#*Rises from the grave and DABS* | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sleekervae · 9 months ago

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The Bride [1.1]

Masterlist

Pairing: billy the kid x fem!reader

Summary: Eleanor breaks down

Warnings: foul language, angst, smut

Word Count: 5,806

Back at the boarding house, the clerk didn’t ask questions. His eyes flickered over their disheveled appearance, the dried blood staining Billy’s shirt, but he quickly averted his gaze. He didn’t want to get involved, not tonight. Without a word, he slid a room key across the counter, his hands trembling slightly, and then busied himself with other tasks as Billy and Eleanor made their way up the creaky stairs.

Once inside, the door closed behind them with a quiet click, sealing them off from the world outside. The dim room was still, its silence interrupted only by the occasional rustle of movement. Eleanor gathered some supplies—water, cloth, and the small first aid kit she’d kept tucked away—and set to work on Billy’s wounds. She dabbed at the dried blood on his knuckles, the steady rise and fall of her chest the only sign of her own distress.

Billy winced slightly under her touch but kept his eyes on her, his worry deepening. She hadn’t said much since they left the grave, and that silence spoke louder than words ever could. Eleanor had never killed anyone before tonight, and it was taking its toll, even if she was trying to hide it.

“It's okay, Eleanor,” Billy said softly, his voice careful, not wanting to push her too hard. “I can take care of it.”

She didn’t respond at first, her hands continuing to clean the cuts and bruises on his arms, her movements mechanical. Her eyes were downcast, focusing only on the task at hand, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed the storm raging inside her.

“I’m fine,” she finally murmured, but her voice lacked conviction.

Billy leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady on her face. “No, you’re not.”

Eleanor froze for a moment, the cloth in her hand hovering above his skin, before she slowly set it down. Her hands rested in her lap, trembling now, as the weight of the night began to settle over her. She didn’t meet his eyes, her own gaze fixed on the floor.

"I know, the first time is... it's scary," he continued, "Sure, you're alive, but you're different now. You realized this power about yourself, and it's absolutely terrifying,"

“... I thought I could scare him off,” she started, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just wanted to scare him...”

Billy’s heart clenched at the rawness in her words. He’d seen death, had dealt it out himself more times than he cared to admit, but this was different. Eleanor wasn’t like him—she didn’t have that darkness etched into her soul. And now, because of him, because of what they had gone through tonight, she was forced to carry that weight.

“It was him or us,” Billy said gently, his hand reaching out to cover hers. “You did what you had to do. But it doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, but there was something else there too—anger, guilt, a whirlwind of emotions she didn’t know how to process. “It shouldn’t have come to this. I shouldn’t have had to… I didn’t want this.”

“I know,” Billy said quietly, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “But you’re still here. And I’m still here because of you. You saved my life, Eleanor.”

Her lip quivered, and for a moment, it seemed like she might break, but she held it together, her walls slowly coming back up. “I just… I need time.”

Billy nodded, understanding. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

The silence between them was heavy but more manageable now. The warmth of the room, mixed with the steady rhythm of her hands cleaning his cuts, was almost soothing—like a brief respite after the chaos. Billy watched her quietly for a moment, wrestling with the words he needed to say.

“I have something to tell you,” Billy began softly, his voice breaking the stillness.

Eleanor paused, glancing up at him with tired eyes. “What is it?”

Billy took a breath, leaning back against the headboard, the bruises on his arms starting to sting less in her care. “I left Major Murphy’s payroll today,” he said, his gaze searching hers for a reaction. “I’m working for Tunstall now. I switched sides.”

Eleanor’s hand froze in mid-air, the cloth she was holding dropping back into the basin of water with a soft plop. She blinked at him, her expression unreadable at first. “You… you did what?”

Billy nodded slowly. “I couldn’t stay with them anymore. You know what Murphy’s been doing. Hell, I’ve known it for a while, but I couldn’t stomach it anymore.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked at her. “Tunstall’s different, Eleanor. He’s not like Murphy or the others. I’m hoping this might be a chance to make things right.”

Eleanor was quiet, her brow furrowed as she absorbed his words. “You quit Murphy’s gang,” she repeated, her voice soft, like she was still processing the enormity of the decision.

Billy gave her a small, tired smile. “Yeah. I did.”

Eleanor nodded slowly, the gravity of his decision sinking in. "How'd Jesse take it?” she already had a feeling she knew the answer.

Billy’s expression darkened at the mention of Jesse. “Not well,” he admitted. “I went to him, Bob, John, the whole lot of them. Told them straight to their faces I was leaving. Jesse was... pissed.”

She watched him closely, sensing there was more. “And?”

“He called me a traitor,” Billy said, his voice hardening with the memory. “But he let me go, anyway.” He let out a humorless laugh. “I couldn’t blame him for being angry. We’ve been through a lot together. Still, I wasn’t going to stick around for what Murphy's got planned. It’s going to get worse before it gets better. I just hope Jesse realizes that.”

Eleanor bit her lip, her mind swirling with the implications. Jesse and Billy had been friends for years, and now they were on opposite sides of a brewing war. The tension between the two would only grow from here. She could see the toll it had already taken on Billy, the worry in his eyes despite his brave front.

“He won't,” she said sternly. She squeezed his hand gently, trying to offer some comfort. “Nevertheless, you did the right thing, Billy,”

Billy met her gaze, the weight of her words sinking in. Despite everything, hearing her say he’d done the right thing eased some of the doubt gnawing at him. But he could see it in her eyes—the fear, the uncertainty.

"I want to be a good person, Eleanor," he continued, "I want to be better for you,"

Billy’s words hung in the air, thick with sincerity. I want to be better for you. Eleanor wanted to feel the joy, the relief that should have come with hearing him say those words. He’d crossed sides, walked away from everything he knew, just to do the right thing. She should be proud. She should feel safe, knowing he was trying to be better.

But no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t muster it up within her.

Instead, a heavy weight pressed on her chest. Her fingers tightened around his hand, but the reassurance she longed to give him wouldn’t come. The fear that had gripped her ever since Harbinger reappeared wouldn’t let go. It gnawed at her, eating away at any excitement or happiness she should have felt.

She forced herself to look away, her voice soft, strained. “I’m scared, Billy,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. The words were hard to get out, as if saying them made everything more real. “It’s not just Murphy or the army… or even you switching sides.” She swallowed, her breath shaky. “It’s everything. Every time I think we’re getting a moment to breathe, something worse happens. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s always more coming, something worse right around the corner.”

Billy’s chest tightened as he listened. He hadn’t seen her like this before—not the Eleanor who faced down Harbinger with a gun in her hand, or the one who took charge when the world around them was chaos. This was different. She was raw, vulnerable, and he could see just how much all of this had taken its toll on her.

She could see the look in his eyes, the concern growing, but there was nothing she could do to stop the words from spilling out. This was the truth she’d been holding back, the one that kept her awake at night.

Without thinking, Billy pulled her into his arms, holding her close. “I’m here,” he whispered against her hair, his voice soft but resolute. “I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever.”

Eleanor let herself melt into his embrace, the tension in her body easing as she rested her head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, grounding her in a way nothing else could. She hadn’t realized just how much she needed to hear those words until now.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Billy continued, his grip on her tightening just a bit. “But I swear to you, Eleanor, I’m staying. We’ll figure this out together.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away, unwilling to let them fall. Instead, she nodded against him, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt as if afraid to let go. “Promise me,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Billy pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “I promise. This time, I’m not leaving.”

For the first time in a long while, Eleanor allowed herself to believe the words of a man.

The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the oil lamp in the corner. The bed creaked gently as Billy shifted in his sleep, his arm draped protectively over Eleanor. His breathing was slow and steady, a rhythm that should’ve lulled her to rest. But sleep wouldn’t come.

Eleanor lay on her back, eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her mind raced, replaying the events of the day in a loop that refused to stop. He beat Billy so badly, she could so clearly see the look in his eyes when she pulled the trigger, the blood stain growing in his jacket as he lay dead at her feet. She could still feel his grip on her, his breath, the terror that had paralyzed her.

Silent tears began to fall, sliding down her cheeks and into her hair. She didn't want to cry, even if he was dead, she didn't want to give Harbinger's spirit the satisfaction of rattling her so. She turned on her side, trying to stifle any sound, trying not to wake Billy. Her hand moved to cover her mouth, muffling the sobs that threatened to escape. But no matter how much she tried to contain it, the pain was too raw, too heavy.

The mattress shifted as Billy stirred beside her. She froze, hoping he hadn’t noticed, but his arm moved, and then his sleepy voice broke the silence.

“Eleanor?” He turned toward her, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but the concern in his voice was unmistakable. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t respond at first, her hand still pressed against her mouth as she fought to keep it together. But the tears only came faster, and she shook her head, unable to stop them.

Billy sat up, fully awake now, and gently pulled her hand away from her face. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice soft, “It’s okay. I'm right here, it's okay,”

The dam broke, and Eleanor’s quiet sobs turned into a wave of emotion. She turned over, buried her face in his chest, the weight of the day’s horrors finally crashing down on her. Billy wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she wept, whispering soothing words in her ear.

Billy had never really seen Eleanor cry, not like this. Sure, there had been moments when she looked like she might, times when her eyes would shimmer with emotion, but she always held it back, steeling herself behind that wall of strength she seemed to carry everywhere. But now, as her tears soaked his shirt and her body trembled in his arms, Billy understood just how much she had been holding in.

