you.

Wanting to elicit a reaction from you in the middle of a party filled with people in your guys’ line of business. Some who had worked with both of you and others who had admired your work. And even from the bar, she was still trying to get something out of you. A possessive reaction that made her head spin with butterflies and endless amounts of sinful scenarios.

Even in the same car together, she hadn’t refrained from touching your thigh. Whispering dirty things in your ear that the media would die to know. Rolling up the hem of her dress, which did have your eyes stray from the road occasionally. Able to see the black lace she wanted to torture you. Eyes flickering to face to see her wearing a smirk, a challenging look in her eyes as you gripped the steering wheel tighter. But this was all a game. A tug of war to see who’d be the first to give. Jenna was trying to rattle you, but even at the Golden Globes, she never rattled you once. So, tonight, she was determined to change that.

Turning towards the bar, you grabbed the drink and took a sip. Cracking your head as you swallowed the smooth, harsh, burning liquid with a hum. The fresh substance of weed slithered into the depths of your body. Not enough that you were faded and looking like a husk at the bar. But just enough that it somewhat blurred your vision and senses from Jenna and made your mouth dry. Except, it only seemed to intensify the desire that had brewed in the pit of your stomach for the past hour. Submitted to all of Jenna’s advances–trying to break you and rip her from this party and bend her over somewhere. Maybe the front of your car. Maybe over the table in the kitchen. Maybe-

“You seem lonely,” Jenna appeared, hopping up onto the stool beside you, placing her head in her hand as she stared at your side profile. When you looked at her, you saw her lips pulled into a smirk. She knew what she was doing. You knew what she was doing. But the question was; did you have the power to keep doing this all night? “Want some company? I’ve been known to lift the mood.”

You raised a brow, lips twitching into a smile as you turned to her, leaning against the bar. “Oh? Is that true?” You inquired, finding her gaze fixated on your soft lips. Although you were hanging on, you could guarantee she was about to wave the white flag and anoint you as the winner of this little game. “I also heard you’re a great performer.”

The girl snorted. “Pretending not to date you have been the best role yet,” she said. “But, yes. I am a great performer. Thank you. But I am sure you already know that front the countless hours we’ve spent in your bedroom, right?”

Ever since Scream, where you two met, you two had been… together? It wasn’t anything romantic–nothing more than sex. Whenever you needed a fix, she was one call away and happy to get something in return. But when feelings got involved, that made the sex better and the relationship healthier. You two kept it and continued to keep it under wraps for the sole reason that you guys wanted to keep something from the public eye. Something for the two of you to have that was personal and wasn’t talked about over social media.

Glancing around, finding no one to be watching, you slowly took a step closer. Something that was noticed by Jenna, whose smirk widened at the action. Now able to see the faint red in your eyes from the weed offered by Pete Davidson, who had been trying to get you with a chick the entire night. Your hand rested on her knee, touch scalding hot to the smaller girl’s skin as she let out a strangled exhale. “So, are you happy I brought you here?”

Jenna sighed, glancing around. “Oh, for sure. Totally not like I want to get fucked, but that’s alright.” She smiled, seeing your eyes darken slightly. Fingers twitched slightly, giving her the sign that she was winning

One more little push and…

“I mean, I’ve seen a few people who were staring at me. Checking me out. Maybe they can give me what I want-” A laugh fell from her lips when you grabbed her forearm and began to pull her away from the bar and deeper into the house.

It is built into one’s human nature to act out on such desires. How it thickened the air around you–suffocating the life out of you until you finally relented. But if you tried to fight nature and how you’re body worked, it would only result in one thing.

“Y-Y/n- Fuck.” Jenna’s eyes were shut, hands propped behind her to keep her from falling off the sink. You were kneeling between her legs, lapping at the sweet taste of her arousal. Hands pressed to the inside of her thighs. Squeezing and groping at the thick muscles as Jenna tried to control her hips from bucking. But with your tongue pushing past her cunt and lips clamping around her clit, you were managing to make it very difficult.

Arms hooked under her thighs, you pulled her closer. Face smothered in her sweet heat that dripped continuously. Although your chest was rising and falling from the lack of oxygen, you couldn’t care. With how she looked, the sound of her whines and pleads for you to give her a second, you were lost in the heat of it all.

You had known this night would go one way or the other. And you were still trying to decide if being locked in a bathroom and eating your girlfriend out wasn’t ideally your goal. You preferred her fawning and whimpering on your cock. But she had managed to apply some sort of curse on you that made you fall to your knees and worship the beautiful flower between her legs. Because you were getting as much pleasure as she was.

Her hands fell to your dreads, tugging you impossibly closer. From the painful feeling that only turned you on more, a guttural moan ripped through your chest as you wrapped your lips around her clit. The vibrations that shot up Jenna’s body were enough to make her cry out, attempting to push your head away that wouldn’t dare budge. Your eyes focused on her expression which was overwhelmed with pleasure. “Y/n, it hurts! Fuck! Y/n-” She choked on her words when her body stilled for a moment, sharp inhales heard, before she moaned. Her body shook within your hold as she whined, trying to pull away from your firm grasp.

But the more she put up a fight, the more you kept her in place. Keeping her on cloud nine for as long as you could before rudely pulling away. Although she was lightheaded and dripping in sweat, the sight of your licking your lips and grinning ear to ear, sent another wave of heat through her. “Why did you stop suddenly?” She breathed, watching as you stood to your feet and cleaned your face.

A roguish look in your eyes flashed, lips still etched in that grin as you placed your hands on the edge of the sink. Leaning down and kissing the corner of her lips, but pulling away just as she chased to taste herself on your tongue. “Let’s just call it payback, sweetheart.”

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega imagine #jenna ortega fanfiction #jenna ortega x black!male!reader #jenna ortega smut #jenna ortega x black!reader #x black!male!reader #x black reader #jenna ortega x black reader #jenna ortega x black male reader #x poc reader #poc reader

[separatist-apologist]

How The Mighty Fall

Summary: In the centuries after the war, a treaty demands humans are compensated for the horrors wrought on them by their Fae overlords. A maiden is chosen from a village, her family cared for, in exchange for immortality.

Or so the stories go.

But beneath the pretty promises and the lush, magical world of Prythian, something is rotting. Elain Archeron has found herself swept up in the mystery, racing against the clock and a ritual that promises to end her human life for something better. What happens on Fire Night?

And where are all the missing women?

Read On AO3

Thank you @velidewrites for the moodboard and @highladydawn for betaing this for me back in 2021.

Choosing Day was always a big deal in the village. Elain helped her sisters with their hair, having bathed in frigid water the night before. Their dresses—unchanged for the last five years, were laid neatly atop the bed they shared. Elain helped Feyre and Nesta helped Elain just so Elain and Feyre could work the complicated laces and buttons on Nesta’s own dress.

Choosing Day was practically a holiday for the villagers. One woman was picked each year to accompany the High Lord and though the Lords did not speak to the humans any longer, the story was told that the treaty erected between humans and Fae demanded the High Lords be allowed to change one human to Faerie in exchange for peace. He didn’t always come to their village of Wol, just one of many that dotted the stretch of land between the Fae and human territories, and there was no way to know if this year he would, either. 

It was why there was so much excitement. The families of those who were chosen were sent wealth far beyond anyone’s expectations and that was what motivated Nesta, Elain, and Feyre to get dressed and go out. Their father was badly injured with a leg that kept him from working. They were always on the brink of starvation, always worried about money and food. If one of them were picked, they’d never have to worry again. 

He was lovely and unchanged. In the fifteen years of memories she had of him, the blonde High Lord looked exactly as he always had. A young man, perhaps no older than twenty-five, stepped from the woods in his fine green tunic. She didn’t find him particularly attractive but it hardly mattered when the end result was still the same. Besides, she reflected. She could always fake attraction if that was what was required. He wasn’t tragically ugly…but there was a hardness about him that Elain did not prefer.

He paused in front of her and her sisters, reaching for a strand of Feyre’s golden brown hair. She watched, fascinated, while he inhaled the air. and she wondered what he smelled. His eyes drifted towards her and that was how she knew it would be her. Something sparked in his gaze even as his nostrils flared. Elain was grateful she’d bathed.

Beside her, Nesta stiffened as if she’d protest but there was no point to it. He could kill them all if he wanted, judging by the baldric of knives across chest. They’d decided, five years before, that they’d continue to try and hope the High Lord chose one of them in an effort to lift the rest of the sisters out of poverty. Elain was grateful to be picked at all—there were more than a few beautiful women in the village that might catch his eye.

“You,” he murmured, offering her a broad, calloused hand. Elain couldn’t help the tremor in her own, nervous when he lowered his lips and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Do you require a moment to say your goodbyes?”

She nodded, grateful when he released her. Heart pounding, Elain swiveled in the tight, lilac dress she wore to race into the house. Her father sat on his familiar stool by the fireplace, an unfinished wooden carving in his lap. Feyre and Nesta were just behind Elain, hugging her first. They’d always had an uncomfortable relationship but this was done because Elain loved them and knew they would trade places if the Fae Lord demanded it.

“Write us,” Nesta urged, face buried in Elain’s shoulder. “Just so we know you’re safe.”

“Find us, afterwards,” Feyre added, squeezing Elain from behind. “Swear it.”

“I swear,” Elain told Feyre. “We’ll be together again.”

“Elain’s been chosen?” their father asked and a zap of frustration arced through Elain’s stomach. She swallowed it, swallowed her anger like she always had and nodded instead. She went to him, kneeling at his side. “This is a good thing.”

He shook his head. “Fifty years that Lord has been taking girls. He pays their families…but not one ever returns.”

“Oh shush!” Nesta snapped. “Returned to what? Besides, plenty of families move. How do you know they never reunited?”

“Tell him no,” her father urged, caressing her cheek. Elain shook her head no.

“This is a good thing, papa. There will be no more hungry nights after this.”

“At what cost?” he lamented mournfully. “This isn’t what your mother hoped for you…for any of you.”

“We’ll never know what mother would have wanted,” Feyre said with uncharacteristic bite. “Tell Elain goodbye, Papa.”

He pressed a warbling kiss to her cheek. “Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children.”

Elain smiled. “And they won’t. You’ll see papa. I’ll be back.”

He didn’t attempt to get up and follow which disappointed Elain. Instead, it was Feyre and Nesta who acted as her parents, standing guard while the High Lord waited. He stood without moving, without fidgeting at all and the lack of motion set the fine hair on the back of her neck on edge, though brushed it off and accepted his hand after hugging her sisters one last time. All eyes were on her, envious for the most part though she caught more than one father watching with relief that his daughter had been spared this year. She watched, using her free hand to hold the hem of her dress so she wouldn’t drag the mud that coated the wide, uneven streets. The houses all seemed the same to her, tiny wooden cottages that had weathered one too many storms. 

If the poverty bothered the Fae Lord, he gave no indication of it. Perhaps he’d grown used to such things or maybe he was so far above it he just didn’t care. She tried to focus on keeping her steps balanced and elegant, but more than once, Elain stumbled over a loose stone or a clod of dirt. 

He marched her into the forested tree line where the wall was held and, absently, she wondered if he intended to walk the whole way. There was no horse that might indicate any other mode of transportation. Elain screamed when, without warning of any kind, swirling darkness gobbled her up. The pressure squeezed at her ribs, stealing the air from her lungs. Mistake! Her brain cried with panic. She felt clawed hands around her waist, felt the warmth of another body too close to her own. For one horrible moment, she was certain she was about to die—to be eaten, or worse. 

She relaxed when the darkness ebbed, revealing cool, rose scented air and rolling green hills of lush, swaying grass. She stood on evenly cut gravel rock that led into a sprawling marble estate. Elain blinked, her fear ebbing to awe as she took in the true majesty of this man’s home. Crawling ivy crept up the east side, snaking up carved pillars towards a glittering white roof. Balconies jutted from the sides, overlooking an expansive garden that only magic could have made possible. 

“Welcome home,” the Lord murmured softly, his tone satisfied by her awed reaction. “Let me give you a tour.”

“I’ll be living here?” she asked breathlessly, following behind him. He nodded, his shoulder length blonde hair falling into his handsome face.

“For the next six months, my home is your home.”

“Is that how long before you turn me?” she questioned, swallowing nervously. He glanced down at her, lips twitching as if her fear amused him.

“Yes. Calanmai is the name of the ritual, but you needn’t worry yourself with that.”

“And…and my family?” she questioned, stepping onto a vast, black and white checkered marble floor. He set his hand on her shoulder.

“I will ensure your family is well cared for.”

Elain beamed, exhaling with relief. He dropped his hand to her elbow, guiding her through the house. Elain noticed the servants kept their eyes firmly on the floor and said nothing at all save for one small child, perhaps no older than five. She smiled, disappointed when the little, pink cheeked cherub vanished into her mother’s skirts. It was the Lord, Elain decided. He made them nervous, likely didn’t venture into their designated areas often enough. He took her to the dining room, to the ballroom, and a drawing room, all beautifully crafted of marble and wood. Huge windows allowed glittering shafts of sunlight into the room, making everything seem warmer and brighter. 

A winding set of stairs took Elain up to a library so grand she nearly wept at the sight of it. Nesta would have loved it, she thought privately, though she offered the Faerie nothing but a polite murmuring of thank you. He seemed to realize it meant something to her and offered her a bedroom just the hall over. 

“It’s empty over here…none of my court prefers this wing so you will have it yourself,” he informed her. Elain nodded. He knew the room was larger than the cottage she’d grown up in and she thought if she thanked him again, he might snap at her. 

“What’s your name?” she asked instead, her feet snug against a round, white rug. 

“Tamlin,” he told her, bowing at the waist. “Consider me at your disposal.”

She very much doubted that. Surely he was too busy to worry himself with her, though Elain also had no intention of bothering him. Six months would pass quickly and she was adept at keeping herself busy. 

“Alis will take your measurements for some new clothing but for now…the estate is yours and you may roam as you wish. I only ask you for one thing in return.”

She looked over at him, dragging her eyes from the double doors that led to her own private balcony. “Yes, lord?”

“You don’t wander off the grounds. There are sentries posted at the edge of my estate to let you know if you’ve gone too far.”

She opened her mouth to ask what lay beyond his estate, but decided it wasn’t worth starting a potential argument. His generosity overwhelmed her and the request was small.

“Of course.”

He smiled then and she thought perhaps she’d been hasty in thinking he wasn’t handsome enough for her. There was something disarming about him despite the coldness that seemed to lurk in his eyes. Perhaps he was uncomfortable with the treaty or was just awkward in general. 

“My emissary will see to anything else you might require,” he added absently, turning his back to her before closing the door and leaving alone Elain in the room. She giggled, flopping atop the four poster bed draped in breezy, lush curtains and covered in a pretty floral and cream bedding. The walls were trimmed in soft gold and green and when she managed to drag herself off the mountain of pillows, she found a bathroom with taps that pulled hot water directly into the basin. 

Elain bathed in scalding hot water for the first time in her life.