He gently stroked her hair, his mind racing. Eleanor had always been tough, unbreakable even. She stood up to men like Harbinger, survived a life Billy could barely wrap his head around, and still managed to look ahead with a glint of hope. Seeing her like this, broken and vulnerable, twisted something deep inside him.

“You're one of the bravest people I know,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. The admission was laced with his own sorrow, his voice thick with emotion.

Eleanor’s sobs continued, muffled against Billy’s chest, but the weight of her grief seemed to intensify with his words. Her body shook with the force of everything she’d kept buried for so long. All she could think was that she needed him. She needed his arms around her, needed him to hold her and try to ground her.

Billy held her tighter, feeling his own heart breaking for her, for everything she had gone through. He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure how to help her, but he knew he had to be here—right here, with her, through this.

“You don’t have to be brave all the time, Eleanor,” he whispered, his voice soft but firm. “It’s okay to let go. I’ve got you.” His hand continued to stroke her hair, a small gesture of comfort as he pressed his cheek against the top of her head.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of Eleanor’s quiet sobs, the room heavy with the unspoken pain between them. Billy could feel her tears soaking through his shirt, could feel the tremble in her hands as she clutched onto him as if he were the last thing tethering her to this world.

“I’m tired,” Eleanor finally breathed, her voice raw from crying. “I’m so tired of pretending like I can handle everything. Like none of it matters. But it does, Billy. It matters so damn much.” Her voice cracked on the last words, her hands fisting into his shirt as if holding on tighter would keep her from falling apart completely.

Billy’s heart twisted painfully at her admission. He’d always seen her as someone who could weather any storm, who could face anything without breaking. But now, holding her in his arms, he realized how wrong he’d been. Eleanor had been carrying the weight of her world alone for so long, and it was finally too much.

“I know,” he whispered, his own voice thick with emotion. “I know, Eleanor. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore. I’m here. I’ll help carry it, whatever it is.” He pulled her even closer, his arms a protective cocoon around her as if he could shield her from all the pain and fear that had been haunting her.

Eleanor’s tears began to slow, though her grip on him didn’t lessen. She took a shuddering breath, the silence between them filled with unspoken promises and shared understanding. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she whispered, her voice trembling but sincere.

Billy's voice was steady as he replied, “You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll take care of you. We'll take care of each other.”

She exhaled shakily, the sound almost like a release of all the tension and fear she’d been holding onto for so long. Billy continued to hold her as the night deepened, letting the quiet comfort between them speak the words they couldn’t quite say. In that moment, with Eleanor in his arms, he knew he’d do whatever it took to protect her. Whatever it took to keep her safe.

Billy woke up to an empty bed, the early morning light filtering through the thin curtains. For a moment, he blinked, trying to shake off the haze of sleep, but then his mind caught up with him. Eleanor was gone.

His heart raced as he pushed himself up, the sheets still warm where she had been. His eyes darted around the small room, searching for any sign of her—her boots, her coat, her hat. But everything was still there, scattered in the same careless way they’d been the night before.

She wouldn’t have left… not after everything. Would she?

Panic began to creep in as Billy swung his legs over the side of the bed, his thoughts running wild. Eleanor had always been unpredictable, always running when things got too real or too hard. Maybe last night had been too much for her. Maybe, in the quiet of the early morning, she’d slipped away again, leaving him behind like she always seemed to do.

He stood up, rubbing a hand over his face as if to wipe away the unease. The room was eerily silent, and every second that passed without her only made the knot in his stomach tighten.

Billy glanced toward the door, considering whether to go after her. But then, just as the worry threatened to consume him, the door creaked open.

Eleanor stepped in, balancing a small plate of biscuits in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. She paused when she saw him standing in the middle of the room, a faint, tired smile on her lips. “Mornin’,” she greeted softly, her voice hoarse from the night before.

Billy exhaled, the tension in his chest releasing all at once. He sank back onto the bed, shaking his head at his own paranoia. “Mornin’,” he echoed, his voice a little rough. “For a second there, I thought you’d gone.”

Eleanor’s smile faltered, her eyes softening as she walked over to him. She set the biscuits down on the small table beside the bed and handed him the coffee. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” she said, her voice steady but quiet. “I just figured you could use somethin’ to eat after last night.” she took a seat beside him.

Billy took the cup from her, his fingers brushing hers as he did. The simple gesture grounded him, and he realized just how deeply he’d feared waking up alone again. He stared at her for a moment, his heart still racing from the sudden panic, but he nodded, the edges of a smile pulling at his lips. “Thanks,” he murmured, though the relief in his voice was palpable.

She smiled back, a small, fragile thing, and reached for one of the biscuits. “Besides,” she added softly, “I still have work at the store today.”

Billy cocked a brow, "You don't think you should take another day?" he asked.

"I've taken too many days," she laughed sheepishly, "Mr. Tunstall's back in town, he's gonna' have questions if I don't show up,"

Billy leaned back against the headboard, watching her as she spoke. He could see the strain in her, the weight of everything that had happened still clinging to her shoulders despite her attempt to push through.

He set the coffee down, reaching over to take her hand. “Eleanor,” he began gently, “you’ve been through hell these past few months. You don’t have to keep carrying all this on your own.”

She glanced away, her expression hardening a bit. “I’m fine, Billy. I can handle it. I always do.”

Billy sighed softly, squeezing her hand. “I know you can handle it. But you don’t have to, not alone.” He paused, studying her face before continuing. “You should talk to Tunstall. Tell him the truth about what’s been happening, all of it -- including who you are.”

Her eyes snapped back to him, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. “Talk to him? Billy, I can’t—I mean, what am I supposed to say? 'Hey, I lied to you about my name and qualifications and I also killed a man in cold blood -- but can I still keep my job?'”

Billy shook his head, his grip on her hand firm but reassuring. “It wasn’t cold blood, Eleanor. That bastard was gonna kill us both. You had no choice.”

Eleanor looked away again, her jaw tightening. “That doesn’t change the fact that I killed him,” she muttered, her voice cracking just a little.

Billy reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “Look, I met Tunstall. He's a good man. He’ll understand. But he needs to know what’s really going on, or else you’re just gonna keep looking over your shoulder, waiting for the next problem to come knockin’.”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes distant as she considered his words. The thought of telling Tunstall everything—the shame, the fear—it made her stomach twist. She had always been good at keeping things bottled up, at pretending everything was fine. But Billy was right. She couldn’t keep running forever.

Finally, she let out a long breath and nodded. “Maybe you’re right,” she murmured, her voice soft. “I guess I don't really have a choice.” if Jesse already had it out for her, there was no telling when he was going to flip the rock on her lies.

Billy smiled, relief washing over him. “I’ll go with you if you want. You don’t have to face it alone.”

Eleanor looked at him, her eyes softening. “You’d do that?”

“Course I would,” he said without hesitation. “I’m not leaving you, Eleanor. We’re in this together.”

Eleanor’s heart fluttered at his words, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the lingering doubt. She looked at him, her gaze softening as the weight on her chest seemed to lift, if only a little. Billy had always been a source of steady calm, someone who somehow made her feel like she didn’t have to keep fighting the world on her own.

Without thinking, she leaned in, closing the space between them. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Billy’s brow furrowed slightly, but before he could respond, Eleanor pressed her lips to his. The kiss was soft, tentative at first, like she wasn’t sure if she could allow herself this moment of peace in the chaos. But as Billy responded, his hand gently resting against her cheek, Eleanor melted into it, her fears easing for just a moment as she let herself be held by someone who saw her—truly saw her.

When they finally pulled apart, Billy looked into her eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Can you do that again?” he asked, his thumb brushing her cheek.

Eleanor’s smile lingered as she leaned back in, this time with more intent, her lips finding Billy’s again. The kiss deepened, her hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders as she pressed closer. Billy responded in kind, pulling her gently toward him, his touch steady and sure.

The warmth between them grew, the kiss no longer tentative but hungry, as if the fear and uncertainty of the past few days had ignited something between them. Eleanor’s hands threaded through his hair, pulling him closer still, as the room seemed to shrink around them, leaving only the two of them and the heat of the moment.

Billy’s hands roamed her back, gripping her tighter, their breaths becoming uneven as the intensity grew. Every kiss, every touch, felt like a way to erase the pain and fear they had faced, a promise in the making that they would fight through whatever was coming—together.

Eleanor’s heart pounded in her chest, the world outside of this moment slipping away as her need for him surged. All of the walls she’d built around herself, all of the fear, the doubt—they seemed to fall away.

Their surroundings faded into the background as Eleanor let herself become enveloped in the sensation of Billy’s touch. His hands on her back were a steady anchor, grounding her in this moment of raw emotion and desire. As their kiss deepened further, Eleanor felt a surge of longing coursing through her veins, igniting a fire within her that demanded to be quenched.

Billy’s lips moved against hers with a tenderness that spoke volumes, each kiss a silent promise of understanding and unwavering support. Eleanor could feel the passion between them building, a magnetic pull that seemed to draw them closer together with an irresistible force.

Lost in the whirlwind of emotions, Eleanor’s hands traced the lines of his jaw, memorizing every contour as if committing them to memory. The heat between them was palpable, sparking a hunger that consumed her with a fierce intensity. Time seemed to stand still as they held onto each other, seeking solace in the embrace that felt like coming home.