She was nearly finished when the Alis strode in. She was pretty in that Faerie way, her dark haired braided around a round, sweet face. She didn’t need to introduce herself as she grabbed a towel from the nearby closet and held it open. 

“Come on now,” she said crisply, not bothering to avert her gaze as Elain stepped out. “You’re a thin little thing, aren’t you?”

“I uh…” Elain wasn’t sure how best to respond to that. Alis clicked her tongue. 

“We’ll fix that right up. Sit,” she added, shoving Elain into a chair at the vanity. Elain watched Alis expertly trim her waist length hair before winding it in fat curlers. Elain stood, naked as the day she was born, while Alis wrapped a tape measure around her body, jotting down each number with a put-upon sigh. 

“We can take this in,” she murmured, flinging open the armoire doors and pulling out a swirling blue and green gown.”

Elain learned that taking it in meant lacing it around her abdomen within an inch of Elain’s life. Alis took the curlers out and pulled half of her hair off her face with golden combs. 

“You’re lovely. Far lovelier than the last few girls,” Alis murmured, admiring her work with a satisfied smile. Elain almost asked where those girls had gone, but sensed Alis missed them. Offering a smile instead, Elain asked, “Can I go to the garden?”

Alis gestured towards the door. “Go wherever you like,” Alis murmured. “Just stay on the grounds.”

Elain didn’t need to be told twice. She flew down the hall, practically running despite the soft material of her shoes and the length of her off the shoulder dress. It took her a minute to realize she’d gone the wrong way and was in a part of the house Tamlin hadn’t shown her. She turned with a frustrated sigh, intending to retrace her steps.

“Lost?” A deep, masculine voice asked. Leaning against a wall, a half-eaten apple in hand, the most beautiful man Elain had ever seen was watching her. Like Tamlin, this man was dressed elegantly in a silver tunic and a pair of well fitted black pants, his boots stopping just beneath his knees. She could see his muscles flex beneath the fabric as he straightened. His skin was golden, a golden brown that was just a shade too dark to have been warmed by the sun itself and he’d tied long red hair from his face in a neat ponytail that made the elegant cut of his features seem almost rakish.

The only thing that marred his beauty was a series of scars cut against his right eye, which had been replaced by a strange, mechanical golden eye. Elain thought the shade complemented his coloring perfectly, adding to the luminescence that seemed to radiate from him. How had he gotten it? Strange, that starkness against the otherwise luminescent perfection of him and his kind. Did it bother him? That didn’t seem like the right sort of question to ask him, so Elain remained silent, nervous and alert as he drank her in. 

“Are you lost?” he asked her again, taking a fraction of step towards her.

“I ah…yes,” she replied, flustered by his presence. “I was trying to find the garden.”

He nodded, amusement sparking against his features. “You’re quite a ways up. Allow me.”

He gestured for her to follow him, offering his elbow. Elain accepted, breathless when the contact zapped through her fingers, making her heart race as though she’d been burned. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, too overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the man who walked beside her.

“So you’re the new human, hm? Are you looking forward to Fire Night?”

“Fire Night?” She asked breathlessly.

“Calanmai,” he prodded. “The ritual? You humans have so many names for it I can hardly keep track.”

“Calanmai, of course. I haven’t thought about it much,” she lied, her stomach clenching. All she did was think about it. 

“Hm,” he hummed softly. “For the best, I suppose.”

They walked in silence towards a familiar path and she wondered how many other humans had walked beside this man, awed by his beauty. How many had walked this path with him, had asked the same questions?

“Where do they go?” she asked him when he’d taken her back outside.

“Not far,” he replied easily, a smile on his face. “Who wouldn’t want to live out their days in eternal Spring, after all?”

Eternal Spring. That did sound nice. “Are there other territories?

“Six others,” he agreed with an amused smile. “Do you prefer a different season? Warmth? Snow?”

In truth, eternal Spring was probably the best place for her to live out her days, too. She shook her head no, momentarily silenced by the sight of the sprawling garden laid out before her.

“Is there anything else I can assist you with, Lady?”

Inclining her head to look at him, Elain asked, “Is that your job?”

He grinned, one hand on his chest. “For you? Yes. I am Lucien Vanserra, Tamlin’s emissary.”

“Oh!” she cried, clapping her hands together with delight. “He mentioned you.”

Lucien grinned. “My reputation precedes me, then. If there is nothing else, I will leave you to the safety of the garden.”

He bowed deeply, eliciting the strangest sensation from her body. It was only a moment, though it might have been lifetime. She had the strangest feeling they’d met before, that they’d lived an entire life together…that she knew this man better than she knew herself. The feeling raced through her body, heating her blood with recognition. Lucien, too, was no longer smiling when he straightened, his brow furrowed.

It passed with a lavender scented breeze, leaving her confused. 

Magic, she told herself, watching his retreating form.

But uncertainty lingered.

**

Lucien blew out an unsteady breath. Another human and another Calanmai. Elain was doe-eyed like the rest of them, blissfully unaware of what Calanmai truly was. The humans used to know why the High Lords were still allowed to collect one human a year, but that knowledge had become eroded over the centuries until their little fairytale was all that persisted. Not all High Lords participated anymore, the prophecy considered more legend than truth at this point. Lucien’s own father in Autumn had abandoned the tradition at the behest of his wife, who was tired of burying bodies. Dawn and Day had also stopped when their younger, more progressive High Lords took power. Summer had very recently joined them, which left Winter, Night, and Spring still collecting human women.

Lucien did not enjoy the role he played. Keep them docile, amused and unaware right until that final night of Calanmai. It didn’t matter, then, if they learned the truth of the matter. There was nowhere they could run that the High Lord could not track. Not many unraveled the truth in time which, to Lucien, made things a little easier. They were already in love with Tamlin and believed every promise he made.

They went to the grave believing in that love. Tamlin, to his credit, dealt with their bodies in the aftermath but it was Lucien who attended to them in the months leading up to their demise. He helped facilitate the falling in love with the High Lord and Tamlin’s courtiers watched the entire thing as though it were an amusing play they were seeing for the first time.

There were bets placed already on how long it would take the newest human to offer Tamlin a dance, a kiss…and everything else.

Lucien sighed, sitting at the dining room table by himself as he ticked off what he needed to do. A virgin sacrifice was required for Calanmai, untouched until the rightful Lord came to claim her, more beast than male. Most humans didn’t survive the coupling but those who did were then sacrificed at the stone altar in the hopes she would be the one from the prophecy. 

Seek out the maiden, untouched by man

Bring her forth to the golden land

A kiss that glows hot with fire

Only one is worthy to sire

When she turns the sky from day to night

A High King will emerge to set things right 

Hundreds of girls had died in service to a prophecy that could have been interpreted wrong or been pure nonsense from the start. Lucien wondered how much longer Tamlin intended to try and find the right human woman in an effort to be chosen High King of Prythian. Lucien suspected Tamlin would stop when Rhysand did, determined not to let the High Lord of Night rule all of Prythian. 

The prophecy never said the maiden needed to die—that had come later. In five hundred years, the tradition may have shifted entirely, but for now, it was generally agreed the fires of Calanmai were what was needed in order to absorb enough magic that would crown someone High King. 

The previous year had been a disaster for Spring. Their maiden had not been a maiden at all but a married woman with a child, invalidating the entire ritual. Lucien had watched Tamlin rip the female into pieces, furious at the deception. The memories still lingered, infesting his nightmares until Lucien woke in a cold, miserable sweat.

Elain though…she had the look of innocence about her. She smelled like honey and jasmine without any hint of a male on her. She didn’t seem like the type to fight back, either. She’d go willingly to her death, gazing upwards at Tamlin with those sweet eyes. Lucien had no intention of getting close to her or learning anything about her that might make him feel sympathy. 

Tamlin stepped in, closing the doors softly behind him. “How did it go?”

“She’s in the garden,” Lucien replied, grateful when Tamlin uncorked a bottle of wine and slid him a glass. 

“Did she know anything about Calanmai?” Tamlin questioned, his eyes flashing with fear. They had dungeons, of course, but generally it was believed the humans should offer themselves willingly, at least in the beginning. Chasing one down, while fun, was thought to ruin the ceremony. It also made the entire ordeal worse. Killing wasn’t borne of enjoyment, afterall—killing a female shaking and begging was too much, even for battle hardened, centuries old males like Tamlin.

“Nothing. It seems the humans have completely forgotten why we come.”

“Good,” Tamlin breathed, pacing the room. “And her scent?”

Lucien glanced at his friend. “I didn’t notice anything male about her.”

“But you’ll ask?” Tamlin prodded.

“Shall I court her, too?” Lucien bit back, irritated that so much of leading the humans to the slaughter fell on his shoulders. Tamlin shrugged. Neither of them truly wanted the job, but Lucien’s resentment burned hot given he was the only one to mourn them and one day Tamlin would be High King. 

“I wish you could. Give her what she asks for and keep her occupied.”

“Do you plan to take her to the starlit pool?” Lucien asked, creating a timeline of events in his mind. 

“Yes, and the Winter Solstice ball,” Tamlin added. “Keep her away from the servants. They’re still upset about last Calanmai.”

As they should be, Lucien thought privately. It had been their job to clean the mess Tamlin made when he tore the girl to shreds. 

“And the courtiers?” Lucien pressed. More than once, someone tried to dally with the human sacrifice either from boredom or attraction. They also weren’t above dropping little hints to amuse themselves, betting on everything from when the human might kiss Tamlin all the way if she’d figure out their deception. 

“I’ll deal with them,” Tamlin growled softly. “Let’s avoid the same hiccups as last year.”

“Have you paid her family?” Lucien asked, wondering if that task would fall to him as well. Tamlin waved his hand. 

“It was done moments after she arrived, along with the usual glamours. If you asked them, they would tell you she is visiting a sick relative. After Calanmai she’ll run off with a suitor, just as they always do.”

“And her memory?” Lucien continued, ticking each thing off in his mind.

“Alis knows to pour a tonic into her beverages with each meal. She won’t remember them in a month.” Lucien nodded. “Do you require anything else of me?”

Tamlin collapsed into the chair at the head of the table, face buried in his hands. “Can you fuck her for me, too?”

Lucien was grateful he didn’t have to. 

#elucien #i forgot what an asshole lucien is for the start of this #oh well

[colormepurplex2]

On Wings of Mist & Memories | Shadowsword

↳  DragonRider!Jungkook x FieldScribe!f.Reader ⤜ Enemies to Lovers, Exiled Royalty, High Fantasy ⤜ Rating: MA | angst ⤜ WC: 7,937 ⚠️ Crass language, combat/violence, sword fighting, minor character deaths, talk of war, mild torture for information (punching), brief nudity (nonsexual, mostly), sexual references and feelings

Next Chapter⇾ ◅ Back to series masterlist

Glossary Mave - dragon rider who can wield magic, tethered to the soul of their dragon when they bond (death for both if one dies) Psion - infinite memory/recall Reaver - a dragon that can wield magic, tethered to the soul of the rider they bond (death for both if one dies) Noks - infantry soldiers, humanoids who can enter berserk/rage mode Rider - regular dragon rider, no magic, uses bows or scouts Brute - riderless dragon, usually wild and very dangerous Wielder - magic user, no dragon needed Signis - the designated/specific type of power someone wields

“General Marvick!” a harried voice, muffled by the wind and snow, shouts from outside the tethered tent flaps.

The large, formidable form sitting at the head of the war table throws a murderous glare toward the canvas-covered entryway. “Bulwark, let him in,” General Marvick growls before resuming assessing the map stretched over the table.

The Nok lieutenant by the door—Bulwark—snatches at the short length of the tassel used to secure the tent flap against the harsh winds coming off the mountain. As soon as the tie loosens, the large swath of canvas covering the command tent's entrance billows inward, bringing with it a sharp gust of biting wind and a messenger bundled in snow-covered furs.

“General,” the messenger says, bringing an arm up to cross over his chest in salute. “I bring a missive from the Crown.”

General Marvick glances at you before nodding toward the messenger. You push up from your small camp stool placed a few feet from the edge of the table. A place close enough to hear the words spoken around the war table but far enough so you don’t get in the way.

The messenger glares at you as you approach them. You hold out an expectant hand, meeting that sneer with a steady gaze. The messenger clearly knows who—what—you are, and just as most people, he already has a preconceived opinion on it; a hatred that extends back thousands of years, an ingrained fear of what you represent.

“If you don’t mind,” you politely urge.

The distance between you and the snow-covered man increases as he takes a few steps back to try and skirt around you. “General Marvick, this is a missive directly from the Crown. I’m to place it in your hand and your hand alone.”

Silence falls in the tent after his rushed proclamation. The creak of General Marvick’s chair sounds a moment before you feel a large presence filling the space immediately to your side. In the many years you’ve been in service to the general, you still find yourself in awe at the sheer amount of muscle and brawn contained within the lightly bronzed, leather flight armor.

“Her hand is my hand. Give her the parchment before I run you through with my sword, boy!” General Marvick growls, looming over the now trembling messenger. The folded missive is thrust into your still-waiting palm. “Now, get the fuck out of my sight!”

The messenger’s retreating footsteps are swallowed by the snow as he scrambles to leave. Bulwark quickly secures the tent flap back into place, sealing out the blustering wind.

“Fuckin’ Golden Birds,” grumbles Colonel Rit Goris, second in command, from his spot to the left of General Marvick’s empty seat. “Always think that because they’re direct messengers from the Crown, they somehow hold a higher status than the gods damned War General.”

General Marvick swings your way, glancing at the letter. “Read it, then report.”

You nod, watching as the general settles back at the table. General Poli Marvick is the only woman you’ve ever seen serve in such a position. Sure, there are plenty of non-males within the varying military wings, but never one in such a high position as War General—commander of all.

You were scared when you were first assigned to General Marvick’s service. Just laying eyes on the mountain of a woman made you a bit weak in the knees, larger than most men you’ve seen. A permanent scowl mares her angular face. A jagged scar bisects her right eyebrow and slashes in a stark line across her cheek to the corner of her severe mouth. If her hair weren’t shorn so close to her scalp, she would be sporting wheat-colored curls. Her glacial eyes are unnerving, such a bright blue that they’re almost white, and they miss nothing.

You resume your seat, perching on the small camp stool and tucking your ankles under it. The cloak around your shoulders sways, covering your arms as you lean forward a bit. Your uniform is simple, fur-lined leather pants and a thick wool tunic, all in muted colors to blend in with the mountainous environment you’re in.

Being stationed at Fort Orit—the furthest northern garrison in the Gilded Ranges, the large mountain rift that divides the Kingdom of Bolas—means there is a constant drift of snow coming down, and the air outside is cold enough to split skin if you’re not careful. The light leather and linen clothes you’d typically wear have been tucked away in a trundle under your camp cot ever since you arrived at Fort Orit with General Marvick almost a year ago.

War has ravaged Bolas for nearly ten summers. It’s almost like that’s all you’ve ever known, having been barely into your teen years when the kingdom seemed to implode in on itself. From everything you’ve been taught—everything you believe you know—blame is laid at the feet of the last son of the Crown; the heir that wanted power before it was his to claim by rights. The texts and scrolls filling the war archives talk of a malevolent son who tried to murder his parents in their sleep. He’s been fighting to steal the kingdom and the throne ever since.

Focusing on the letter in your hands, you take a slow breath and focus on how it feels. The parchment is smooth and high-quality, denoting a communication from the Crown. Warmth spreads over your chest, trickling between your breasts with a familiar caress as you seek the inner well of your power. You direct the heat and probe at the letter, feeling for any blemishes that might indicate sinister intentions beyond the golden wax seal.

Nothing stands out as you continue to assess the parchment. Satisfied you won’t get immediately hexed or explode, you slide your thumb under the fold by the seal and pop the wax. You watch as the golden wax, imprinted with the dragon signet of the Crown, pulls away from the paper, and you delicately smooth out the trifold sheet, all while keeping a tight hold on that warmth in your chest in case something lies in wait within the scrawled ink.

Your eyes rove the page, consuming the words and filing them away into your infinite space of recall. That space—it’s why you’re here, why you’re feared…but also why you’re valued above all else. The words are typical of what you’ve come to expect in General Marvick’s service, a meeting to discuss military affairs. 

As if sensing your impending disruption, the chatter at the table subsides with a raised hand from Marvick, her wintry eyes sliding your way. You give her a barely perceptible nod before standing and folding the paper back up, pinching it between your fingers as your hands automatically slide to rest on the small of your back. Your shoulders roll back, and your chin rises slightly as you recite the words of the missive verbatim.

“A summons for a redirect…today? Noon?” Goris asks once you’re finished, his silver-flecked bushy mustache quivering with the flurry of irritated words. “Hours before we’re set to advance the forward lines?” 

General Marvick turns to take in the faces around the table, meeting all their eyes as they digest your words and Goris’ remark. They’re all leaders of some kind, designated to different quadrants across the whole of the flight wings. Below Goris in command are Majors Elis Niharmer and Hern Ta. You’re familiar with the men, as they’ve frequented the command tent more than the lesser two leaders, Captains Ulgrin Krut and Moojin Lee.

“If that is what the Crown wants, then so be it.” General Marvick’s words might be in subservience to the summons, but you can tell by the tautness of her shoulders that she’s not happy in the slightest with the request. Noon is when the lines are meant to be marshaled for forward advancement down the mountain before winter sets in and freezes out the entire fort. The first winter storm has been slowly gaining momentum on the peaks, adding to the existing snowdrop.

When General Marvick took over this post a year ago, she realized that the casualty ledgers recorded almost as many deaths by cold than by rebel hands. She immediately put in a directive that would see the entire garrison safely below the winter deathline of the mountain before the season changed.

There is a smaller garrison, Fort Supret, further south, and one valley back that is to be where the outpost settles until the season rolls over again. It’s not nearly as defensible as the ruins of Fort Orit, nor is it advantageous in keeping an eye on the Andos Forest—the gnarled and dark-looking wood the rebels find refuge in when they’re not trying to break the Front Wing’s lines.

Captain Krut, a rotund man with a glaring bald spot, shrugs his meaty shoulders. “I sent a few Maves and Riders ahead yesterday. They can handle the forward orders for the Eastern line. As long as this summons doesn’t last more than a fortnight, all should be well on my end.”

“Ta, Niharmer, Lee?” General Marvick asks of the three remaining men around the table.

Major Lee nods toward Krut. “The same as Ulgrin. I sent ahead two Maves and three Riders. They should be able to get things rolling if I am needed elsewhere.” Krut grumbles at Lee’s use of his first name. The man is quite prickly about being reminded he’s named for his treasonous father. The senior Ulgrin Krut was part of the rebellion uprising that led to the war currently being waged across the Gilded Ranges—the war that has brought you and all these war leaders together here.

“Well, I would hope I could sit this one out,” Major Niharmer grunts, his chain armor straining around his substantial, scarred bulk. Dark scars criss-cross over the backs of his hands and along his neck and cheeks, the ebony skin puckered in some places and divoted in others. He’s seen more battles than all of them combined, except for Marvick. The only reason he doesn’t hold her or Goris’ higher position is because he refuses to take on more responsibility. “A few detachments suffered greatly last month along my western line. I think I’d be better suited riding out with reinforcements than meeting with the Crown. Even with the Maves and Riders I also sent out last night, I’d feel better going myself.”

Major Ta quirks a smile, his filed teeth glinting in the mana globes suspending over the table. His teeth have always put you on edge. Word has it, he files them nightly to keep them sharp and enjoys using them as much as his sword in battle. “If I didn’t know any better, Elis, I might think you rather hated wearing anything other than your armor with as much as you avoid taking it off in favor of dinner finery.”

Niharmer cuts a glare toward Ta, his austere eyes flicking over the other man. “Better than the fancy silks you cover yourself in,” he mutters. “Damned fool, slide right off your mount.”

“Gentlemen, please,” General Marvick cuts in. “I’ll have your answer now, Ta.”

Major Ta shifts in his seat, the silk of his trousers hissing over the hardwood of the chair. You’ve never seen him wear anything besides silk, even against the frigid temperatures outside. He wears nothing more than a silken doublet and trousers with supple leather boots. You know he’s a Mave, as are the others seated at the table, but unlike the others, you’ve never been granted the knowledge of what his Signis, the power the Maves wield, is. You speculate it’s what keeps him from needing a coat, though.

“None of my company have ridden out yet,” he admits, glancing around at the others to see if they react to that confession. Goris’ muscles flex in his forearms, but that’s the only indication that any of them disapprove of Ta’s seeming lack of forethought. “Much like Elis, I’d prefer to accompany my forward line. We lost more than a dozen Noks during the last push from the rebels. I need to be there before we move again.”

Marvick clears her throat, glancing down at the war map on the table. It indicates the losses, so she’s well aware that some of the front lines are weakening with every push from the enemy. “Very well. Niharmer, Ta, you’ll return to your forces. Lee, I want you to ride out with Ta. Provide him with any reinforcements you can spare since your garrison is the closest. Expect a farflight Rider within the week for any updates this summons from the Crown provides. In the meantime, I’ll send word to the capitol, requesting an advance on the next rush of support. We’re set to receive a dozen new squads at the end of the month. We’ll see if that can be expedited.”

“Very well, General,” the three men murmur as they salute and then excuse themselves from the table. Bulwark loosens the ties on the tent, letting the canvas flap in the wind as the men leave.

“Goris, Krut, you’ll be accompanying me. Meet me at the flight deck in one hour's time. You’re dismissed.”

“General,” Goris and Krut say, tilting their chins and crossing an arm over their chests toward Marvick before disappearing beyond Bulwark, still holding the tent flap.

Marvick stands from the table, her eyes sweeping over the map one last time. “Igno,” she whispers. The sweet scent of vanilla soaks the air within the tent as General Marvick’s magic blooms. The miniature figurines that represent squad and garrison locations shimmer before disappearing completely. Where they go, you’re not sure. You’ve never mustered the courage to ask her about her Signis in depth. All you know is she can make anything smaller than the Gilded Ranges without a heartbeat vanish and reappear as and where she wills it.

“You’ll be attending with me,” she says to you as she turns for the open door. “Be ready to fly.” She stops at the tent entrance, her gaze locking on the man wrestling with the flap against the wind. “Call in the Bearers, Lieutenant Bulwark. I expect to see the command tents erected at Fort Supret by the time I return in one week’s time.”

Left to your own devices for the next hour, you know you need to ready your tent for transport and change into your flight garb. Moving past Bulwark, you give him a slight nod before trudging into the knee-deep snow surrounding the tent. Cold seeps through your thick leather boots quickly, the fur lining doing little to thwart the chill kissing your toes.

The tent you use is next to General Marvick’s, which has already begun being dismantled by a hustle of Bearers. They’re efficient, even with the heavy snow. You know they train in these mountains before joining whichever garrison they’re assigned, ensuring they’re as good as possible in the sometimes 10-foot snowdrifts.

You tug at the flap to your tent, kicking away the snow collected in front of it. “Fucking shit,” you curse as a chunk of snow slides off your tent and catches you in the shoulder, sending a blitz of snow straight down the collar of your tunic. 

The cacophony of camp noise muffles behind the thick canvas of your tent once you’re inside. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to just how loud it is here. Despite the mountain's utter stillness and quiet air, the tens of thousands of combat-ready bodies filling all the crooks and valleys between peaks make it feel more like you’re stuck in the middle of a great city instead.

Though, you suppose Fort Orit is a city all its own. There is no proper “fort” to speak of, just old crumbling ruins that help keep the worst of the wind out. You can’t imagine what it would be like to go patrol beyond the broken masonry. Thankfully, you should never have to find out. The summons is set to take place in the furthest western turret of the fort, the only one still intact after thousands of years of weathering the cold and snow.

From what you’ve heard, Fort Orit used to be one of the greatest mountain garrisons, but it was nearly destroyed when the rebellion first launched. Until a year ago, the rebel forces had claimed it as their forwardmost outpost. Thanks to General Marvick, though, the rebels have been pushed far beyond the Barren Wake and into the Andos Forrest at the base of the mountains.

As long as the Gilded Ranges remain under the control of the Crown, the rebels are considered to be ‘losing’. Considering what you learned in that war meeting, though, you’re not sure how much losing they’re doing. Several places along the front lines have been devastated over the last few months, more so in the previous few weeks.

It used to be that most of the pushing to overthrow the Crown’s forces took place at Fort Orit, hence why that’s where General Marvick was stationed. You hate to admire the enemy forces, but it seems they’ve wised up and altered their tactics, acting more like a real army than a band of rebels. But that line of thinking can only spell trouble for you if anyone finds out. They are power-hungry rebels, chaotic and disorganized, nothing more—according to everything you’ve been taught.

🖤🖤🖤

Less than an hour later, your tent is with the Bearers, and you’re waiting on the flight deck—a large outcropping of sheer rock—for General Marvick. Goris and Krut are locked in a private conversation a few dozen feet away. The flight deck is clear of snow, thanks to the rock being enchanted with a warming spell to keep the ice from accumulating and impacting launches.

The creak of leather draws your attention to the swayback stairs cut into the rock face that leads to the deck. General Marvick comes into view, her flight goggles already down over her eyes. You’ve learned they help in the air and on the ground against the stinging wind. Your own goggles sit firmly across your face, the clear lenses only occasionally catching an errant snowflake.

“Let’s go, gentlemen,” General Marvick calls to Goris and Krut, who snap apart, startled by her sudden command. They both salute her and fish under the neck bindings of their flight uniforms for tiny bone whistles. The cries from the whistles are imperceptible to human ears, but the sudden thrum of concussed air coming from over the lip of the flight deck lets you know they work.

You glance at General Marvick as she’s tucking her own whistle back under her uniform. She gestures for you to move behind her, which you obey. A moment later, your breath wheezes from your lungs as three hulking figures rocket over the ledge and land with ground-shaking thumps. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to seeing them—dragons.

They tower over you. The largest, General Marvick’s red dragon, Lowren, is three times taller than she is as he settles back on his haunches, wild barbed tail flicking restlessly behind him. The other two, Krut’s brown named Erle and Goris’ green called Ripley, are slightly smaller but no less fierce looking. Their thick membrane wings flex as they naturally accommodate the wind ripping across the flight deck.

Strapped to each dragon by adamantine supports crossing their chests are flight saddles. Most dragon saddles seat a single rider, but General Marvick special ordered a dual-seat saddle so you can accompany her without the need of a horse, which is ‘slow and dull’ according to her.

She once had to wait nearly a fortnight for you to arrive at a war brief simply because the horse and caravan you were riding with traveled far slower than Lowren. Ever since, you’ve had the pleasure of riding in the small extra seat crafted behind hers.

“Shouldn’t be more than an hour’s ride,” Goris calls, shielding his eyes with a hand as he gazes up into the swirling sky to judge the weather. “Wind’s against us, but it doesn’t look like anything worse than usual coming in from the east. Plenty of time to wait for the portal to the capitol to form.”

General Marvick nods. “Mount up. Let’s get this over with.” She launches herself up, grappling with the pommel and reigns of the saddle until she’s settled in her seat. Then, she extends a hand down to you. You are grateful for Lowren; he lowers himself until his scaled belly scuffs the hard stone, and you only have to jump about a foot to grab onto Marvick’s hand to be hoisted up.

The first time you met Lowren, you could barely breathe as his green eyes flicked over you, assessing whether or not you were worthy of being astride him. After several moments where you thought your heart might explode, he finally huffed a warm puff of air into your face and then nudged the center of your chest with his snout—approval.

Lowren straightens, and the now familiar sinking in your belly as he prepares to launch skyward is comforting. You’ve never felt more powerful than when sitting on the back of Lowren. Even if you’re not the one in control of the reigns, the sheer mass and energy of the creature under you is enough.

You’re aware that General Marvick and Lowren can communicate without words. During your years of training as a field scribe, you learned enough about Reavers—dragons like Lowren who can wield magic and have a soul-deep bond with their rider—and Maves—those magic-wielding riders. The bond allows telepathic communication, something you’ve envied from the moment you learned it. Being who—what—you are, you can’t help but feel some sort of kinship because of that.

You can feel the tight coiling of Lowren’s flight muscles a second before his wings snap out and scoop the air, rocketing into the sky. There is a full grin on your face, even as the wind tears at your exposed skin. You can’t help it. Before frost can nip at your cheeks further, you hastily pull up your wool neck scarf to cover everything exposed beneath your flight goggles. 

At the peak of the flight, the clouds clear enough that you catch a glimpse of the Andos Forest. It’s hard to believe it’s filled with tens of thousands of rebels, apparently led by the rebel prince himself. You’ve never seen him, or at least you don’t think you have. Marvick tries to keep you as far away from the fighting as possible. But, you have witnessed a few skirmishes and raids, even with her vigilance.

The shudder that runs through you has little to do with the cold and everything to do with the fact you’re sure you saw a large dark shadow move within the trees before your view is obscured by clouds again. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but if it wasn’t…there’s only one thing in that forest that would be that big, and you’d rather not think about that right now.

The western turret of the fort comes into view, the stone crenulations on top jutting into the sky like an open maw lined in teeth. The side of the turret has been opened, exposing the belly of the main room, making it big enough to accommodate the bulk of the dragons as they land. They still snap at each other as they vie for space. Elre snorts a puff of smoke at Ripley when she gets too close but sidesteps completely when Lowren bares his teeth at him.

“Right on time,” Goris announces as Lowren brings you and Marvick between Elre and Ripley. A soft glow forms across the room, indicating the start of a large portal being opened. The summons said to be here at noon and await an outlet from the capitol to bring Marvick and her attendees to the barracks courtyard back at the palace. You all dismount, as it’s easier to go through a portal not on the back of a beast. One false move and you could injure yourself on the pulse of the portal itself.