In that moment, Billy's fingers entwined with Eleanor's hair, lacing through it and caressing her scalp as his lips explored hers. She tasted like sweet cinnamon and mint, a flavor that danced on his tongue and tantalized his senses. Their kiss deepened, their breathing heavy with excitement, as they swayed together in a rhythm of passion. Eleanor's body was pressed firmly against his, her heart pounding against his chest like a drum beat in a symphony of desire.

He could feel her hands shaking slightly under the pressure of the moment, but it only served to stoke the fire burning inside of him. With each kiss, he felt a connection forming between them, an unspoken bond that transcended any obstacle or hardship they had faced before. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in this feeling—to forget about everything else and just be with her.

As their lips parted once again, Billy looked into her eyes, seeing a glimpse of vulnerability masked by the desire he could feel pulsing off of her in waves. It was intoxicating, and he knew he had to have more. His voice was rough around the edges when he spoke. "Tell me you want this," he whispered hoarsely.

Eleanor didn't hesitate for a moment. She let out a shaky breath and nodded, her eyes never leaving his. "I do," she breathed back, her voice barely audible even to herself.

With renewed confidence, Billy pulled her closer still, cradling the back of her head in his hands as he deepened their kiss once more. Eleanor moaned softly into his mouth, her body melting against his as she surrendered completely to the moment. As their tongues danced against each other, she felt a shiver run down her spine at the taste of him and the warmth of his breath. His hands trailed down her back, feeling every curve and dip, plucking the buttons from her dress. As he slowly pulled it down to expose her skin, she gasped softly into his mouth. Her heart raced as he cupped her breast in his hand, thumb teasing over her nipple through the lace of her chemise. They broke apart for air as his hands under her chemise, then pulled it off gently. She let out a ragged breath when his cool hands met her hot skin and he started caressing her breasts, his fingers dancing on them before taking one into his mouth. She let out a small moan and arched into his touch, craving more of his taste.

In response, she reached into his messy brown hair and pulled him back to her lips again, their tongues tangling as he suckled on her nipple while one hand slipped further down to his waistband, tugging at it eagerly. They groaned in unison as they both tried to strip each other's clothes off faster than they could manage. Their kisses trailed down each other's necks and shoulders, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps and desperate gasps for breath. Their skin met bare where their clothes had once separated them, and they were both left panting from the heat between them. His rough stubble scratched against her sensitive skin like sandpaper as he nibbled on her earlobe playfully while she ground herself against him in anticipation. They found themselves falling back onto the bed together, their bodies pressing against each other as the soft mattress gave way beneath them. Eleanor's heart was pounding wildly in her chest, and Billy felt it hammering against him as he pulled her closer still, his teeth gently grazing her neck and earlobe, sending shivers down her spine. The smell of fear and adrenaline from the past few days washed away by the scent of their sweat and need, mingling into something new and alluring.

With shaking hands, they fumbled with each other's clothes, tearing off buttons and zippers in a frantic rush to be close to one another. Their bodies were hot and flush against each other now, every inch of skin touching as they sought solace in each other's embrace. Eleanor arched her back, offering herself up to him as Billy trailed kisses down her stomach and thighs, his warm breath caressing her skin with every exhale. His tongue found her inner thigh, sending a jolt of electricity through her core, causing her to gasp out loud.

He wasn't gentle as he parted her folds, burying his face between them while his fingers teased her clit through her wetness. She tasted sweet and salty, like she would always taste to him now. The sounds of their heavy breathing filled the room as he lapped at her folds, licking and sucking greedily at her arousal while his thumb circled her entrance playfully. Eleanor's hips bucked against his touch, pushing herself deeper into his mouth as she moaned helplessly.

Her hair spilled across his face like an iridescent waterfall as she threw it back, allowing him better access to her, all while her hands fisted in his hair, urging him on. She desperately needed this release, this connection to something real and human, to a man who saw past the fear and uncertainty that plagued her every waking moment.

Billy's tongue lapped at her folds with renewed hunger, his teeth gently tugging at her sensitive nub as he pushed two fingers inside of her slowly. Eleanor let out a strangled cry of pleasure that curled his toes, causing him to grind against her leg in response. He moaned around her wetness, loving the taste of her arousal as it dripped down his chin, their combined juices salty on his tongue.

As she arched into his touch, her whole body trembling with need, Billy pulled back from between her legs to look up at her. Their eyes locked as he positioned himself at her entrance. She nodded eagerly, needing him to be inside of her. With one hand holding onto the headboard for support, he thrust into her slowly but surely, feeling her warmth envelop him. Her muscles clenched around him as he bottomed out inside of her, hitting a spot that made them both gasp for air.

Eleanor's nails dug into his shoulder blades as she met his gaze, their lips crashing together in another hot and desperate kiss. He started to move inside of her then - a slow rocking motion that had their hips locking together in perfect rhythm. They were both panting now, their chests heaving against each other as they found their own pace. Her breasts bounced against his chest with every undulating movement of their bodies pressed together. Each thrust sent shockwaves through them both - pleasure mixed with pain from the recent wounds they’d received. As he moved inside of her, she could feel the weight of his body on top of hers, the heat radiating off him like a beacon. She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of being wanted and desired, something that had been lacking in her life for so long. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she arched her back to meet each thrust.

Billy's teeth scraped against her neck as he leaned down to nip and suckle, causing electricity to shoot through her core. He moaned into her skin, his hips meeting hers with every powerful stroke, their bodies slapping together in time to the primal rhythm.

The sound of skin on skin echoed in the room as they moved together, creating a symphony of desire and need. Sweat rolled down their bodies, mixing with each other's as they sought release. Eleanor's breath hitched in her throat as she felt herself getting closer to the edge, her whole body trembling underneath him.

He slowed his thrusts then, teasingly dragging his cock along her swollen folds with every pullout before pushing back in deeper than before. His lips trailed kisses down her jawline and neck, leaving behind a trail of hot breath and soft whiskers. "Come for me," he growled against her skin, his voice rough with passion.

Eleanor's walls clenched around him in response to his command, milk flooding from her nipples onto his chest. She bit down on her lower lip, trying to stifle her moans as she neared orgasm. The mix of pleasure and pain from their wounds added a new layer to the experience—a reminder of how alive they both still were despite everything that had happened.

With one last thrust that pulled them together, they both cried out as they climaxed. Eleanor's body bucking up into his, meeting every thrust as it rolled over her in explosive waves. She tasted salt and sweat on his lips, and felt her juices coat his hair as he drank her in with every breath. His fingers found her clit once more, circling and teasing it until she screamed out his name. Every muscle in his body tensed as he was hit by the force of his own orgasm, his lips finding her neck again as he growled against her skin.

Their bodies shuddered together, their hot breath mixing in the steamy air. Eleanor held him tightly to her chest, her heart pounding wildly against him as she tried to catch her breath. The scent of sweat, sex, and relieved tension lingered between them like a thick fog.

Slowly, their movements stilled as they caught their breath, Billy's chest rising and falling against hers in sync. He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of her eye before looking down at her flushed cheeks and smiling tenderly. "I've got you," he whispered huskily, pulling the blanket over them both. They laid there wrapped up in each other's arms for what seemed like an eternity, their hearts slowing down from the rush of adrenaline that had filled them moments before.

Eleanor traced his skin with her fingertips gently, feeling every bump and groove beneath his rising chest. His hand found hers, entwining their fingers together as he placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

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slaughtrtime · 2 months ago

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*Walking down the street and i stumble across your blog*Woah woah woah there.... *starts dabbing forehead with handkerchief* *adjusts shirt collar* WOAHHH MAMA.....😍😍 HUMMINA HUMMINA!!!! *eyes pop out of head* *tongue lolls out* *heart starts beating out of chest* *twiddles lips with finger* BLBBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLB! *pulls mallet out of back pocket* CUCKOO! CUCKOO! *hits self on head repeatedly* *birds start flying circles around head as i fall over backwards* *stiff as a board* *holds flower against chest* *x shaped eyes* DONG........ DONG......... *peels one eye open* *sees your blog again* IT'S ALIIIVVVVEEEEE!!!! *lightning strikes* *rises up from my grave* *licks hand* *slicks hair back* *approaches you* Heh.... How you doin? 😏 *dragged away screaming abruptly and unceremoniously by four shadowy spectres*

hey sexy.. heh.. come here often?

#asks

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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 1 year ago

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Moon-chosen, Moon-guided - Part I

I wanted to feel accomplished and finish up the Isobel-centric counterpart to my previous BG3 fic here, but the length got away from me. So here is the first half, just in time to end the year. Hope you enjoy!

Be warned that this fic is once again pretty much made up entirely of spoilers for Act 2 of the game.

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Jaheira, and a bit of Shadowheart Length: ~9400 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

Features classics such as hurt/comfort, dealing with trauma, a complicated father/daughter relationship, flirty sparring, and coming back from the dead, in no particular order. The idea of Isobel's magical photography is something that has chosen to live in my brain ever since I read about it (here, for instance), so I simply had to include it.

Summary:

There is a part of Aylin still in that cage. There is a part of you still in that grave. From that night of your coming-of-age ritual when you astounded all of Reithwin with the uncanny speed of your return from the woods, to your desperate flight away from your own grave, one thing has remained true. The guidance was granted, no matter the harshness or difficulty of the path. But it has always, always been up to you to walk it.