You pull your cloak tighter, trying to keep the cold from digging too deep while being exposed like this so high up in the turret. You’ve seen hundreds of portals opened. Once the bluish glow begins to form, it should only take a few breaths before it’s opened. But, for some reason, the blue light is only pulsing, not extending into a gateway.

Marvick shifts on her feet beside you, the clink of her chainmail seems too loud in your ears as nerves prick along your spine. Something’s wrong. You look at the other two, gauging their reactions. Goris glares at the blue glow like he could will it to open with his sour look. Krut’s focus isn’t on the blue light. Instead, he’s staring skyward, a tilted smirk on his lips.

Your eyes sweep up, following his gaze. The sky swirls overhead, clouds scuttling across the dim beams of sunlight that manage to penetrate the wintry haze around the mountain. Your chin tilts up, the neck scarf sliding below your nose as you try to see whatever it is that has his attention.

You’re about to bring it to Marvick’s attention when a silhouette appears against a murky beam of pitiful sunlight—fear claws at your throat, silencing the scream that wants so badly to escape. Lashing out with a hand, you clamp it around the bulge of Marvick’s forearm, shoving up as hard as possible. Her head whips to the side before snapping up with your silent plea.

It all happens so quickly. The blue glow disappears, and a vast black form drops from the sky with a piercing screech, a dragon’s cry louder than any you’ve ever heard. The turret shudders under your feet before it begins to crumble as the dragon slams down, separating your party from their own dragons. You pitch forward, knocked off balance by the sudden sway and slope of the floor. 

“Run!” General Marvick bellows at you before drawing her sword. You catch sight of Krut and Goris also brandishing their own weapons. The bulk of the dragon blots out most of the light from the open side of the turret, obscuring your view of the rider on its back. All you can see is an iron-clad leg tucked behind the massive wing of the beast. The dragon is monstrous, with sable scales glinting like wet tar. Golden eyes sit above a vicious row of snarling teeth as it snaps its jaws in the air and roars again.

“Shadowsword!” Goris snarls, keying you into who the rider is upon the dragon’s back. You’ve only heard that name whispered on currents of fear, breathed into tales of nightmares; Shadowsword—the military commander of the rebel army and one of the strongest Maves to ever draw breath.

Your feet skitter over the stone floor as you try to keep your balance and escape through the archway exit of the turret and into the stairwell leading down. Two more ground-shaking thumps hit the turret, and hope surges in your chest, thinking that two of the other dragons are trying to assist. You spin, backpedaling toward the exit, hoping to confirm. But, you nearly lose your footing as shock barrels through you. 

Two dragons are ripping at the edge of the opening to the turret, but neither of them are dragons you recognize. One is a snarling burnt orange dragon with a large crown of red spikes jutting from behind its eyes, and the other is pearly grey with pinkish wings. They rip at the stones, trying to bring the walls down.

Ear-piercing dragon screams rend the air before you catch a glimpse of green, brown, and red flashing beyond the bodies crowding the turret. The floor shudders so hard it clacks your teeth together and weakens your knees. You hit the ground, sliding on your hands a few feet in the opposite direction from the exit.

“Go, you fool girl!” Goris yells, appearing in front of you just in time to parry a lashing dragon tail coming right at you. The scale appendage rebounds off the steel of his weapon, and you can tell it sends pain radiating up his arms from the cry he lets out. Goris launches forward, but a sweeping wing knocks him off his feet.

A primal wail echoes from somewhere outside the turret, and then a solid thump hits the floor beside you, drawing your attention before you can think better of it. Krut’s unseeing green eyes stare at you, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. You scream, scrambling backward on your ass to get away from his body, which you now realize is missing everything from the waist down.

You never see him dismount, much less circuit the room so he’s behind you. But you knock into his solid legs all the same. Your face snaps up, instinctively seeking out what’s halted your progress toward the exit, only to stare up into the most menacing brown eyes you’ve ever seen—Shadowsword. A golden helmet covers the rest of the face, but you don’t need to see it to know he looks like a reaper coming to ferry your soul into the After.

“You will not!” roars Marvick as she bodily rams into the man, shoving him several feet away from you. He’s not even drawn his sword yet, until now. The ringing of steel sliding free rings above the cacophony of dragon screams and crumbling stone.

Before you can continue your scuttle toward the exit, the man—Shadowsword—lunges toward Marvick in a fury of whirling metal. She immediately goes on the defense as she meets him blow for blow. Her grunts of frustration and strain hit your ears as he backs her right into a wall with his advancement.

Shadows begin to coalesce around the room, bringing with them the distinct scent of clove, growing and pulsing as they fill all available space. “I’ve waited so long for this,” a deep, snarling voice proclaims as Marvick is forced to her knees, her sword held up to keep the other blade from cleaving into her shoulder.

“You’re a disgrace! I’d never betray the King!” Marvick grunts, shoving hard against his blade to send him back a step. She switches to press her attack, straightening to her full height and changing her stance in a fluid motion. His sword meets hers, sparks flying as they clash over and over.

A draconic roar shatters the air, and Shadowsword snarls in response. He shakes his head. “You should have listened to me. It didn’t have to be like this!” he bellows before the crunch of metal tangles with the wet shriek that pours from Marvick an instant before her body flops to the side, splattering a coppery tang of fluid all over you.

Your breaths are coming in shallow pants, and you can’t seem to move no matter how much you will your legs and arms to do so. Belatedly, you glance down, seeing the thick tendrils of shadow encasing your limbs. You blink up at the room, realizing the space's sudden lack of motion and fury.

“P-poli,” you whimper, choking back a sob. The strongest person you’ve ever met…decimated so quickly by this monster they call Shadowsword. Who is now so casually looking around the small space, even as the floor shifts further and more stones rain down from the walls. The only dragon remaining on the turret is his, the large black one with the golden eyes.

You try to swallow the panic bubbling in your throat. You’ve been trained for this very moment. The small blade tucked into the top of your boot calls your name. If you could only move your right hand a few inches, you could grasp it and do as you’ve always been instructed to when faced with such a situation. But, the shadows holding your arm refuse to budge no matter how hard you strain.

“A scribe, guessing by your garb,” the man who just destroyed everything says, calm in a way like he’s discussing the weather. “I guess between you and Goris, it’ll have to do. Hopefully, this wasn’t a waste.” He gives General Marvick’s body one last glance before stomping over, scooping you up, and throwing you over his shoulder. 

You scream, emptying your lungs repeatedly as you struggle against the dark bands still holding you. Getting to the blade in your boot is paramount. He can’t take you. Rule number one for what you are—never be taken alive. Your fingers manage to graze the top of your boot just as you’re tossed onto the back of the giant dragon. The shadows keep your hands and feet bound, but you’re able to scrunch up, getting your fingers into the top of your boot. Triumph has a manic grin spreading across your face as the knife slides free, and you pinch it between your fingers.

“NO!” you scream as the tiny blade is plucked from your fingers.

“As if you could stick me with that tiny thing,” the man grumbles as he settles into the saddle seat, promptly dragging you face down across his lap and adding a thicker band of shadows across your back. There is no sense in trying to correct him that the blade was, in truth, meant for you. “Don’t squirm too much, unless you want to fall. We have a long flight and I might forget to maintain my shadows.” His tone says he could probably care less. You open your mouth to tot off some snarky reply when a thickness shoves between your lips, filling your mouth until you can only elicit muffled noises. “Enough screaming. I prefer flying in silence.”

Your stomach somersaults as the dragon beneath you launches into the sky. Your adrenaline wanes and nausea rolls in a moment later, sucking you in deep. Your eyes flutter behind your goggles as your consciousness ebbs. The last thing you see are twin spots of orange and grey ahead of you before it all fades to nothing.

🖤🖤🖤

You awake to meaty thwacks and pained grunts. Blinking slowly, the first thing you see are splatters of dark red covering the ground in front of you. The heavy, coppery tang of blood in the air makes your stomach knot. You throw your head to the side, dry heaving as your body protests. You can’t lean far, your body forcibly held in place by familiar shadows.

The room spins as you shake your head to try and dispel the double vision clouding your eyes. Your chest squeezes, your stomach threatening to heave again. The sickening crunch of bone draws your head up, your eyes finally focusing.

A pitiful whimper slips out as you watch Shadowsword rear back to throw another punch. Goris is tied to a tent pole, much the way you now realize you are, shadows banded around his chest and his arms, legs sprawled in front of him. His feet jerk, leaving ruts in the dirt as that fist meets his face in another brutal attack.

“Please!” you cry. “Please, stop!”

Those menacing brown eyes cut your way, his bloody fist suspended in the air, ready for the next hit. Goris groans, frothy red bubbling past his lips to dribble down his chin. You’re not sure how long he’s been enduring the assault, but it doesn’t look like he can take much more.

“I’ll stop when he gives me what I want,” Shadowsword informs you.

When he shifts his weight to throw the next punch, you can’t help crying out again. “You’re going to kill him!” That hand remains lofted in the air, the muscles along his arm visibly shaking with the effort to hold back. “If you kill him, you won’t get what you want. Please. Don’t.” 

Shadowsword chuckles, letting out an airy breath. “I can’t say you’re wrong about that.” He crouches down in front of Goris, gripping his chin and turning his face from side to side. “You still with us, Rit?”

Goris coughs, spewing little drops of blood to rain down onto his leathers. “Fuck. You. Bastard. Where’s Ripley?”

“Bastard? Now, now, we both know I very much do have a father, unfortunately.” Shadowsword grimaces, releasing Goris’ chin to stand up. “As for your precious Ripley, she’s somewhere safe, behind shields, so don’t even think to try connecting with her to use your Signis. You’ll only cause yourself pain.”

The sigh of relief you let out when he steps away from Goris’ bloody form turns into a gasp when Shadowsword moves toward you. “Please,” you plead, cowering the best you can with the restraints. “Just kill me quickly, or let me go.”

He clearly ignores you. “You know, I’ve been trying to come up with a good reason why Marvick would choose to bring her field scribe to a war meeting when the Crown would have provided all the scribes needed.”

“Don’t you touch her,” Goris snarls, the words sounding wet as he coughs up another wave of blood.

Shadowsword’s brows rise in surprise. “Why would you care what I do to a scribe, Rit? I’ve never known you to care what happens to a common woman. You’ve trampled your fair amount of flowers.” He drops to one knee beside your sprawled legs. Warm wetness smears along your jaw as he caresses your face with the backs of his fingers. “Though, she is quite lovely. Perhaps you’ve taken a liking to how she warms your blankets. Is that it, Rit? Finally found some pussy you want to keep, and now you’re scared I will ruin your pretty little songbird?”

You shudder and jerk away from his touch. “What is it that you want?”

“I want what Krut promised me.”

“Krut?” you ask, dumbfounded. The memory of him standing in the turret, looking up at the sky with a smirk on his face, surfaces in your mind. “It can’t be. He wouldn’t betray—”

“That’s dragonshit. You and I both know he would,” Goris interrupts, grumbling at you from across the tent. As much as you don’t want to believe it, you know Ulgrin Krut was always more like his father than just in name. “So, tell me, Shadowsword,” he says, directing his attention from you to the man still crouched beside you, “what did that yellowbelly promise you?” He hocks a glob of bloody phlegm onto the ground, grimacing.

Shadowsword tsks softly. The gold of his helmet glints wickedly in the mage lights above as he tilts his head as if he’s just thought of something clever. “Why, Rit, old pal, have you grown addled in your old age? I told you what I want—what he promised me.”

The familiarity at which Shadowsword seems to keep referring to Goris has the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. They interact like they know one another as more than enemies across the battlefield. Dread fills your belly, sitting heavy like a chunk of glacier ice.

“I can’t give you what I don’t have.” You’d think Goris would be better at controlling his tells, but the brief flicker of his eyes to you might as well be a giant red signal.

Shadowsword looks between the two of you. “No, you can’t…but you seem to think she might.” He nods toward you. “Don’t you?”

Goris balks. “A simple field scribe? Nonsense.”

A dark chuckle fills the air. “Just as shitty at lying as you’ve always been, Rit. Truly something I’ve always admired about you. So honorable. Too bad it’s about to get this sweet little songbird into a lot of trouble.”

“I’ll tell you everything I can,” Goris offers, his voice hard as steel. “I know things that can help you. Just leave the girl be. She’s innocent and doesn’t deserve anything you’d do to her.”

Even though all you can see are his eyes, you know he’s far more interested in what Goris is trying to hide from him than what he’s now offering. “No, friend, I don’t think I will leave her alone. In fact,” he says, reaching around his back and pulling free the small blade he plucked from your fingers before, “I think I’ll have as much fun with her as I want.”

You press as far back against the pole you’re secured to as possible. If he was intent on just ending your life, you might not be so scared, but you know there’s so much more to it simply because he’s now suspicious.

“Shadowsword!” Goris barks. It does nothing to stop the blade from pressing against your neck.

“What are you hiding? There’s no way you’re just a simple scribe. It’s not adding up,” he mutters as if to himself. You flinch at the slightest prick of pain under your chin. “You bleed like a scribe.” He leans forward, inhaling the air in front of you deeply. “I don’t smell the stink of dragon magic on you.” The blunt side of the knife presses into the skin of your throat as he trails it down, over your scarf, and to the top of your wool tunic. “I wonder,” he whispers before quickly flicking the knife over and snicking through the ties holding your top together.

“Leave her alone, you disgraceful fuck! Come punch me some more if you need to terrorize someone.” Goris spouts off brazen attempts to draw Shadowsword’s attention. But, he might as well be nothing more than a buzzing fly.

“Please stop!” You struggle against the shadow bindings, frantic to get away from him before he—too late.

The front of your tunic falls open, revealing your true nature to him. He lets out a low whistle. “Oh, pretty bird, look at that.”

He’s leaning in so close you can see your reflection in the depths of his eyes. The light blue runes etched into your skin catch the overhead lights and shimmer like the ocean at midday. The whorls and points zig-zag across your chest, just under your collar bones, and spread down the valley between your breasts to flare out across the expanse of your ribcage.

You’ve never been ashamed of what you are. The issue is with everyone else. They think you’ll steal all their secrets, tell the world…but that’s not how it works, and they’d know that if they ever truly cared to find out.

But he’s not looking at you the way most people do. No, there’s something different about how his eyes rove over your chest. You don’t care about the nudity. The pebbling of your nipples and chills that pop up along your exposed skin has little to do with the blatant perusal of your skin.

It’s the hunger you see plain in his face that ignites a flare of warring feelings inside your chest and belly. You shouldn’t like how he looks at you, but it makes you feel powerful, potent because he’s not afraid. If anything, he’s enamored.

“Fucking hells,” Goris sighs, resigned.

“Fucking hells is right, Rit. Seems Ulgrin forgot to mention Poli was keeping a sweet little gem in her pocket. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Poli was ever the strategist.”

Shadowsword straightens to his full height, towering over you. He flicks the blunt edge of the blade under the flap of your tunic, affording you some modesty by covering you back up. The laces are ruined, but once the glittering blue runes are hidden, you seem to snap out of your reverent spell. Embarrassment floods your face, heating you from within.

“Now you’ve had your fun. What is it that you want?” you reiterate your earlier question that he never fully answered.

Your knife is slid back into a small sheath lost amongst the gold plates of his armor. “That’s simple, my little bird—or should I say, my little gem. Yes, that seems more fitting with those beautiful marks on your chest.” He chuckles. “To think, all this time, all I needed to end this farce of a war was to get my hands on General Marvick’s personal Psion.”

“Go fuck yourself,” you spit. “I’ll never give you anything.”

He does that head tilt again like he’s assessing you deeper than surface level. Like, somehow, he can see inside you. “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re going to change the tides for me, little gem. I’ll know everything inside that head of yours before the mountain thaws and the flowers begin to bloom—that, I promise you.”

“You’re a fool if you believe that. Empty promises.” You hope he can see the determination and resolve in your eyes. Despite your earlier vulnerability and odd lapse in judgment as he laid you bare, you won’t give up your secrets easily. Being a Psion has both haunted you and given you tremendous power in life. The ability to remember everything you’ve ever heard, seen, or read…it’s no wonder most people fear you. You have enough information and knowledge to bring kingdoms to their knees…which, you realize, is something Shadowsword is counting on. “I’d never betray the King,” you state, repeating General Poli Marvick’s last words.

The man shifts his weight from foot to foot, the tent silent except for the crunch of dirt under his considerable form. The creak of his armor echoes in the small space as he brings his hands up and unclips his helmet before pulling it off. You stifle a gasp.

Shadowsword is so named because he’s described as a sword of the shadows. You thought it was simply because of his Signis being shadow manipulation. But, now you’re thinking it might have more to do with his inky black hair and angular face that seems to hug and kiss the shadows cast by the overhead lights. He’s breathtaking, and you can’t decide if it’s in a good way.

“My father? The King? Do you mean the king who has been deceiving his entire kingdom? The same king who kills—“

“Blasphemy!” Goris’ roar interrupts whatever Shadowsword is about to say. “Say it, and I’ll stick you through with your own sword, you lying, rebellious bastard!”

Those calculating eyes snap from you to Goris. “Idle threats, and we both know it, Rit. You couldn’t hurt a fly being trussed up like that. This isn’t our first time doing this dance, friend, do us both a favor and give it a rest,” he snarks, a smirk curling his full lips.

“Wait,” you whisper, his words finally registering. “Your father?” You knew the exiled prince led the rebel army, but you’d also heard Shadowsword was just his muscle, his attack dog. You wonder how many people know the truth, that they’re the same man.

You glance at Goris, and the resigned look on his face tells you that he, at least, knew the truth. Are you the only person that didn’t know? Confusion threatens to overwhelm you because if you got that wrong, what other falsities are filed away in that sacred space in your mind? But Shadowsword—Prince Jeon—draws your attention before the wave of panic can fully suck you in.

“I guess it seems there are things even you don’t know, little gem.” That reality cuts deep, slicing right to your marrow. “Tomorrow, the real fun begins. I suggest you both try to get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

And with that, he strides out of the tent in a flash of gold armor and shadows, taking your confidence and self-assurance with him. Whereas a moment ago, his eyes made you feel so potent—you now feel entirely and utterly…powerless.

Next Chapter⇾ ◅ Back to series masterlist

◅ Back to Main Master List   ©️ 2023-08-11 ColorMePurplex2

#jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook imagines #fantasy jungkook #dragonrider jungkook #bts fantasy au #bts smut #bts angst #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #bts enemies to lovers #bts royalty #bts imagines #bangtanwhq #btsafterdarknet #micdropnet #btscreaturescoven

[mjolnirswriststrap]

Hey, dear! Could I get an extreme fluffy kinda steamy/suggestive Daemon x wife poc fem reader. In which they take a shower together, just all the intimacy of a couple after a long day of royal chores, just the two of them talking, teasing each other and enjoying the feeling of the hot, fragrant water and enjoying each other's presence. Entitled to words of affection, caresses, kisses, reader washing his hair, the two of them soaping each other, hugs and whatever else you want, please? (Sorry for my English)

❄️ DAY THREE OF COUNTDOWN ‘TILL CHRISTMAS ☃️

A/N: You’re English is perfect! Don’t apologize for that! I loved this request, just not having to have some over arching storyline was way less stressful and made this so easy to write. Simple fluff is very much appreciated. I hope I did it justice❤️ Taking Requests - link to the characters I write for. Masterlist

Word count: 902

Summary: The request perfectly sums it up lol

You stir in your sleep, feeling someone standing over you. Your eyes open when you feel your husband pick you up, one arm behind your shoulders and the other under your knees. “I’m so tired, what are you doing.” You pout. You throw your head back and close your eyes, not having the energy to argue with him.

“I know you had a long day, this will make sleeping feel even better.” He sets you down on a satin stool, removing the ties from your nightgown, letting it fall off of your shoulders. “Stand up, my sweet girl.” He says. When he calls you that, he knows he has you hooked.

You stand and let the dress hit the ground. Daemon takes your hand and leads you to the golden basin in the corner. You hadn’t noticed before, but it was surrounded by candlelight. Purple flower petals floated on the surface of the water. You don’t know how long you were asleep, but he did all of this so quickly. When you dip your foot in, it’s boiling hot, exactly how you like it. After fully submerging yourself you get hints of rose and lavender oil in the water.

You lean your head back and close your eyes, reveling in the warmth. When your peace is disturbed by your husband lowering himself opposite of you. “I thought this was my bath.” You say, selfishly wanting it all to yourself.

Daemon smirks at you, knowing you’d much rather prefer him to be in here with you. “You’re not the only one who had a long day.” He reaches over, grabbing a glass vile of sunflower seed oil, marked with the large yellow flower. He shakes a few drops onto his hand before reaching for your left leg. He evenly distributed the oil, and then massages it into your skin.

He does it so meticulously, paying extra attention to your knees and feet. He knew how important your bathing was to you. From the very beginning of your courtship he would wait around for hours while you readied yourself for a walk through the garden.

Your dark skin contrasted his, not only by color but softness. He knew how important it was to you to take care of your skin, and he appreciated the time you took on yourself everyday. “What happened with you and the king today? Any progress?” You say, loving the attention he was giving to your sore calves.

He shakes his head, switching to your other leg. “He won’t accept that a war is coming. He’s too old, and sick to care. That’s my fear.”. You suck on your teeth, your know Viserys, he would see the the truth soon enough.

“I promise you he is very aware that’s having a son shortly after naming his daughter heir, is bound to cause conflict. But you must trust your brother, I couldn’t imagine being king, what kind of stress that would cause.” You say, playing devils advocate for the king.

Daemon drops your leg into the water without warning. “Well why didn’t you marry him? Instead of letting a little girl take your place.” He was serious, he never mentioned your past, the reason you met each other in the first place.

You realize you may have overstepped in defending his brother. “Because, he’s not you.” You stand on your knees and waddle over to him. Placing your hands on his face, “I know you don’t want any casualties to happen, especially because it’s your own blood on the line. But you can’t let it weigh so heavily on your heart, some things are out of your hands, accept that honey.” You say, looking into his sad eyes.

He looks up at you and smiles, “You have a way with words, don’t you.” He says, not being able to focus on his brother, with you standing wet in front of him. You skin glows and glistens against the candles. He rakes his hands down your curves. “And you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve every seen.” He leans forward placing a kiss to your navel.

Your hands find their way to his long hair. “Lean back.” You know he needs this bath more than you do. You reach over for the small pitcher, holding it underwater to fill it up. “Close.” You say. Daemon closes his eyes and feels you slowly pour the warm water on the top of his head. You reach for a bar of lye, sudsing up your hands.

Daemon hums as you run you fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp along the way. You rinse and repeat, not questioning the blood staining the tips of his white hair. It was more than likely his own anyways. You cleaned up too many self inflicted bloody noses to know.

When you finish you move back in the water, finding your side of the tub again. “How did I get so lucky?” He says, pushing his wet hair behind his ears. “Well it wasn’t anything you did.” You say, not being able to contain your teasing laughter. “It was just you, you were it for me, the moment I saw you.”. Daemon lovingly looks across to you. He finishes your sentence. “, and I knew I had to have you.”.

You splash him with the water, blushing. “Seriously?” You say, knowing you reiterating what you said to him often before.

#daemon targeryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #request #christmas countdown #oneshot

[thisaccountisagainstmywill]

Losing my mind re-reading this. Needs to be launched from the nest finally. Chapter One of a character exploration series framed around some of the more meaningful lays in Rugan's life. Following him from Age 19 up to before the game. A new lay every episode. Pairing: Rugan/Original Female Character

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Rugan is 19, struggling with life in a small town. He's heard rumors his last friend is about to leave for a better life and now he needs just one more night to say goodbye.

Tags: Established Relationship, Goodbye Sex, Pre-Canon, Cunnilingus, Bittersweet, Penis in Vagina Sex, Banter, Young Rugan

Word Count: 5,568

Below the cut or on AO3

The 20th of Kythorn, 1461 – The Year of the Goddesses Blessing Hilp, Cormyr Evening

The small town’s tavern was full to bursting with a swell of bodies and joyous noise. From corner to corner, the building is packed with festive clientele, tankards in hand. Most patrons have given up finding a seat and settled for standing where space will allow. Several disparate renditions of bawdy songs sprout in different clusters of friends and war for auditory dominance of the establishment. A bellowing voice from behind the bar shouts to keep the noise reasonable but is too happy with the booming solstice business to fight too hard against the din.

Rugan wedges in through the front doors and bodily pushes his way through the crowd. Finding footing where he can between the swell of other people, he casually nabs an arse-less stool as he passes by. Someone tries to shout after him with verbal claims, but he pretends not to hear as he hefts it over his head and carries it above the crowd to a back corner near the dusty edge of the fireplace where he can find just enough space to sit unbothered.

From his perch, he watches through the crowd as a young blonde barmaid darts between customers, weaving gracefully with more pints than he could ever understand possible in her arms. She smiles and laughs with some customers, passing out rounds to the sitting and standing alike. Tonight patrons linger with her a bit longer than usual, with fewer immediate orders and more conversation spun special just for her. She nods emphatically to some, gives modest smiles to others, and conflicted frowns to others still. Occasionally someone reaches out to hug her and when her arms are empty enough she lets them, returning the gesture graciously.

After a particularly large order, she finds a moment of respite behind the bar and hulking barkeep. With a brief stretch and deep sigh, she leans against the back counter taking a moment to nibble a likely stale bun and gulp down a half-watered ale. – Just enough ale to keep her friendly. More than enough water to keep her upright in the heat. And a bun just stale enough to sponge them both and keep her from pissing like a horse every hour. – She had emphatically defended her method to the young man once with no lack of self-certainty when he scoffed about how awful her on-the-job meal choices were.

While the barmaid waits for the next deliveries to be readied, she readjusts her hair, grabbing loose strands and fitting them back in place in her low bun. She complained to him once she thought her hair looked like straw– but he thought it looked like the first rays of sunlight casting through the trees in bright golden streams. It made him think of the peacefulness of dawn, the comfort of home, and how she always smelled like spring. The corners of his eyes crinkle as an unconscious smile pulls at his lips. He would never tell her, she’d only add this small poetic streak to the sprawling list of things she chose to tease him about already. It was a happy thought he would keep to himself and safely contained to his daydreams of her.

Her brief break ends as she’s passed a fistful of pints and a steaming plate of roast. He loses sight of her in the crowd but finds her again as she pushes her way along the outskirts on her way back to the bar.

As she swings close enough, he catches her by the wrist and gently yanks her to his isolated corner.

“Hey! No touchi–,” Furiously, she spins to face him, her free hand raised and ready to strike. The moment she recognizes him the rage melts away to a coy smile. “Rugan!” Her voice is still irritated but drops playfully. She brings her poised hand down to his cheek and lightly slaps him.

“Good evening to you too,” He laughs and releases his hold on her. With an exaggerated frown, he rubs the lightly reddening spot on his cheek. “You’re going to owe me for that one. Could’ve done some major damage to my best asset, Sanya.”

“It’s your onlyasset.” She says with mock sternness, placing her hands squarely on her hips.

Rugan cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, “That’s not what you were saying la—.”

Sanya threatens him with a withering look.

He holds his tongue but gives her a wicked smile.

“Sanya! I need you back here now!” The barkeep shouts, his voice just deep enough to carry over the crowd.

Sanya glances at the crowd and back to Rugan. “Look, I’m still working. I don’t have time to gab with you.”

The smile slides off Rugan’s face. “I didn’t think you’d be working tonight. What time is he letting you go?”

“Usual time.” She frowns. “Are you going to be a customer or a nuisance tonight?”

Both, he wants to say, but even he knows better at the moment. “If I could get my usual, I’ll wait around until you get off.”

“Aye? I bet you will.” She winks and gives him a cocky chuckle. There’s a sadness in her eyes, but before he can do anything about it she disappears back into the crowd and returns to her duties.

♦ ♦ ♦

Rugan waits patiently for another three hours, nursing a pint, and a plate of whatever Sanya can weasel away from the kitchen. At one point he joins in on the bawdy singing, adding his own spin to the lyrics and making eye contact with his favorite lass whenever she dares to look his way. He sings himself hoarse for the briefest slivers of her attention. Each time, she rolls her eyes with a smile and continues about her business with a shake of her head.

When the crowd thins down to just him and a few low-energy regulars, the barkeep waves Sanya over. He throws a sad glance towards Rugan sitting with his empty pint held on the stool between his knees. With a nod to the lonely boy, he quietly tells her, “Go on then, dear. I can take it from here.” The old man passes her a small satchel with her pay of the day and a little extra. “All the blessings on you for your adventure.”

She thanks the large man with a tender pat on his hand and turns back to Rugan.

Rugan stands, placing his empty mug on the stolen stool behind him. With a few long strides across the near-empty room, he has her in his arms. He steals a quick kiss before he lowers himself to wrap his arms around her waist and raises her up so he can gaze up at her. She places her hands on his shoulders to steady herself and smiles down at him. Backlit by the chandelier, loose strands of hair frame her like a glowing halo.

My sunrise. He thought, but then the realization set in.

For the first time ever, she didn’t argue or fight back when he kissed her with an audience. He knows in his heart now, that the rumors were true: tonight was goodbye.

♦ ♦ ♦

The two slip away into the festive night but don’t make it far before Rugan becomes impatient. He pulls her aside around the edge of the tavern’s alley. Tucked out of sight, the words come tumbling from his lips. “When are you leaving? Where are you going?”

“Tomorrow morning, at the arse crack of dawn. I’ve got my passage secured on a caravan passing through from Arabel. We’ll head south of the Storm Horns and head westward. I’m thinking I’ll see what I can find in Elturel and if there’s nothing there for me I’ll head westward still.” She shrugs casually like she’d practiced the speech a thousand times and gave it a thousand times more today.