The brilliant, defiant Beacon of Last Light many revere from afar. Isobel Thorm they do not know at all.

Also on AO3.

—

Part I - Last Light - The Inn

It happens so very quickly, for something that would rewrite the fate of your home and all you ever loved for the next century. Like a carelessly tossed pebble turning into a rockslide.

An ominous chill that barely has the time to register fully; a bark-whine from Squire, cut short; a searing pain in-- through-- your side and your chest, fading into numbness within moments, so fast that you barely choke out a desperate blood-drowned breath as blackness swarms the edges of your vision; a frantic cry of Isobel! ringing out from somewhere above or below; and then--

nothing

and nothing, and nothing, and nothing.

---

"...bel. Isobel."

You know that voice, impossibly distant though it sounds. Your father's voice. Soft, barely rising above the dull droning noise in your ears. And then feeling trickles in, slowly but steadily. One cold hand on your cheek, one cradling your head as if to help you lift it, sending ice down your neck, down your spine, laid against cool, damp marble.

Your eyelids are heavy, so very heavy, and a weight is settled on your chest. You struggle to draw a first, raspy breath, then just barely manage another, but the third turns into a weak cough as the musty reek of a mausoleum overwhelms you. Smoky incense chokes lungs that already feel flooded. Your chest feels fit to burst with a heart straining to pump stale blood once more.

Your father hovers over you, exclaiming when you finally force your eyes open. It is hard to see him, in the shadows, with sight that doesn't work quite right just yet. He is older, so much older, and so much more worn and weathered than you've ever known him to be. But this apparition is also hideously not him, and it is beyond you to even try to understand the look nestled deep in the dark sockets of the dulled eyes, the miasmic air of rot and decay he exudes.

You double over and vomit black death-reeking ichor. And the twisted shade of your father rubs your back ever so gently, tries to steady you. Dabs at your face with a cloth that smells of alchemical herbs. Pats down your hair and shushes you, murmurs nonsense sounds of comfort, and holds you to him.

There are bones everywhere you look. Opened caskets, upturned marble sarcophagi, and an endless, endless sea of bone. Some arranged in patterns, circles, spirals - shapes so deliberate and familiar and deeply, deeply foul, you do not need conscious thought and acolyte training to recognise. An entire macabre skeletal dance makes up the armour you are pressed against, cutting into you like shards of ice.

You can barely manage breath. Speech feels right out of the question. You try, anyway, a feeble: "What--," until you are reduced to tearing, wet coughing again.

Cold hands to cold arms, you are moved to sit up fully. "Hush, don't strain yourself, Isobel. I'm here. I'm here." And then, reverently, "you're here."

He looks at you and smiles. "My Isobel," the once-beloved, grave-distorted voice is in awe. "My darling daughter, returned to me. We can be together again. A family once more." The mouth of the sickly grey shadow-laced corpse-face looming above you stretches into a perverse mockery of affection once lavished upon you by your dear father.

It is not him. It is not him. It is the broad, rough outline of Ketheric Thorm, filled in with something else, something wrong. This… warped creature of horror clad in bone and darkness cannot be him. But it is.

If I am back, where did I go? You want to ask. Where have I been?

Cold, dark, damp. Nothing but blackness. Shadows, grasping, from all around you, reaching within you, from within you. The feeble flicker of a few candles does nothing to subdue them. No light, no light can withstand… except…

You had warmth and light unconquerable, once. You remember little, can make sense of even less, but you do remember her.

"Aylin," you rasp out, "where is Aylin?"

It is hard to run in a funeral robe, on shaking, unsteady legs. But the fine cloth burns white and silver on you and the all-encompassing shadows do not touch you, recoiling when they try to reach and claw and grip.

And all the while something guides your steps; something so achingly familiar, a gentle yet unshakeable foundation upon which you had built up so much of your life, your self. Even though you feel like a stranger to your own bones, as if the rest of you might just slough off and leave you but a pile of dust, you travel safely and surely down an unseen path, laid before you as if it were a bright, moonlit, well-trod road, your pursuers nowhere to be seen.

The path She sets before us, your addled mind recites as it grasps around for something reassuring, but always it is us who must walk it.

You stop, gasping for air and doubling over in a fit of coughs, as a giant of wood and brick emerges from the shadows.

You knew this place, once. You celebrated here, attended festivals and feasts and casual drinks alike. Helped out at the bar on account of losing a bet - it amused them to see you fill ale mugs still in your initiate garb, and you cheered and jokingly bickered and laughed and laughed and laughed. Lived, alongside your friends and cousins and aunties and uncles, down every street and around every corner of what this town once was.

It is less an inn and more a dilapidated husk, now. And it echoes with the same feeling you bear of being hollowed out violently, then just as violently filled to the brim with something foul, wrong. But it is quiet, and it still stands despite the ruin of everything you have trudged through so far, as if it has been waiting for you to find it. The creak of the stairs as you climb up to the top floor is the only sound for miles.

Your feet take you around the landing, to a large room that must have been homey once. Then your eyes catch on the faded designs on the thick, ragged carpets on the floor, the luxurious chair by the now-cold fireplace right next to surprisingly well-stocked bookshelves, the large double bed with finely carved posts. And you remember scenes from what feels like someone else's life.

A slow trickle of memory, disjointed, of a time you stayed here for a good tenday after an argument with your father, attempting to prove a point, and of the poor innkeeper trying to play peacekeeper between you despite the steady stream of income your feud provided her in an off season for trade. More pleasantly, there was also a memorable birthday you spent here with Aylin, both of you away from formalities and duties, huddled together in your own little world for a precious few days.

Aylin, who treated you with such unimaginable tenderness, in the face of all her sheer divine strength. Aylin, who looked just as resplendent in dark blue brocade, offering you her arm at a function, as she did armoured and grime-covered, stepping off the battlefield to sweep you off your feet. Aylin, who gazed up at you with wide, bright, honest, adoring eyes as if you'd hung the very Moon in the sky, despite her being the daughter of the Moonmaiden herself.

Aylin, who was dead.

You peel off the grave-chilled garb, but still feel so deeply wrong you want to retch. Your lungs don't work right, again, and the darkness and dust covering the lounge in a thick carpet do nothing to help. In your struggle for air, you open up a large double door that exits onto a balcony, and are greeted with a wondrous sight.

Light. Weak, shimmery, so faint you might think it an illusion, a trick of your own addled mind. But it is there in all its diaphanous silver, and you know, somehow, it is for you.

You tear off the last remnants of the white silk funeral gloves and extend a hand towards it, into it. "Selûne, please," you rasp the hallowed, oft-spoken name out softly, barely above a despair-laden breath. "Please."

The moment the moonbeam - for it can be nothing else - touches your skin, you feel burning. But it is not a judgement, or a rejection, and you do not have it in you to fear such a thing, not now.

It singes you but doesn't - it sears something away, and you step into it, arms spread wide, welcoming it, or giving yourself up, you aren't sure which. Aren't sure there is much of a distinction to be made, anyway.

As you stay there, bathed, ignoring the sting of it - a miracle. It coalesces into something stronger, then stronger yet. A pillar of light forms around you and when you understand it is yours to do so, you step out of it.

It remains.

The shadows recede.

The inn has a closet full of dusty grey-silver Selûnite robes. You dress.

You dust off a cobwebbed mirror and gaze into the long-dead eyes of a corpse, the Moonmaiden's holy symbol rendered in detailed black ink upon its face. Then you take the entire frame out to the balcony, and arrange it so it catches and directs the precious light.

You kneel down in front of it, curled in on yourself to preserve what feeble warmth you are granted. You pray that whatever your father has become will not find you here. That the shadows will not reach you here.

In return, you receive a purpose.

You were very young when your mother died. The searing, half-understood pain of her departure had time to dull into an ache, then into a sense of absence you have grown up with, that will always be yet another part of you. You keep her final letter, and reread it less and less as the years and then decades go by. You can hear and feel her words just as well in the soft, warm moonlight that blankets Reithwin on blessed nights. It makes you feel like you can firmly grasp and hold and understand all that she tried to leave you with.

There is a distinct sense that she is proud of you. That she will see you again one day and tell you so herself. So you smile up at the Moon, the ever-changing treasured constant in your life, and bask in the pale, gentle love you receive in return.

When you lost a mother, Reithwin lost its head cleric. In the years since, it has had only interim duty-bearers. And you understood, years ago, even as you settled into a promising role in the House of Healing, that you were being looked to as the replacement.

And true - this has ever been your calling. You feel you were born for this service, sometimes, so easily does it come to you - the deeply felt devotion, the lightness of moonlight always ready at your fingertips, the sheer awareness of Her presence, of all She gives and provides and strives for. A cause so good and just and right you would barely deign to call it a choice - though a choice it is, always, freely made by you, again and again and again.

So when you reject the notion of taking up office at Reithwin - at least for the foreseeable future - and announce your plan for undertaking several pilgrimages of increasing length and complexity, it causes a stir among the clergy and a dark thundercloud to settle upon your father's brow.

The further away the locations you list as you stand before him in his study, oddly formal, the deeper his frown becomes. By the time you mention leaving Waterdeep and the House of the Moon and the settlements on the way to Neverwinter, he raises a hand to cut you off.

"I do not think this is wise, Isobel. There is need of you here. The roads are perilous--"

"I can take care of myself. You know I can, papa - you've seen to that. I have trained and prepared for this all my life." Then you smile, hopeful, and make your biggest misstep. "Besides, Aylin will be there to protect me, should the need arise--"

"Of course she will," you catch the mutter under his breath and your mouth slams shut.

You take a deep, steadying breath, and reach across the desk to lay a gentle, reassuring hand on your father's, meeting and holding his heavy gaze. "Reithwin is my home. No matter where the road takes me, no matter how far, I'll always come back. And to you as well, papa."

Reithwin, ancestral seat of your family, safe and idyllic, surely does not need you as much as the wide world; the vast, colourful, challenging variety of the realms. There is so much you can do, and offer. What good are gifts if you are not going to use them? Hoarding them, hiding away, sheltered - no, you refuse to be a waste.

"I need you here, Isobel."

There is an edge of desperation to your father's voice that makes your breath catch and your eyes burn. A pain that calls to mind, oddly, the sting of the black ink being slowly applied around your lids, a needle shaping the curl of the holy symbol down towards your cheekbones.

And there it is, perhaps - the real root of the struggle at hand.

"I can't be your little girl forever," you exhale, frustration mounting, somewhat undercut when you see the naked hurt on his face. "I can't be just that," you amend. "I have an entire life to live. My own life."

"With Aylin," he suggests darkly. Disapprovingly. "And when she carelessly discards you, a mayfly in her eyes--"

"Is that what this is truly about, again? Father," not quite papa at the moment, no, as you try so very hard to keep your calm in the face of your own rising irritation, "must we?"

"How can I not, Isobel? When she has clearly been feeding you this - this drivel."

"It has nothing to do with her!"

The doubt is writ plainly all over his face, and you bristle. Fine. If he is not ready to relinquish his chokehold over Isobel Thorm, cherished daughter, then he will have to reckon with Isobel, accomplished cleric of Selûne, and prospective Silver Lady initiate. You let go of his hand and step back, square your shoulders demonstratively, stand up ramrod straight.

"Our Lady champions and rewards self-sufficiency, agency, travel, and discovery - of ourselves, the world around us, and all in it who might need guidance or help in any way. It is mine to freely give, and I intend to do so, wherever I am needed. In Her name."

You turn and leave without waiting for your father to scrounge up a response.

It is the last conversation you have with him for a century.

You've snuck enough glances at the dates on the Harper reports and missives by now. It sends your head into a spin and you try so very desperately not to think of the sheer implications, but--

A hundred years.

It feels impossible to wrap your mind around it. That you've been gone for so long, an entire lifetime spent in the grave. That you are here, now, after all this time, and so much has changed. The world at large you know next to nothing about, but the place and the people that once made up your own are… gone, or worse.

It feels like a cruel jab of fate, then, to find it, stuck between the wall and a half-disintegrated cabinet's hardwood back: a picture, one of your own, somehow preserved after all this time, left here for you to rediscover after losing it so unthinkably long ago.

It seems like an odd yet exceedingly bittersweet passtime now, your efforts to capture moments, memories, and people, and immortalise them. You remember some poking fun at you even then, when the first sheets of silver coating on resin-treated paper came out a blurry mess. When later you wandered around town, hunting for the perfect angle of the perfect view you wished to capture. But are not light and mirrors and silver all tools favoured by Your Lady?

Time-consuming, each one, to get just right, to get the colours to set properly, to get the sharpness - but each and every one became a precious little capsule of Reithwin and its people. (Oh, if you'd known!)

It felt good to give families the small comfort of a picture of their lost loved one, when they were beyond the help of even the famed House of Healing. When they had neither the time nor means for more traditional portraiture.

You took so many of Aylin. She humoured you, of course, as she did all your whims and oddities, with an earnest fascination and yearning that made your heart swell, sometimes painfully so. She laughed, too, at the idea of immortalising her, the unchanging immortal, of capturing her in a moment. When she would live in it. Forever.

Worry not - I am not leaving your side, sweet Isobel. Spoken always with the slightest tinge of sadness, if either of you stopped to think about it. That always it would be you leaving her.

By virtue of the process and of the artisan, there are no such pictures of you. You think you might prefer it this way.

All told, you took dozens, hundreds, even, once you perfected the method. But to your knowledge only one picture survives. A picture, now a hundred years old - and you would feel thrilled at the quality of your handiwork if the situation were less grim - of the two people you cared for most, who you naturally wanted to care for each other most. Who humoured you that day: two stubborn, mighty paladins posed together, awkward truce radiating off of them both, but radiating also endless, endless love - for you.

You will never stop wondering what truly became of them, after they lost both the thing that bound them together and that kept tearing them apart - you.

Did they ever grieve together? Or did they just lose themselves in throwing around curses and accusations? Instead of tragedy helping them to bridge the gap that had always existed between them, did it instead turn it into this chasm that has swallowed whole everything you ever knew and loved?

What happened?

What went wrong?

How could Aylin, immortal, be--

A knock at the door, followed by Jaheira's voice, pulls you out of the reverie that was threatening to become an abyss. "Isobel?"

You tuck the picture out of sight, stand and straighten out your robes, and take a few deep breaths that do nothing to calm you and only threaten to turn into coughs. Then you open the door of your room, and Jaheira almost knocks you over stepping in without any further greeting or preamble.

"Here," she turns to you, unceremoniously shoving a variety of items into your hands, and you barely manage to keep up without dropping anything. Another small mirror; a tarnished but visibly real silver bowl; a tin pot that smells only slightly sour.

"We have been doing… inventory. I don't know the finer details of your rituals but I know some of what you need - you will have to tell me the rest. To you, Isobel, belongs the honour of receiving the final scrounged-up dregs of this inn's uncurdled milk." With a wry smile, she nods towards the door to the landing, "and there's two more reasonably uncracked mirrors downstairs."

The mood whiplash is making you dizzy. "Thank you, I… I'll be sure to get them. You're right - they will help with focusing the moonlight that makes it through the shadow shroud. All of this will."

You manage a smile, even. The one Jaheira graces you with in return is slightly less keen-edged than what you've come to think of as her usual.

"You and your Lady of Silver snatched us from the claws of a very unpleasant shadow-cursed doom. And now you act as our main bastion - at some cost to yourself, I'd wager, though I know you won't tell me. I'd be a fool not to do everything in my power to help bolster your efforts." She inclines her head in a simple, grateful nod, and you almost, almost want to break down and tell her everything. Let spill all the unpleasant truths you leave buried the way you sometimes think you yourself should have been. "Thank you, Isobel."

You choke down another treacherous cough and the gnawing guilt. If she knew who you truly were, she'd never look at you like that. She'd never talk to you like that.

Something about this sharp, weathered, experienced, stubbornly uncowed version of a famed hero you'd only started to collect tales and songs about, before-- well. It would have doubtlessly been an honour and a thrill to meet her then. But now? How much has she seen, what has she done, what impossibilities has she survived, in the hundred years you've been gone? A storied hero, the High Harper, and who knows what else besides.

But here, in the strange, desperate whirlwind you have become caught up in, she feels like the stalwart support beam without which you would be utterly lost, and all of Last Light with you. Perhaps most irrationally of all, she makes you feel something resembling safe , even though to call your situation a nightmare would be putting it mildly.

"You're very welcome, Jaheira. If you have a moment, I…"

You trail off, thinking of asking her, like a child, to spare a few minutes to sit with you and tell you a story of one of her adventures. Something with an eclectic cast of loyal, brave Harpers and a happy ending. Something that took place far away from here, to take you both far away from here. There has to be at least one in her repertoire, surely?

She looks at you expectantly, an expressive eyebrow raised. Instead, you motion towards the balcony doors, the items for your would-be altar held precariously in your arms. "It's nothing, never mind. I'll get the ritual ready. Thank you, again, for… all of this. I'll come downstairs for the mirrors shortly."

Jaheira doesn't argue this time, and though her gaze on you is uncomfortably piercing and follows you all the way outside, she says nothing at all.

There is no real day and no real night in the inn of Last Light. Only endless twilight, glimmering remnants of shadows seared away by moonlight. Utterly ruinous to the very idea of regular sleep - even if such a luxury were afforded you.

Tired, tired, tired. The exhaustion has sunk so deep into your bones you cannot fathom the idea of it ever leaving.

You trudge down the stairs, numbly relieved there are no Harpers or Fists for you to greet with a plastered-on smile, and retrieve your bowlful of milk for the day.

There is a cat, somehow. A sleek, furless, vain thing. It slunk in with one of the patrols, and nobody has ever questioned its presence. You gave it a brief once-over with some simple divination, found nothing to threaten your haven, and so it stayed.

You attempt a scratch between its ears in passing, and it mewls at you almost angrily, a bit of claw catching on the worn leather of the gloves that continue to fail to warm your hands at all.

Unbidden, your mind dredges up memories of Squire, the fiercest of warhounds and most gentle and loyal of girls. The precious litter of her puppies you welcomed, raised around Reithwin.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing is left untouched. Death and decay and shadows of a life. Of lives . Exchanged for what - your own dullened half-existence? A horrid bargain if there ever was one. The endless reports of horrors, of deliberate atrocities that the monster that was once your father wrought throughout the land crowd the edges of your mind and you pause, working very hard to push them out and regain your calm.