“When were you going to tell me?” His voice wavers.

“I did tell you. You didn’t believe me.” She tries to put on a brave face, but her pale, hazel eyes are downcast.

Rugan swallows, his throat suddenly too dry to speak. He did remember that conversation. At the time he didn’t think much of it. They had both spent every day since they were at least ten complaining about how there was nothing in Hilp worth seeing. How they would go on great adventures. How they’d steal the horses from the Dzavars’ stables and run off into the night. When she told him her actual plan to leave, it simply felt like another shared daydream.

“...why are you going?” His voice cracks. Half a foot taller than her and he feels like a child trying to beg his way out of punishment.

“I can’t stay here. I need more from life than….this.” Sanya flails impotently at her smock and the buildings around them. “There's nothing here for me.”

“I’m here.” The simple words cut cold and deep.

The spark in her eyes dies for a moment, she looks like a rabbit caught in a snare, uncertain and hunting for a way out. She glances from him and down the alley, wringing her hands in the pockets of her apron. He wished in that moment he could take the words back, shove them down his throat, and choke on them before they had a chance to hurt her.

Her eyes are misty when she finally looks back at him. “Ru…” The old nickname sounds like a lament. Sanya glances away again, but this time it feels different. She breathes deeply, steadying herself, and shakes her head. “You can’t hold down a job. You were a tanner last week and you’re a cooper this week. That's no way to live. Not for me, not for you.”

It was true: he had been working odd jobs since his tenth summer. He had become good at learning quickly and on the job. Even so, each job would last only as long as an employer would tolerate him before his mouth got him in trouble – which wasn’t nearly long enough in a town this small.

He reaches out to her, placing a pleading hand on her upper arm. Against her better judgment, she welcomes the warmth of him and leans into his touch.

“Sonderson got a more permanent apprentice from the city and Jandal needed someone after the last boy lost a finger and refused to come back. I go where the work is. Where people need me. Some people say that makes me a handy man to have around.” His face softens as he tries to reassure her with a smile, but he can’t quite manage it.

She chuckles at him, placing a hand over his. “I think you misheard them, you’re a handsy man, Ru.”

“Aye. That I am.” He moves closer to her, leaning to place his forehead against hers. With his free hand, he strokes her hair gently. For a long moment, they stand silently together in that alley. The sounds of the hamlet’s solstice celebrations wind down to near silence.

Rugan pulls away first to look her in the eyes, as he promises, “I won’t hold you back, Sanya. I wouldn’t dare.”

He pushes a loose strand of sunshine out of her face and tucks it back behind her ear. The tension in her shoulders and the worry on her face fade away before his eyes.

“I’ve known you long and well enough to know no one and nothing in this world can.” He continues, smiling at her genuinely even as he feels his heart breaking in his chest. “Just let me have you one last time before you go.”

Please. His heart begs.

She doesn’t make him say it, the pleading was clear as day in his sad blue eyes. She pulls him down and kisses him softly and not another word is said.

♦ ♦ ♦

Rugan doesn't know how he got back to her room in the back of the tavern. His eyes were locked on her and the rest of the world and their celebrations ceased to matter. The two enter the dark room and Sanya paces quickly towards her tinder box on the far counter. While she lights a lantern, Rugan bolts the hefty door behind him. Waiting impatiently, he leans against the door while he watches her. He knew full well the moment he got his hands on her he wouldn’t be able to stop himself and the last time he had interrupted her with the tinderbox she had slightly lit both of them on fire. Scorches of that incident still stained one of the wooden countertops.

The room was cleaner now than it had ever been in the three years she lived here. It had once been an auxiliary food preparation room when there was hope left that Hilp could be more than it was always doomed to be, and now the room served only as staff quarters and storage. Remnants of its hopeful origins decorate the room with counters and excessive wall shelving. The in-use bed lay half made by the door, others stacked against the wall and out the way. A tub lay to the side partially filled from the day before, with a jug of fresh water between it and a washing basin. Sanya’s scant belongings had been pulled off the shelves and packed neatly in a traveler's bag next to the door with her road clothes laid out next to it.

As she closes the lantern, he slides behind her. She barely manages to snuff the match and push the tinderbox away before his hands are on her. He begins at her shoulders stroking his way down to her waist where he deftly unties her apron, letting it tumble to the floor.

“Rugan…” she rasps and leans back into him.

His hands continue downwards, tracing her hips with his palms and coming to rest at the top of her thighs. With a twist of his fingers in the fabric, he pulls her skirts up one fistful at a time.

“I've been sweating all day...” Sanya protests weakly but grinds her ass back into him and his growing hardness.

“I don't mind.” He kisses the back of her neck.

“I should bathe before tomorrow…” She tries to reason.

He smirks against her skin. “You'll want to bathe when I'm done with you, anyway.”

With her skirts lifted he slides his hands beneath the fabric and kneads her hips and cheeks, tracing the line of her underclothes. Whimpering, she leans forward against the counter to brace herself as he works over the tight muscles of her backside, easing the ache of the day away. Rugan ruts against the cleft of her ass, erection straining against the ties of his trousers. He bites back a moan at the sweet friction.

Sanya reaches behind her grabbing for his bulge. Her fingertips grazed the head of his cock through his pants and bucks at the sudden touch.

Quickly, he snatches her seeking hand. Rugan leans over, pressing her chest flat to the counter beneath his muscled torso. “Not yet.” He rumbles into her ear, sending a blissful shiver down her spine.

She huffs, squirming impatiently and grinding back into him for more.

Rugan pushes the lantern to the side and steps back. Before she can protest the loss of him, he turns her around and picks her up with an arm beneath her thigh and another around her waist. Then he hefts her onto the counter facing him. He slides between her legs, running his fingers over her knees and thighs. She grabs for him twisting her fist into his shirt to pull him into a kiss, and locking him close with her ankles behind his thighs. He presses back into the kiss, groaning as she tugs at his lip with her teeth.

He reaches behind himself unlocking her legs to slide her boots off, dropping them to the floor behind him.

She uses the brief distraction to release his shirt. Her hands fly immediately to tug again at the ties of his breeches.

Rugan pulls her hands off him, lacing his fingers through hers and holding them out to the side. “I told you not yet.” He growls and kisses her roughly.

Sanya struggles against his grip as he holds her in place, kissing along the lobe of her ear and down to her neck. She manages to slip one hand free of his, palming his erection through his trousers while she grasps again for the ties. Before he can grab her again, she manages to pull the knot undone.

Holding her tightly by the wrist, he growls against her neck, “Do that again and I’ll tie you up.” Unable to help himself, he presses his straining bulge against the heat of her spread legs

“That’s hardly a threat. I know how shite your rope work is.” Sanya smirks defiantly and groans as she rolls her hips against him.

He releases her hands and grabs her by the chin, kissing her until she’s quiet. She was right, his knotwork was sloppy and getting better but it wouldn’t do to argue now.

Sanya places her hands against his chest while she returns his kiss. She slides them against the width of his pectorals, admiring the firmness of his muscled chest.

Rugan keeps his hand on her chin, pressing through her parted lips to roll his tongue over hers. With his other hand, he ventures beneath her skirt, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties. With her hands on his shoulders, she uses the leverage to lift herself just enough to let him slide the fabric over the curve of her ass and down to her shapely thighs. He slides out from between her legs, breaking the kiss to take a step back far enough to pull her smallclothes down the rest of the way.

Her face flushed and her lips swollen red from kissing, she watches him with half-closed eyes as he lets the garment slip from his fingers and fall to the floor. She holds his gaze while she takes her hair down, shaking golden waves free. He takes a moment to memorize the sight of her: Flushed, legs spread, skirt up around her hips, cunt slick with need and shining in the lantern light.

He was going to miss her.

Rugan presses forward, pulling her flush to him at the edge of the counter. He rests his hands on her strong thighs as he captures her mouth with his. She grinds against him, her wetness streaking the front of his breeches. At this moment he couldn’t care, pressing his bulge against her. He slides one hand to the back of her head, winding his fingers in her hair. His kisses trail from her lips and down the line of her jaw to her neck.

He nips her, sucking roughly at the skin of her neck.

Sanya moans loudly, as the sensation sends a wave of pleasure through her. “No marks.” She orders through the haze.

Rugan releases the suction and instead presses gentle kisses along the graceful line of her neck, down her collarbone, and to the top of her blouse. He can’t help but grin as she tugs the top of her blouse down for him, exposing her perky breasts to him. Taking the hint he trails kisses to the peak of one. He pauses, glancing up at her before flicking a tentative lick across the pink bud. With a gasp, she grabs him by the back of the hair and presses his face into her tits. He opens his mouth, sucking the nipple in and rolling his tongue over the hard peak. She moans, bucking her hips against him. He slides a hand up her thigh, holding her in place at the hip while he lavishes her with flicks of his tongue. His other hand trails up her side, firmly grabbing the other breast.

“Please,” She whines. “Please fuck me...”

He pulls away, pressing a forceful kiss against her mouth. “Hush.” He orders.

She locks a leg over his hip and grinds against the fabric of his trousers, protesting his authority silently. He couldn’t help but thrust back, precum leaking from his throbbing cock and soaking through his own smallclothes.

He wanted to give in so badly, to plunge himself to the hilt in her soft folds. To feel the way her walls fluttered against his cock, to hear her cry out when he thrust so deep she swore she saw stars. But he wanted to remember her and the way she tasted.

Rugan pulls away from her mouth, pressing rough kisses into the breast in his hand. He gives it a parting nip that elicits a startled gasp.

Before she can complain, he sinks to his knees before her, pressing wet kisses on the inside of her leg from the top of her high socks to the inside of her hip. He lingers here, pressing his face into the crevice between cunt and leg. He can feel the heat off her core, wet and wanting. Savoring the feeling, he groans against her skin sending low rumbles through her. She bucks against him.

“Please…” She begs again.

Rugan ignores her pleas, swapping to the other leg to plaster it with kisses. At the top of her thigh, he sucks the skin into his mouth until he leaves a mark. Moaning openmouthed while she watches him, she doesn’t fight it this time. She would curse him tomorrow on the road, but at least his name would still be on her lips. He changes thighs, sucking a matching welt into the soft flesh of the other leg.

“Please Rugan, just touch me, I can’t take it.” Sanya whimpers, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. She tries desperately to roll her hips into him but he holds her down.

He gives in now, nosing through her wet curls. A quick flick of his tongue across her swollen clit sends a wave of pleasure through her. With a breathy moan, she grabs him by the back of the hair, forcing his face into her cunt. She locks her legs over his shoulder and places her free hand behind her for leverage.

Rugan obeys, eagerly lapping up the pooling slick from her folds. His nose presses against her clit, earning him ragged moans. Her thighs tighten around his head and he wraps his hands over them to keep her from locking him too tightly in place. He places his tongue flat against her entrance, licking an agonizingly slow trail up to her clit and ending with a quick flick. She bucks suddenly against him with a loud gasp, sending her juices dribbling down his chin.

“More...” She sobs, desperately pressing his face against her.

He slides one hand up from her thigh, tracing his fingertips across the soft skin of her legs. Her skin prickles and she sighs at the softness of the touch. His hand comes to rest at her apex, his thumb pressed over her nub. With his tongue over her entrance, he slowly traces matching circles over her folds and clit, not yet willing to give her what he knows she wants.

“...you bastard…” Sanya whines breathlessly as she clenches around nothing.

Rugan smirks, plunging his tongue into her. He groans as her slick coats his tongue and he feels the subtle flutter of her wanting walls.

“Gods….yes…” She throws her head back, moaning loudly and grinding against his face. His cock twitches at the thought of being inside of her and he loses himself in her cunt, grunting loudly as he laps her wetness up. His thumb flicks quick ghosting touches over the tip of her clit while his hips rut mindlessly into nothing.

“Please…please…I need…” She chokes out broken cries, unable to form the right words.

He knows what she needs. Rugan pulls his hand away from her clit, replacing it with his mouth. He folds his tongue to cradle her clit, sucking at it hungrily. Deftly he rearranges the position of his arm beneath her thigh, sliding his fore and middle fingers into her. She shudders with relief at the sensation of finally being filled. He thrusts in and out of her slowly, gathering slick before he presses deeper. His fingers curl upwards, firmly stroking her walls until he finds the sweet spot.

The grip on his hair tightens as he finds it and she gasps and arches her back. Her pussy clenches tight around his digits. He picks up his pace now, flicking quick licks across her nub and thrusting his fingers firm and steady against her core.

She groans, rocking her hips into his face. Her cunt squeezing tighter and tighter around his fingers. His erection throbs painfully in his pants. Desperate, he releases her thigh, clumsily undoing the strings of his trousers while he lavishes her clit with swirling licks.

After a moment of blind fumbling, his cock springs free and so needy the cool air on his precum-soaked shaft sends a tremble through him. He palms himself for some relief, spreading precum over his shaft and pulling the foreskin back over the swollen head. The friction causes him to nearly spill then and there.

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. He pleads with himself, tightening his fist around his cock.

Rugan turns his focus back to Sanya, flicking his tongue over her clit while he pressed firmly at her core just the way he knew she liked. He needed her to come before he spilled on the floor. He needed to be inside of her. He needed her. He chokes back a sob as he sucks desperately at her nub. His fingers pick up their pace as he feels her cunt grip him tightly. Her breath hitches as her thighs flex. His vision darkens as she squeezes tightly around his head. He maintains the pace of his fingers, pressing his tongue flat across her clit.

The hand she was steading herself with jolts forward, gripping the edge of the counter for dear life as wave after wave of bliss runs through her. Rugans leans his face against her soft curls, thrusting steadily into her with his fingers until she releases her grip around his head with her legs. The blood rushes back to his head and he takes the opportunity for a cheeky lick at her cunt, startling her with a jolt of overstimulated pleasure. She pulls him back by the back of his hair, forcing him to look up at her.

He smirks up at her, with red lips and his chin smeared in her wetness.

It takes her a moment to catch her breath. She looks down at him, still lust-hazed. “Take your fucking pants off and get in that bed.” Sanya manages to gasp out as she moves her legs from over his shoulders.

“Yes, ma’am.” He teases, knowing full well how very much the term grated on her.

She releases her grip on his hair, giving him a sharp slap to his cheek. “Now,” She orders, “Before I change my mind and kick you out instead.”

Rugan stands, chuckling while she eases herself off the counter. The moment her feet touch the floor, he pulls her in for a quick kiss, slipping his tongue into her mouth. She moans into it, enjoying the taste of herself on his lips. He places a hand behind her waist, trying to press their bodies together.

Sanya jerks back, pushing him away with a firm palm against his chest. “Don’t you dare wipe cum on my clothes right before I leave.”

“Slipped my mind, love.” Rugan smirks and kicks her abandoned boots out of his path as he saunters backward. His turgid cock jutting out from the opening of his pants and bobbing with each step.