"Hello there, Isobel. Everything alright?"

Marcus. One of the Flaming Fists who's been in your little haven the longest, whose presence you've almost gotten used to.

You swallow and smudge away the blackened tears before turning to face him. Your vigil - for what else could you call it? - is endless. The commitment and focus required is endless as well. You don't have the time or capacity for this now. Still, the man has never been anything but perfectly polite and friendly, and you had manners and decorum thoroughly instilled in you, a long time ago.

"Just getting everything ready for the prayer. Thank you for the concern," you reply almost airily, sloshing the milk around in your little bowl, not quite meeting his eyes. "Duty calls, and all that. Good night."

He mutters something non-committal in return, and you get a vague, uneasy sense he is not convinced by your casual façade, feel his eyes bore through your back as you leave. Still, you push the encounter from your mind, quietly make your way back upstairs, and avoid any further disturbance.

You adjust the angle of a mirror and try to grasp at the threads of moonlight that have made it to you today. After a few failed attempts as they slip through your fingers, you shake away your misery-laden distraction, gather up the light and reinforce, strengthen, bolster.

The shield is enough for yet another night.

There is no warmth. There will never be warmth in your world again.

Jaheira's sharp, knowing gaze has caught you shivering miserably one too many times, witnessed your futile efforts to rub life and feeling back into your gloved hands, and so there is a well-tended roaring fire in your room's fireplace, even when you forget to stoke it.

But it doesn't help.

The chill of the mausoleum, the dark damp of the stone and the coffin. It will not out. It is in you so deep you might as well claw your own heart out to remove it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch it just in time - a crack in the moonlight dome, the one thing between you all and oblivion. So you rush out to your altar-balcony, arms raised.

"No," you breathe to yourself, to the stale shadow-night air, to no one in particular, "no, I will not allow it. I won't let you win."

Your spells are stronger than ever. You channel moonlight that beats back shadow and burns brighter than ever before, rotten conduit notwithstanding.

Your shield holds.

It holds even when you fight off the attack of an insidious traitor, as you cling to consciousness despite blood loss and bruising and struggle to shake off the burning, paralytic claws of the monstrosities that have surrounded you. That have dared to invade your precious, hard-won safe haven.

You allow the rage boiling in you to bubble over, to fuel your wild spear-strikes. You gasp for breaths that refuse to come right and cough and spit out blood and incantations both. The ghouls fall or flee from you, scorched, terrified, sad remnants finished off by Jaheira's faithful scimitars, and then the only foe before you is the one who was once a man.

It is something you've had all the miserable time in the world to ponder. Something you made up your mind on what feels like an age ago, now. Given the chance, you would strike at Ketheric Thorm with neither hesitation nor mercy. But he hides, coward, in his tower - your long-lost childhood home - and sends out pawns and playthings to drag you back to him. Keeping himself safely out of reach, for all his fabled claims of invulnerability.

But Marcus, Marcus is here, a pair of hideous, rotten wings on his back, and he gloats, spreads them so arrogantly, so boastfully--

You sear them with white-hot moonfire, and you feel more alive as he screams and collapses than you have in all the time since your supposed resurrection.

For such a long while you have had neither time nor space for grief. You are too tired, tired of waiting, of holding out against shadows, of making yourself into nothing but the perfect conduit, of pouring all of yourself into holding out for this one far-fetched hope and the final stand you were never going to be present for.

If the Harpers fail, storming the towers, what will become of you? Alone, in the inn, waiting, waiting, waiting, until your mind or your spirit or your body finally give out, buckle from the strain of holding up the moonlit shield for someone who will never return.

Eating, sleeping, breathing, all of it kept to a bare minimum. What little camaraderie can be found amongst the Harpers, the Fists, the refugees - none of it extends to you, their precious saviour, their lodestar and bastion.

The Beacon of Last Light they revere from afar. Isobel Thorm they do not know at all - purposefully, by your doing, and for very good reason.

You have never felt so alone among so many.

And then, a miracle.

Streaking across the sky, a bright comet from the hands of Selûne herself. Driving away thorn and vine and shadow - beating back something within you, as well. For a moment, hands clenched around the railing on the dilapidated balcony that was your temple and your altar, for the first time since your awakening, you feel as if you can breathe. The metallic scent of moonlight and silver and the incense burning around the fresh milk in your ritual bowl penetrate through the miasma coating your lungs.

It cannot possibly be... and yet you feel stubborn, foolish hope settle in your chest like an ember, burning a hole right through you.

"She is dead." Ketheric had said it with all the finality of the tomb, the deep scowl carved in the jagged shadows of his face. Only later did you grasp what it must have done to him, for Aylin's name to be the first one on your lips upon awakening.

(Later still, once more of the awful truth becomes yours to mull over and live with, you will shudder to think what he would have done to her in turn, had she been within reach. An odd thing, to have even the smallest of thanks for Shar and her treacherous, labyrinthine plots.)

You've told so many not to trust Ketheric Thorm, traitor, oathbreaker, false and fallen. Monster.

And yet you unquestioningly believed him in this. Perhaps because it seemed only natural, in this horrid void that the Lady of Loss had made your home, your life into, that your angel, immortal and indomitable, would be taken from you against all odds, as well.

You stand and gaze over the ancient battlefields and the darkness Jaheira and the Harpers marched off into from where you climbed to pray for their safe return. And above all you yearn for the miracle of it being her. With every stolen breath you feel unworthy of such a blessing even more.

It is her, unmistakable beneath the blood and grime. It is her, but changed, just like everything else you'd count in the remnants of your life - not even she, divine, could escape this unscathed.

Pale-grey as marble, with dark shadows around her oddly haunted but blazing eyes, every inch of her that you can see laced with shining golden scars beyond counting.

And you've seen this before - been shown this before: your darling bled silver and scarred gold as an odd manifestation of her heritage. But this is so far beyond even the worst of the battlefield trophies you ever sat her down to heal.

What happened to her?

You recall the words that had sparked such hope in you, now in a brief flash of horror - an immortal Ketheric had imprisoned in the Shadowfell.

How? How could he not see that you've always treasured her as much as yourself? That by raising a hand against her, so unthinkably far beyond breaking any rules of hospitality or kinship, he could have only swatted you away from him utterly.

She falls to her knees, gasping out your name in hallowed shock, disbelief laced with painful hope, as all of her divine radiance seems to melt away, leaving behind only Aylin, your dearest, most beloved.

You reach out with a gentle touch to her chin, just enough to tip her face up to look at you. It is all you dare do, for now - what if she dissipates into so much moonwhisp-smoke, nothing but a dream? Her wide, teary eyes are filled to the brim with matching wonder when they meet yours.

And you realise: you forgot, for the first time in days, perhaps months - as soon as you were caught up within her silver glow - that you were supposed to be dead.

Jaheira shoots glances at you and Aylin with the most inscrutable yet oddly soft look in her eyes all evening. A part of you itches to ask for clarification, to finally know more about the woman behind the hero who's done her very best to share what she could of your burden. But you are loath to prod at what must be old, old wounds - not when there are still so many fresh ones to patch up.

You muster up the courage to approach her almost in passing, on your way out of the central hall.

"I am happy for you two," she lays a hand on your shoulder, stiff, as if dusting the cobwebs off of the whole idea of camaraderie. You stop to fully face her, releasing Aylin's hand for what seems like the first time since your reunion and letting her hesitantly step outside without you. Jaheira shakes her head.

"Go," she urges, a knowing smirk on her face. "Don't waste time you could be spending with her, in this short breath we have been afforded. The briefings and strategising and endless planning will wait."

A nod towards the corner Aylin turned not moments ago, a gentle shove, and that look of long-held sadness that years have turned into a dull ache, bearable but ever-present. Something you might have seen on your own father's face, before… before. "Don't squander your miracle."

For once, you don't stifle your urge to embrace her. And to your surprise she returns it, firm, warm, and only slightly awkward, making vague tutting sounds of disapproval throughout.

Then you hasten outside into the receding gloom to catch up with Aylin, and you do not look back.

It is an unusually warm and bright summer day for Reithwin, the relentless sun urging you to rush your errands around town and make your way home to the merciful shade. And it is upon your return there that you find the glorious Dame Aylin laying waste to an army of training dummies in the otherwise empty practice field beneath Moonrise Towers.

You steal a moment to watch and appreciate the spectacle that is her entire being in perfectly orchestrated motion, uncharacteristically free of her ever-polished armour, sleeves rolled up - a vision of ferocity, even if it is against such laughably unworthy foes.

It calls to your mind, amusingly, the poor announcer in your father's audience chamber a little over a month ago, so very unusually formal and far too visibly nervous, struggling to rattle off one too many titles.

The Valiant Dame Aylin Silverblood, Undefeated Sword of the Moonmaiden, Paladin and Daughter of Selûne. Arriving as formal Emissary of Our Lady of Silver, speaking in Her name.

She turns when she hears you clearing your throat to announce your presence, an indulgent while after your arrival. Ever so slightly out of breath, with a subtle sheen of sweat on her radiant brow, she inclines her head with respect. "Ah! Lady Isobel. I was just thinking of sending to fetch you. A request, if you please."

"Of course, Dame Aylin." Anything for the resplendent emissary, you want to add, only half-teasingly. It is frustratingly difficult not to act a smitten fool around her, and sarcasm has proved a feeble defence from her charms.

Her request, however, is nowhere near anything you might have anticipated.

"I would have you meet me in the sparring ring, if you are willing."

You blink. "I-- pardon?"

"You are no mere lord's daughter, nor are you simply the demure local healer. I can tell by your bearing you have training. Not the typical mace of the clergy, no," she hums, as if in thought, looking you up and down quite brazenly, appraisingly. "The rapier, perhaps, along with a dagger for the offhand? No, rather, the quarterstaff--"

"The spear," you cut her off. And the lofty, approving tilt of her chin is so fetching as to be insufferable. "I can protect myself, you're right. My father is an accomplished general, after all," and stiflingly overprotective to boot, but that part you bite back and keep to yourself. "It is only fitting. Besides, any devotee of Our Lady knows how important it is to be able to fend for oneself."

"Show me, then, general's daughter," she gestures to the packed-dirt training ring with a grin. "I grow quite bored of this straw-filled wicker regiment I have been pitted against."

She's got a good head and a half of height on you. Her reach outclasses yours quite overwhelmingly. She is visibly broad and strong and unshakeable as a mighty fortress. And though you do indeed have training, the martial arts were hardly your main focus - very much unlike her.

A challenge, truly, but one you cannot help but suddenly crave.

"Fine, then, I accept." A giddiness washes over you as you speak, and your head feels oddly light. The heat and humidity of the day, surely. Treading dangerous ground, Isobel.

Aylin immediately goes over to the training weapon racks to put away the blunt sword she has been using, and you follow her.

"I have trained in arms of all sorts, but I find I most favour the greatsword," she muses as she rummages, retrieving two wooden staves with padded ends, testing their weight. "The spear I must confess I have neglected somewhat, in recent times."

You smirk as she hands you a staff that has evidently passed inspection. "There is no need for excuses, Dame Aylin. When I trounce you, I assure you it will have been fair and square and well deserved."

You expect the hearty bellow of her laugh, some lively banter in return, an exclamation, Ho! Instead, she inclines her head in a respectful gesture, and does so with a surprisingly soft smile and oddly inscrutable gaze in your direction. "I would expect no less of you, my lady."

You look away hastily, wipe the sweat from your hands and put on the leather gloves from your belt. The day has been far too hot for them and the afternoon sun is still beating down fiercely, but you are not about to embarrass yourself and risk losing on the technicality of a splinter.

Then, you face each other.

Her stance and the way she holds the wooden training weapon speak of years, decades… centuries of experience, perhaps. It is hard to truly imagine, and you find you do not really know. Immortal, yes, but… well, since when? Does she have a universe of deeds and escapades on you, a hundred lives lived to the fullest, or merely the knowledge that they lie ahead of her?

When could it possibly be polite to ask such a thing?

You shake away the distraction of your thoughts, just in time to block a quick, testing blow aimed at your own weapon. A tease, really, hoping for a reaction you know well enough not to provide.

She continues with the probing attacks, none of them with any real force behind them, and you think how under normal circumstances it might be a good strategy to let your opponent waste her strength and tire herself out like this - but you know better. You have discreetly observed enough of her training sessions to know that if she is anything at all she is tireless.

But she is leaving it up to you to attempt anything other than these light provocations. So you do - you would hate to disappoint, after all.

You strike out high at her head, once, twice, then at her front leg, swift as a viper, and when she moves her weapon down to parry, you jab at her shoulder and step back in time to avoid the afterblow.

"Oh-ho! An excellent feint, perfectly executed!" The joy that lights her face even as she rolls the struck shoulder is so infectious, you can't help but laugh breathlessly, warmed by this small triumph. "I was indeed correct in my assumption - the most noble Lady Isobel is not to be underestimated. Her skills and merit extend far beyond even the lofty requirements of her duties - be they of the court or of the faith."

The next strike you attempt, flushed with both the heat of the day and the effusive praise, is met with far more resistance, and soon you are exchanging blows with vigour. She repays your shoulder blow with a tap to your hip, then tries to strike the staff from your hands in a disarm you just barely avoid with a well-timed tilt.

Your next attempt at a feint is parried at the very last moment, but you do not retreat, and so you end in a bind. She is much stronger than you, yes, but your angle is superior, and you can see her straining to stay in position, close to that ever-important centreline, and keep her balance. A bead of sweat trails down her neck to her collarbone, and it takes you a moment to realise you are following it, rapt. It takes you another moment to register she is staring at you just as raptly, even as you feel your hair sticking to your temples and realise the paint around your eyes is likely a smudged mess.

Distraction. An opening if you've ever seen one.

"Do you know, when I heard an emissary of Selûne was coming to our town, I did not expect her to have a bard's silver tongue on her." Instead of moving to disengage and putting distance between you, you draw even closer to her, until your mouth is almost at her ear. "In more ways than one, perhaps?"

Her eyes are wide and her cheeks are flushed silver, shining. It is the oddest and most captivating blush you have ever seen, made only more so by the closeness of your study.

And of course, the moment of distraction proves sufficient for that slight shift you needed. The great oak topples with so little effort - leverage, always, the key. Her reaction is faster than you anticipated, however, and so with the force of her riposte you go down right after her. Foolish of you, really - the thought has time to rush through your mind as your sense of balance disappears - to underestimate an accomplished paladin so.

In any case, within moments, Aylin is on the ground, and you land atop her. You have enough presence of mind, somehow, despite the proximity and the warmth and the, well-- to reach for where your weapon started to roll away and press the end of it lightly against her neck. "Yield?"

She raises her hands, palms up in surrender, and nods, struck speechless for once.

You scramble rather gracelessly to your feet in all your triumph, and offer her a hand up. She accepts, then somewhat disappointingly lets go to dust herself off before you've had a chance to fully appreciate the feel of her hand in yours.

"Well!" Aylin turns the bright glint of her full attention on you, charmingly tousled still. "I see no point in struggling to prolong a losing battle. A challenge, skillfully won." She steps closer to you and inclines her head in a slight bow. "Besides, I can tell my yielding on the field of battle pleases you, and I am not one to deny a lady her pleasure."

All of it spoken with a smile, and a shockingly honest, unmasked, open, and entirely unabashed look in her eyes. Damn her.

You do your best, feebly, to catch your breath and return to something resembling calm propriety. And you fail to squash a niggling doubt. "Thank you for the bout, Dame Aylin. But… honestly now, were you holding back?"

"Only as much as is appropriate for the training ring, of course. One is never to exert one's full might in these circumstances, as you well know." She shakes her head, a small frown furrowing her brow, and you can't help but feel this is a recitation she has been made to repeat until it stuck, something she had to deliberately become aware of after getting carried away one too many times. A thought to file away for later, perhaps. "But not in the sense you doubtlessly meant, no. I would not pretend and deceive after asking a fair duel of you. Such things are beneath Dame Aylin."

The heat floods your cheeks again. Damn her phrasing.

"Ah," she clears her throat. "The day has grown too hot for martial pursuits, I fear - let us retire."

She offers you her arm, ever gallant. You allow yourself the bold indiscretion of taking it only after you have peeled off your gloves and tucked them back in your belt. You've not known Dame Aylin for a very long time, but you are well aware she is possibly the least subtle creature in all of Faerûn. The ill-concealed catch in her breath and stiffening in her shoulders as your skin meets hers is a treasured token you stow away for further contemplation.

It is a regrettably short walk to the pleasantly shaded entrance hall of Moonrise.

Aylin pauses after closing the door behind the both of you, palm pressed flat against it, as if gathering herself. Hesitant as you haven't seen her be since those earliest days of your courtship, a clear tension running through her, to the very tips of her wings. A flutter to them, to her, you'd even dare to call nervous. One you yourself feel nestle somewhere in your belly, with a surge of fear - what if she can tell, with her refined and otherworldly senses, what if she can recognise everything that is wrong within you? What if she, of all people, recoils from you in disgust, confirming all your darkest, deepest doubts?

"Aylin?"

She finally turns as you softly call to her, the broad, armoured shoulders sagging somewhat, and stops again to gaze at you like a wondrous revelation.

Then she surges forward, rushes to kiss you again, more deeply and thoroughly than that brief, breathless reunion in front of all your allies. You in turn rush to peel off your gloves to run your hands through her hair, to touch her beautiful, cherished face so very tenderly with no bothersome barrier between you.

The ache to reacquaint her with gentleness and care and all the immense affection you feel wanting to burst out of you is overwhelming. Your hands are icy still, but Aylin does not seem to mind, and takes them in her own, then draws them to her lips to kiss the digits one by one.

She buries her face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around you, and you cling to her just as tightly. Allow yourself to focus on nothing but the feel of her warm breath on your skin and of her strong, if regrettably steel-clad, frame in your arms.

"Isobel," she murmurs, intoning it like a prayer, over and over again. "Isobel. My Isobel, returned to me."

You insist on slowly and utterly inefficiently removing her armour yourself, once her disbelief has simmered down and allowed a brief, temporary end to the crushing embrace. The lengthy, involved process is made even longer by her impractical refusal to ever fully break contact between you.

She in turn insists on setting you down on the barely-used bed and spending considerable time on her knees before you, enraptured in her favourite form of worship. And you - you find you have no complaints to give. Not when something resembling warmth has finally returned to your world. Not when there is light that you are not painstakingly wringing out of your own self. Not when it drives away all thought of the deep-set wrongness within you.