She knew better than to believe him. The asshole had done it more than once. With a glare, she turned her attention to unlacing her bodice before he had a chance to ruin it.

Rugan kicked his boots off and haphazardly to the side, watching her intently as she pulled her laces free from their fixtures and let the bodice fall freely to the floor beneath her. He backs up towards the bed, pulling his breeches and underclothes down in one go, tossing them to the side with his boots.

Sanya follows him across the room. Her eyes trace hungrily from his throbbing erection to his smug face as she pulls her blouse off. With a wink, he pulls his shirt off and tosses it across the room.

When he reaches her low-lying bed, he sits down against the headboard. With a hand loosely around his cock, he strokes himself lazily while watching Sanya remove her layered skirts. Releasing their ties, she lets them pool to the floor where she stands before she gets into bed.

Sanya joins him on the bed, throwing a leg over his thigh to straddle him. Tenderly she brings a hand to his cheek, running her fingertips over the thin scruff. A mixture of emotions paints her face as she traces the contours of his jaw. The sadness in her eyes makes his heart ache. He opens his mouth to beg her to stay, but she catches his open lips with hers, driving the words from his mind. She moves her hands to his shoulder and she braces herself as she slides slowly onto his cock. They both groan loudly into the kiss as she adjusts to accommodate his girth.

Rugan clenches his eyes shut, gripping her tightly by her ass cheeks as she takes him to the hilt. Desperate and already too close, he holds her still. Leaning his head back against the wall, he pulls away from the kiss, savoring the relief of her wet cunt around him finally.

“Gods, you’re going to be so popular…” Rugan gasps, running his hands across the soft skin of her thighs.

With a frustrated glare, Sanya places her hand over his mouth and hisses at him, “Just shut up and fuck me. Before you ruin it, prick.”

He grimaces at his idiocy but obeys. He slides his hands to her back, wrapping one behind her waist and another at her shoulder as he thrusts up into her. She moans, leaning forward leaning her chest against his. The hand on his mouth slides to his shoulder, nails digging into the skin as she rolls her hips down to meet his thrusts. Strong arms pull her close, crushing her against him while he pumps up into her tight cunt desperately. His cock throbs and he can hold back no more. Rugan buries his face against her neck as the muscles of his core tighten. “I…” He whimpers against her skin.

“Yesss…” She pants.

Rugan squeezes her tightly, holding her in place as his thrusts become sloppy and erratic. With a final thrust, he cries out loudly as he spills inside of her. His grip on her slackens. His hands slide across her smooth skin sending delightful shivers through her.

Sanya whispers gentle kisses across his cheeks as she lifts her hips only to sink back down onto his waning erection. Their mingled fluids drip out of her and across his groin. He runs his fingers up her back and into her hair, running his nails across her scalp. She moans, arching back into his touch while he tries to memorize the sight of her spread across him. His chest aches and he pulls her in, kissing her deeply.

♦ ♦ ♦

Cleaned enough, Rugan lays on his back with Sanya tucked against the side of him. “I'll make something of myself.” He whispers into her hair, tracing patterns into the bare skin of her back.

“I know you will," she murmurs into his neck. He feels a smile form, pressed against his skin, and knows immediately that she’s thought of something dumb.

“Well then, out with it.” He braces himself for a joke.

“It's bad.”

“It always is.”

She hits him playfully but shares her joke anyway. “You're going to make everyone Ru the day they ever met you.”

He shakes his head. “How long have you been holding onto that one?”

“Ten years, give or take.”

“With jokes like that maybe it is a good thing you are leaving.” He scoffs. But the flippancy doesn’t stop how much the realization hurts.

♦ ♦ ♦

Midmorning shines through the battered shutters. Rugan watches dustmotes float in the streaks of light as he lazily traces the space where Sanya had laid next to him. True to her word she had left before sunrise without fuss. Rugan cursed himself for not being able to stop her. Drunk on the afterglow of her, he had slept peacefully deep and hadn't noticed as she got out of bed, bathed, and went to meet her caravan with her life on her back.

Now he was left with only the consequences of who he was: unwanted, alone, poor… and about to be fired again. He had been due at work at least three hours ago, the final allowed error after a string of last chances from every farmer and tradesman who could still find pity for the boy who got left behind.

He needed to get the fuck out of Hilp.

#Young Rugan #bg3 rugan #rugan #bg3 #bg3 fic #pre-canon #bg3 pre-canon #nsft #fic: One For the Road

[ironychan]

I did the math. Almost one quarter (8/33) of Puppet History episodes so far are about women killing people. These are:

3.2 The War of the Golden Stool

3.4 The Affair of the Poisons

3.5 Ching Shih the Pirate Queen

4.5 The Bloody Revenge of Saint Olga of Kiev

5.6 The Vietnamese Sisters who Fought an Empire

6.2 The Concubine who Killed her way to the Throne

6.4 The Scandalous Life of France's Bisexual Opera Icon

You will note that these are getting both more frequent and more gratuitous: Yaa Asantewaa justly went to war over a precious cultural artefact, while Julie d'Aubigny wandered around France stabbing dudes and burning stuff for the lulz.

I have concerns.

#puppet history

[magdaclaire]

as a white person in the supernatural fandom, there’s not much i can say that would contribute terribly much to the conversation on race and racism in the supernatural fandom. and that’s part of what i want other white people in this fandom to understand- this conversation is and isn’t about you. your part of this conversation begins with your lack of knowledge and continues with the fact that most of you don’t want to do anything about it in a age where it is not only possible to constantly attain new knowledge, but by being here on this site and in this community, it is thus obvious that it is regularly readily available. access to the internet, you have it.

so let me break it down into some steps for you.

step one: shut up. take a step back and promote voices of color, use your space to listen to other people and learn from what they have to say.

step two: people of color do not owe you homework, do your own research. if you like history and you love art, try looking into the harlem renaissance or puppet history covers a lot of history with historical figures of color, and while being told by a white man through the veil of puppetry, it does make a conscious effort at social awareness and is a good jumping place of your own research. listen to music by people of color. something. just open your horizons. a little bit of culture wouldn’t kill you. if you want harlem renaissance book recommendations or specific puppet history episodes or some podcast links or the like, i will list some at the bottom. do more research once you get through those.

step three: keep learning. in both research and directly from others, keep learning. there is no benchmark of age or intelligence at which you get to stop learning. the world is constantly changing and most languages are living, so there is always something to learn. you will never be the arbiter of all that is correct in this world, and neither will i.

harlem renaissance books

reading about the harlem renaissance will teach you so much about the long-term multi-generational effects of oppression if you just let it. there are many, many research texts about the era (between the world wars), but i am recommending fiction because i feel fiction makes information more digestible. not much you read here will feel digestible. read it anyway.

passing by nella larsen

their eyes were watching god by zora neale hurston

quicksand by nella larsen

home to harlem by claude mckay

cane by jean toomer

plum bun by jessie redman fauset

the blacker the berry by wallace thurman

the walls of jericho by rudolph fisher

black thunder by arna bontemps

not without laughter by langston hughes

puppet history episodes

these will give you a pretty basic knowledge of a very specific event in a country’s history. they do, however, function as a jumping point and as a historical point of interest

ching shih, chinese pirate queen

hatshepsut: the forgotten pharoah

policarpa: the revolutionary teen spy of colombia

josé rizal: the philippines’ reluctant revolutionary

the war of the golden stool (focused on the asante nation)

ziryab: the world’s first rock star (iberian 9th century musician)

#and remember that this post is a white person's perspective #learn! from! ppl! of! color! #this is a post for accessibility of resources #but i am not an authority here #y'all are makin me insane a little #also there are a few puppet history episodes about people of color that i am missing #however they're easy to find on the channel #racism cw #racism #racism in fandom #thank you for coming to my post please block me if you're racist

[shelbgrey]

Glory of love(Eleazar Denali)

Chapter 3: the council has spoken

Table of contents

-------(Cullen Residents, Eleazar's pov)-------

The house was quieter than usual, which concerned all of us. Carlisle would often sneek glances at Edward as he silently lied across his piano bench staring up at the cellin. I looked up from the papers I was grading and looked at Alice as she laughed at another joke Tanya made concerning me and Y/n Swan.

But then she's been extremely quite when it comes my love life, she's never quite. I don't know if she won or just gave up.

“Está demasiado tranquilo aquí (it's too damn quite in here)” I said setting my papers down and clicking my pen shut. I looked over to Edward and as I did he sat up from the stool. I motioned for him to come over to couch with Alice.

“what are you guys up to?” I then turned to Alice. “especially you” I asked softy.

Edward just shrugged with solum look. Alice had a small smile and shrugged like a innocent little girl that was hiding a harmless secret.

I rubbed my forehead and sighed. “guys, come on” I said as Carlisle and Esme joined us in the living room.

“nothings wrong” Edward snapped getting slightly restless. Carlisle sighed and placed his hand on his shoulder.

“we can't help you if you keep us in the dark” he turned to Alice. “both of you”

“I think I met my blood singer” Edward said and his shoulders dipped like he's been waiting to get of his chest. Alice looked at the three of us and shrugged.

“I just had a vision... Nothing bad of course” she said like a bord child.

Carlisle sighed and took a step back, he looked towrds the stairs the lead to the floor where everyone was. “Family meeting! Now!” he shouted.

Seconds later the cellin shook as different pairs of feet started to stomp around then travel down the stairs. Jasper and Kate came down first, followed by Tayna and Emmett.

We all met in dinning room and set at table that looked like it should be setting in a board room of big office building. Me, Esme, and carlisle set head of the table while Tayna and Kate sat on left closet to me. Jasper and Alice sat close to one another across from the girls. While Edward sat on the same side close to carlisle.

“girls, we called like ten minutes ago” Carlisle sighed once Irina and Rosalie came in, gracing us with their presences.

“sorry Eli” Irina said setting next to her sisters. “I had to finish a few things up” Rosalie said setting in between her mate and Irina.

“oh we're sorry for taking you from somthing so important princess” Edward mocked.

Rosalie sat back in her chair with her arms crosed. I sighed mentality preparing myself for an agreement between the two teenagers.

Rose gave Edward a fake sympathetic look “what's wrong? Did the Golden boy almost have slip up?”

Edward's chair scratced against the floor and was about ready to leap across the table at Rose. I rolled my eyes and sped over, pushing him back in his seat.

I sighed and sat back down. I know I looked annoyed but I really wasn't, it was refreshing hanging around vampires that acted like their real age... They also acted like family. If Rose had a snappy comeback Edward would jab back like a little brother would. They were all just a bunch of teenagers in one big family. Emmett and, Kate, and Jasper were the pranksters and the fun ones, when a prank war breaks no one is safe, even me. Then you have Irina and Rosalie, the older sisters who seem uptight but really they have the biggest hearts. Alice and Tayna were the peace keepers.

“anyway...” carlisle started but he was cut off by Emmett.

“Wait, do you want to use my judge malett?” half the table snickered while Edward, Irina, and Carlisle gave him a weird look.

“why do you have a judge malett?” Irina aksed. “for meeting like this” Emmett said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Carlisle let out one of those tired dad sighs. “let's just get back to the subject at hand and thanks for the offer Emmett, but I think we're good”

“it comes to my understanding that Edward has a blood singer and as his family I think he deserves our support”

“we need a meeting for this?” Rosalie asked. “I mean of course we're gonna help Edward out.... He not a killer we eat animals for Pete sake” Rosalie's sighed. “Edward is trustworthy enough”

“yeah the whole eating animals... that's not gonna set well with Eleazar's mate” Alice mumbled. As soon as the words fell out she slapped both hands over her mouth once all eyes fell on her.

Bewildered my native language rolled off my toung “¿Qué carajo?(what the fuck?)”

“Nothing! Forget I said anything” Alice said as her gold orbs went wide. My eyebrows scrunched together as I shook my head. “you can't just say that and pretend it's nothing”

“thank God that's out in the open, I'm tried of seeing all the visions” Edward said. Irina rolled her eyes, it was her turn to take a jab. “well if you would stay out of our heads we wouldn't be having this conversation”

“you know it doesn't work like that” Edward barked. “trust me I would turn it off if I could, you know how tiring is to read your self centered thoughts? Or Emmett's nasty mind”

“don't bring me into this” Emmett said shaking his head.

“Wait-” I said trying to get back on the subject of Alice's visions, but it was cut off by another screaming match.

I tried to speak again but their bickering just got louder and this time they were on their feet throughing tastless hand gestures. Esme rolled her eyes and one of her very rare out bursts came out.

“SHUT IT!” she shouted making Edward flinch and Fall into his seat while Irina slowly sat back down with her arms crossed “sorry Esme” they mumbled. Carlisle smirked at his mate. I would be lying if I said I didn't want that. The kinda moment where can just set there with a smile as looked proudly at my mate.

“okay” carlisle started while looking at me, he then turned to Alice. “What is this about a mate? Is it Edward's mate?”

Alice shook her head no silently. Carlisle then pointed to me. “it's Eleazar's?” Alice nodded with a smile growing on her face.

“your lonely nights are over Uncle Eleazar” she said proud.

“who is she?” I asked fermly. If I was alive I just know my heart would be pounding against my chest.

“y/n Swan... She's the new English Teacher” Alice said. I sat there fiddling with my thumbs. I couldn't help but smile as her beautiful eyes and curly hair appeared in my mind.

“resently I've been having countless visions of them together... Like together” Alice said.

“ooh” Tayna and Kate said in sync. They both smiled at me like the shining twins. “I knew it!” Tayna said proudly.

“and she's so pretty, I knew as soon as you started staring at her” Kate said proudly.

Emmett's hand then slammed on the table making the girls jump. He had a big smile plastered on his face. When he has 'that' smile you really have to prepare your self for what your about to hear.

“Wait! You saw them having sex?” I sighed immediately at his comment and placed my face in my hands.

“What? NO!” Alice said disgusted. “God no” she said composing herself. “she was one of us... But different... But the main thing is she was with you and you were happy” Alice said.

“okay it's one thing to talk about my love life, but we're NOT gonna talk about my sex life” I said fermly.

“but you said she will as different, right?” I asked and Alice nodded. “I know what you mean, when our hands brushed against each other today I felt something... I think she has a gift, but I don't know what”

“Wait a second, y/n Swan has a gift?” Tayna aksed. I shrugged still confused what I saw. Usually I can only interpret vampire's gifts... This was different.

“I don't know what I saw” I said running my hands together. “I haven't seen a gift like that since my time in kansas”

Tayna and the girls gave me a disponted look. Rosalie then looked at me sad. “your not gonna decline the mate bond, are you?”

I sighed not wanting to get my hopes up. “Alice's visions have been fulse” I turned to the small girl. “no offense Al”

Who was I kidding, Alice's visions are always true and I probably couldn't even count on one hand on how many times she was wrong. That small detail about her gift shook me to my core.

“none taken, but I've had thousands of visions, especially since she gave you your Spanish assignments” Alice stated.

“and Alice's visions are more true than not” Esma said defending her 'daughter'

“it's okay your in love Eleazar, you deserve happiness” Carlisle said softly.

I shrugged slightly getting defensive. There wasn't a lot of privacy in this house and you'll get used to it, but I seriously don't want my love life out into the open to them. I already had Alice seeing every move I make before I even know I'm doing it and Edward heared every thought rather he understood it or not.

“I just don't want to get my hopes up” I said. The only way to explain it is this, it was infatuation I had for her, that's all... Right? And as I thought about it harder I remembered the rules that were engraved into my skull during the years I lived with the Volturi. It was aginst the rules and I'd be damned if I put something as beautiful and pure as y/n Swan in danger.

Alice then gasped having another visions, as she did Edward's eyes widen and jolted up. “that's never gonna happen!”

Emmett and Kate looked at the two confused. “What happened?” they were ignored when Alice started to shout.

“it's slowly solidifying! The more you pull away the curious she gets!” Alice explains. “which ever path you take it seems to always end the same way”

“can some peleas enlighten us? Eleazar?” Irina asked.

Edward spung in his office chair, turning his back to Alice as his fingers griped his hair. “why are you doing this to me?!”

“beacuse your gonna love her!” the family went silent, some were shocked, some were happy. Tayna looked down heart broken. I was still distracted by y/n's eyes engraved in my skull to have a natural reaction.

“HAHA!” Emmett and Tayna both cackled at the same time. Emmett slapped his knee laughing while Tayna giggled. into his shoulder

“dude, she just told the family your deepest, darkest secret, you must be so embarrassed” Emmett laughed. Esme slowly stood up and silently stroled over to Emmett. Let me tell you Esme is not a violent person, not in the slightest, but she will slap you if your acting like a fool, and she did exactly that to Emmett.

“tough break Eddie” Rose said shaking her head. “both of you” Irina said looking at me.

“Estoy rodeado de idiotas(I'm surrounded by idiots)” I mumbled, Carlisle chuckled as Emmett looked at me clueless.

“What?” Emmett asked. I looked up and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Edward sighed. “she's Isabella's sister, isn't she?” Alice nodded. “great”

“I think we're done for a while, go hunt or something” Carlisle said knocking on the table before getting up. Everyone filed out one by one till it was just me. I sighed as I got up, I just need to process everything.

~~~~~~~~(.......)~~~~~~~~

I basked in the quiet as I sat on the roof. The moon light shined on me as I watched the trees danced with the wind. I'll never get tired of how peaceful the forest was.

A shadow casted down next to me, I looked up and saw carlisle standing next to me with his hands in his pockets “figured you'd be up here” he said.

I crumbled a bronze leaf between my fingers as carlisle sat down next to me. “you alright?” he asked. I nodded dusting the dirt off my hands.

Carlisle went silent when he heard the front door slam shut. He looked over the edge of the house and with a sulem look he watched Edward run towards his black Volvo with an over night bag. You didn't have to be a mind reader like him to know what he was feeling.

“he'll be fine mate” I looked over at the blonde. “he's going to see Carmen... He won't last long” I said bitterly.

“can I ask you something?” Carlisle asked. I nodded.

“what happened between you and her?” I sighed crumbing up another leaf.

“you remember Demetri, right?” I aksed. Carlisle nodded. “yeah he was part of the gard, same as you”

“yeah, well I found her in bed with him” I snarled and threw a stick across the lawn. I hear it hit a couple of trees as carlisle's gold orbs widen.

“wow” Carlisle mumbled. He was at losse for words and I didn't hold it against him. I knew he was trying find the words to make one of his uplifting speaches. He couldn't find the words and quite frankly I didn't want to hear it.

“and beacuse of that you think love is dead? Meaningless?” Carlisle asked. I left out an airy chuckle.

“quite the opposite my friend” I said with a straight smile. I then sighed. “I need to know if it's possible that two people can stay happy together forever.”

Carlisle looked into the distance and smiled, probably thinking about Esme. “in my opinion, the best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for exactly what you are”

#Eleazar denali #Eleazar denali x reader #Eleazar denali imagines #Eleazar x reader #Denali x reader #Denali family #Twilight stories #Charlie swan x reader #Bella swan #Edward cullen #Cullen family #Cullen family x reader

[candykalewrites]

BSD - Part One - Alcohol

My Discord server has started doing weekly writing challenge prompts, so I decided to have a go at using them as themes to write chapters of a longer-running fanfic. I don’t know where this is going but I’m having fun! If anyone else has a read of this, then enjoy! Part Two - Forget Part Three - Desk Part Four - War --------------------------

The whole thing was over before the glass had even reached Chuuya’s lips.

It was a quiet, drizzly Tuesday night, and he’d had an uneventful day at work. There had been rumours of a foreign national causing problems at the ports, but initial investigations into the matter had proven fruitless. With no further leads Chuuya had called it a night, and had been on his way home, but not before taking a short detour to visit the usual haunt of the Port Mafia members. As he had turned into the dingy alley, he had spotted the bright sign, and had followed the soft light illuminating the door leading down into the Lupin Club.

It was a small speak-easy, one that could be called cosy or cramped, depending on your mood. There were a few seats at the bar, three of which were already occupied by some of the other regulars, and a few empty tables pressed against the back wall. The bar tender had been stood behind the bar, slowly cleaning glasses and replacing them in their proper spots, a small clink sounding out with each one put back. He had nodded a quiet acknowledgement to Chuuya as he entered.  

At the seats already taken had been Ango and Oda, and of course, that bastard Dazai. Chuuya had ignored them, took his hat off, and claimed the last spare stool at the bar. He could remember hearing Dazai make some stupid smarmy comment beside him as he had rested his hat on top of the bar, but he had blanked it out, instead snapping his fingers to grab the bar tender’s attention.  

He had felt like treating himself tonight. There had not been any particular reason other than that he could, so he had ordered a large glass of whiskey from a bottle on the top-shelf. Black label, smooth; his favourite. He had slid a 5000 yen note across the bar top as the bar tender had placed the glass in front of him. The liquid was golden, shimmering in the low light of the room. The large spherical ice cube had cracked as it started to melt. Chuuya licked his lips, anticipating the first sip.        

He wasn’t counting the seconds, but in the time between him grasping the tumbler and lifting it up to his mouth, the peaceful atmosphere in the bar was shattered. The gentle jazz that was providing the background ambience was interrupted by a series of sharp, short bangs. The glass fell from Chuuya’s hands, smashing against the hardwood floor.

He had little time to react before he felt himself being dragged to the other side of the bar. When he finally had the opportunity to grasp the situation, he found himself flat on the floor, Dazai’s hand pressed hard against his stomach.  

Chuuya made to get up, and reached towards where Dazai was pressing down, attempting to remove his hand. He grabbed at Dazai’s wrist, fingers gripping against his bandages, but for some reason he was struggling to find any strength to be able to move him. Chuuya pushed harder, but the effort caused a sharp pain to shoot through him. Chuuya grimaced.  

“What are you doing? Get off me, idiot,” he growled through gritted teeth.

Dazai pushed him back down, and Chuuya saw him reach inside of his coat with his free hand, pulling out his revolver.

“Stop moving,” Dazai said in a hushed tone. He didn’t look at Chuuya, instead peering cautiously over the bar top, gun first. “You've been shot,” Dazai continued, as nonchalantly as if discussing the weather.

“...!”  

It took a second before Chuuya understood what Dazai had said. He looked down towards where the other man had his hand against him, and for the first time he noticed – and felt – the blood seeping into the fabric of his shirt. He watched it spread with detachment, as if he were watching a TV show, as if it were happening to someone else.  

Lightheaded, Chuuya started to laugh. The movement caused further pain, and as he moaned it turned into a spluttering cough.

“Glad you can see the funny side,” Dazai said as took aim over the bar top. One shot rang out, then a second. Bang bang. A grunt and the sound of a body falling. Chuuya coughed again.

Dazai stood up and reached behind him, removing pressure from the wound for a moment, before dropping back next to Chuuya, half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. The label was black. Chuuya smiled weakly.

“You have good taste in whiskey, surprisingly,” he said quietly. He could no longer feel Dazai’s hand against him, numbness spreading along with the blood, and he was struggling now to keep his eyes open.  

“Nothing but the best for chibi,” Dazai replied, unravelling several bandages from around his arm and pressing them against the open top of the bottle, tipping it.    

Chuuya’s muddled brain attempted to put together a comeback, but just as he tried to form the words, he felt the sting of the alcohol against the bullet wound.

Then everything went black.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd fanfic #bungo stray dogs #dazai #osamu dazai #chuuya #nakahara chuuya #soukoku #soukoku fanfiction #文豪ストレイドッグス #太宰 #中也 #candykale writes

[dearshelby]

Congrats on 1.5K Lora!!! 🥳💕 I’m so happy for you!!

First off, I love your playlist selections - you’ve got an amazing taste in music!!

Second, I about screamed when I saw that Somebody Else by The 1975 was on the playlist because I listened to that song on Friday for the first time in ages and couldn’t help but think that it would be a good song for Tommy.

So, would you be able to write something for Tommy with that song?

Thanks so much in advance if you choose to! 💕

K! Thank you so much, love! Tbh, I added this song to the playlist thinking about Tommy, I agree it matches him so well so I'm glad you requested it 💞

SOMEBODY ELSE BY THE 1975

Tommy's eyes flicked between his drink, drunk customers and many golden details. The reopening of the Garrison wasn't an event he looked forward to, since he only went to the pub to drink, think and make business, do it in new stools or not didn't make any difference to him.

Besides, Arthur wasn't at his best, he moved through the place like a racehorse, fast and brutishly, cocaine clearly took over his mind. Also, Polly remained irreducible when it came to getting her son's address.

Puzzles were all over the place and Tommy had to solve them all, instead, he forced himself to lean on a pillar and sip on his whiskey. The night felt bearable, until a loud voice called,

"Shelby! Oi! Is it you?!"

Tommy looked around with a frown, not many people dared to approach him so freely, except of course, people who've seen him at his lowest.

"It's me! Richard, from Somme!"

Richard Bervald was one of his many subordinates, not very good at shooting, but still a good soldier. He approached Tommy with a huge smile,

"How are you, man? Long time no see!" he greeted.

"Richard," Tommy lifted his glass.

"How are you? Where are your brothers?"

"They're around, we're always around,"

"Yeah? Nice! Fucking nice, mate!" Richard smiled, "Have you got yourself a missus? Perhaps a French waitress, eh?"

"No, no missus for me, man," Tommy shot him a small smile.

"Too good to get hitched, ain't ya? I haven't got the same luck! Let me introduce you my missus!"

Tommy fought the urge of rolling his eyes, he wasn't even that close to Bervald, he didn't care.

"C'here, love! Y/N!" Richard shouted across the pub.

But, as the girl's elegant figure approached, Tommy nearly froze. The memories of her body so close to his flooded his mind, the way her soft hands cupped his face and pulled him closer, the night she promised to love him forever, everything was ruined by the war that spread through Europe.

"There she is, isn't she lovely?"

Her eyes widened as she realized who was in front of her, she shrunk under Richard's arm.

Tommy sized her up, analyzing all the details, her hair was shorter than he remembered, she probably cut it according to the new fashion, she wore a light lipstick and dark eyeshadow, on her neck, hung a pearl necklace and something that made his stomach churn, a hickey.

He pictured Richard's hands on her skin and nearly threw a punch, it felt repulsive, also, Richard was loud, annoying and ungentlemanly. She deserved so much better.

"Uh, guys?" Bervald called, weirdened out by the sudden silence.

"Hm, nice to meet you," Y/N offered her hand, "Ricky told me a lot about you, Mr-"

"...Shelby," Tommy went along with play pretend and shook her hand, "nice to meet you."

"Yeah," she looked down.

"Yeah, right…" Richard scratched the back of his head, "I think we should go, nice to see you again, Shelby."

Tommy lifted his glass again and offered a polite nod as the couple made their way out. However, his eyes didn't leave the girls figure.

He didn't believe her when she gave him an ultimatum, if he went to France she wouldn't wait for him, he went anyway and when he came back she wasn't there anymore, she had moved out of Small Heath and left no sign that she'd ever come back.

Tommy thought he was over it, until he had to watch her leave with somebody else.

1.5K FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION

#tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #1.5k followers celebration #request

[the-consortium]

Oleander.

Why do you have a pipe made from Curze's fingerbone? What do you even smoke with it? Does it do anything to whatever you smoke with it? Or is it just an accessory piece to show off?

Oleander senses another presence behind him in his laboratory more than he sees it. Nothing threatening - not necessarily a given in the halls of the Consortium. Nevertheless, his hand inches towards the bolter resting on the edge of the lab bench as he averts his gaze from the microscopic pictfeed and half-turns around.

Saqqara is leaning against the door, his arms loosely crossed and a datapad in his hand. The yellowish light from the corridor paints him a halo. Strangely fitting for a Word Bearer.

"Is that true? About Curze's finger bone?" Saqqara waves the datapad. Oleander tilts his head and grins a mischievous smile. "Where is that coming from all of a sudden?"

The Datapad is shaken a little again. Then the text is read out. A very questioning tone of voice and a lot of unasked questions in the diabolist's golden eyes.

Oleander leans back on the lab stool. Props his elbows on the tiled table. He lets Saqqara fidget a little. Reaches into a pocket of his lab coat and pulls out his pipe. In the cold light of the glaring Lumen Globes above his workstation, the pipe looks strangely fragile and ancient. Yellowish-brown in colour and longer than his hand, ending in a fused claw with a cavity drilled into it. Oleander is not a psyker, but the object has a very oppressive aura for him too. It feels like a hook right in the diaphragm. That's what he likes about it. This implied pain. Phantom horror. The black heart of the Night Haunter as a flavouring for any tobacco.

He places the pipe on the lab table. Saqqara's eyes follow the movement.

"Who knows, maybe it's not really the finger of a Primarch." Oleander lets mockery show in his melodic voice. "Maybe I've been tricked by the story I've been told. But would that matter?"

Saqqara huffs. "Of course it's important. It's a relic. A reliquary." - "It's not even a relic to Duco. The Night Lords curse Curze in the same breath they speak of him with their twisted affection. They don't care about a finger." - "That's not true. They've already gone to war for artefacts of the man."

A shrug from the Apothecary. Fluid and elegant. "Nobody's ever turned up at my door wanting that thing. Duco just laughs about it." - "Then it's a fake." - "Maybe?" - "Don't you care?" - "Not one bit."

#warhammer #roleplay #the consortium #ask post #Oleander Koh

[e-the-village-cryptid]

my problematic trait is that I will develop instant intense feelings on an academic subject after skimming 3-5 articles on it

me, 60 minutes ago: I have no idea what was going on in Ghana at the turn of the 20th century

me, now: how dare this person write an article on the history of the Golden Stool and the Asante-British war without even mentioning Yaa Asantewaa, WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS 

#an e original