And it never fails to rob you of breath, to astound, since the very first time you saw her thus: the Moonmaiden's daughter, a blessed, angelic being, knelt before you in such utter devotion. It was almost too much to bear then, and still is now. Her eyes, her mouth, her fingers. Divine all.

And then, the way she happily, even eagerly bows to your touch, led by your hand, your will, your every word. Magnificent and mighty, glorious and oathbound, immense strength restrained and controlled, all for you.

You, so undeserving, and if she but stopped for a moment, if she were to look--

When the unwelcome darkness crowds again in a moment of distraction and another shudder climbs up your spine, chill chasing chill, strong, familiar arms draw you in, holding you from behind. Aylin presses against you as closely as she can manage, as if seeking to obliterate the very thought of you ever being apart. Kisses, still with an undertone of desperation, rain against your neck, down to your shoulder, with the slightest scrape of teeth. Pale wings, downy and sleek in turns and as fine-wrought as the softest starglow, move to envelop you both. Protecting but also hiding, almost - uncharacteristically, for someone wont to proclaim her love for the whole world to admire and envy.

You feel welcome, precious warmth sinking into you anew along with the murmurs of exaltations against the sensitive tip of your ear. You breathe out Aylin's name and feel her shudder behind you, running all the way to the tip-feathers of her wings.

"Let me hear you, my love. Please." Her fingers trail up your throat as if she is trying to draw sound out of you. "Do not deny me your sweet voice, a balm for my heart," she continues her plea before you have a chance to respond at all. "One I feared I would never be graced with again. Lost to me forever, now… now… found. Here, with me. Precious, darling Isobel."

Her own voice falters - a melodious trumpet proclaiming victory on the battlefield, but capable of becoming such a soft, gentle caress when with you - and a tear drips onto your shoulder.

You turn in her arms to kiss her in hopes of providing comfort and instead you taste reminders you cannot escape, as your tongue meets the golden crack splitting her lower lip. The sudden need to shower her in tenderness is so strong it takes you aback, and you stop, catching your breath.

Then you push so very lightly against her, one hand on her sternum, to get her to lie amid the mismatched, piled-up pillows - and she is once again so delightfully eager to follow your lead. You continue with feather-light touches on her strong, treasured, beautifully open face, down her neck and arms and chest. Nothing but gentleness for her tonight.

You hold her gaze as you hover above her, perched on her somewhat precariously. Bright eyes so overflowing with trust and love, utterly incapable of masking it, and unable to even comprehend why one would ever try. That great, fierce, ever-beating heart. You lay a hand over it, over the interlocked scars forming a golden centrepiece on her chest. And you want to weep for the sheer divine beauty of her and the unfathomable cruelty wrought by your own blood.

"Let me take care of you, my love," you lean down to murmur against her ear and she nods a wide-eyed hitched-breath acquiescence.

The first time that night that you fail to stifle it and your cough wakes Aylin from hard-won rest, you wince at the nakedly concerned look in her eyes. And then the cold fear floods you at the questions she is doubtlessly preparing to ask.

But instead, she sits up and moves to hold you to her chest, and pulls at the covers on the bed until they envelop you both. The two of you stay that way, wordless, until the hitch in your breath passes, and you sink back down into sleep.

Well after the towers have been stormed and ransacked, when most of Last Light has prepared to move out and join the Harpers at Moonrise for the final stretch of road to Baldur's Gate, Shadowheart approaches you with a crumpled, yellowed paper note.

It is not exactly a surprise to see her, truth be told. You've been expecting her to come to you with questions, after she has had some time to mull over the upheaval of her own life and the revelations Aylin paid for her freedom with. Once she's wrested out of it all some understanding of what it even is she wants or needs to ask. Whenever it was to come, you swore to yourself you'd do your very best to be gentle and generous with her.

You hardly started off on the right foot with Shadowheart - quite understandably, of course, considering.

Now you look upon her and feel the strangest tumbling mix of feelings: pity, that she was a victim of a Sharran plot; anger, that they would kidnap and torment a child and rob her of her future just to spite Your Lady; gratefulness, that her lapse, her knife-edge decision spared your Aylin's life and returned her to you so miraculously; and a roiling bitterness that she could have ended her, endless, on that wicked spear-tip just as easily.

But oddly enough, questions are not what she has for you at all.

"Here," she starts, unceremoniously, proffering the bit of paper. "We found this on-- nevermind." Terrible Sharran material, really, this Shadowheart, and you almost, almost want to laugh. As if you haven't seen her cleaning Ketheric's skeletal armour herself. "I thought... if you wanted... to remember him by."

She doesn't remember much of herself, of her parents - you know this from what Aylin has told both you and her in brief, quiet confidences, a part of the grand tale of her long-awaited unshackling. Much of it (and very obviously) sanitised for your sake still. So this must be a painfully honest effort at an olive branch. You stare at her for far too long and wonder if you see misplaced envy in her gaze. Wonder if you envy her, a little.

What a pair you make.

You take the bit of paper from her and look over it quickly - you don't remember writing it. You drew and wrote and scribbled hundreds of little scraps much like this. Why this particular one received the honour of preservation and how is beyond you.

You would have perhaps been inclined to accuse her of a typical Sharran plot to pour salt into wounds and rejoice in another's loss with a sickening eagerness, once. But she is so very obvious and straightforward about it all - entirely unbecoming of her former supposed ilk. You wonder, idly, if her travelling companions saw something of this in her as well, behind all of the dark trappings and posturing.

"Thank you," you mutter, ultimately. Shadowheart means well, and you know you should encourage this. "Kind of you, to think of me."

A nod, a brief moment of awkward, slightly tense silence, and then she leaves. Any questions she might have you suppose she will keep for some other time.

You sit by yourself in the emptied-out room and clutch the note in silence for a long while. Eventually, you let yourself weep for the man who died when his daughter did, and for the little girl he refused to let go.

#baldur's gate 3 #isobel thorm #dame aylin #aylin x isobel #bg3 #fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #i love them and wish them all the succor in the world #what's that you say knight/lady flavoured nonsense oh don't mind if i do

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kaitou-red · 4 months ago

Text

Tintin and the Seal of Cagliostro - Chapter 11 Preview

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444263/chapters/163150399

"By all the great ten thousand thundering typhoons, what in the name of Neptune's beard is this fiddlepated fancy dress falderal?!” Haddock squawked, grasping his hat to his head with such a look of horror you could be forgiven for believing he had just witnessed Red Rackham himself rising from his watery grave. “Nope. No. Not on yer nelly puff! I'm off."

He made to leave, but Gideon's hands were already firmly planted on his shoulders, steering him further into the music hall.

"Ah-ah, Archie! Give it a chance, old boy. After all, no one should visit Paris without a little avant-garde Montmartre after midnight."

“It's seven o'clock,” said Tintin.

Gideon clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Plenty of time to get acquainted with the old place!”

"Aye, well you just keep yer trousers on," Haddock muttered, dabbing his red face with a handkerchief as, together, they made their way deeper into the interior of The Royal Box.

For once, Tintin couldn't blame Haddock for his theatrics. Even he had to fight to keep the colour rising to his cheeks. They had been guests of Madame Castafiore's at more than one unusual venue, but none quite so racy as The Royal Box. Salacious frescoes of nude figures adorned the length and breadth of the room, and barely-clad serving girls skittered amongst the tables and dancing couples, their trays laden will all manner of exotic drinks. The room itself pulsated with music, unrestrained and audacious. Every breath seemed to invite the hum of the jazz band deeper into his breastbone where it thrummed and purred like a happy cat. The air was thick with smoke and laughter, and the very balls of his feet vibrated with the energy of the syncopated jazz rhythms as they wove their way to the heart of the club.

“Feeling a little out of your depth, Babyface?” Gideon teased in his ear.

Tintin drew him a look. It was the sort of look he had become accustomed to directing the other man's way; one that he managed to pour all the witheringly unimpressed energy he had and beam it into a concentrated glare that would have crippled most men. So far it was largely ineffectual on Gideon.

“I'll admit it may not be to my taste, but I'm not that green, Stark,” he added for good measure.

“If you say so.” Gideon dropped his gaze to admire the long bare legs of a passing waiting girl. She returned his lascivious look with an equally flirtatious smirk of her own. “I say.” He whistled appreciatively as she sashayed by with an extra sway of her hips, causing Haddock to stumble into a table.

Tintin sighed. “Must you flirt with every girl we pass?”

Gideon blinked. “No, but the talent comes so naturally.”

“Suppress it.”

#tintin #the adventures of tintin #tintin oc #captain haddock #the seal of cagliostro #tintin fanfic #tintin fic #my stuff

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annachum · 1 year ago

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Cont. from that Fic where Sansa visits Highgarden and the Graves of Margaery, Renly, Loras and Olenna

The carriage ride from Highgarden back to Winterfell, although rather long, is overall smooth.

No Lannister assasin trying to jump on her and her family, no Baratheon fleet blockade trying to attack her and her siblings.

Great.

As soon as the carriage arrived at Winterfell, the colder air of the North embraced Sansa gently as she stepped out of the carriage into the Castle of Winterfell

It's strange how, only a few years back, she arrived at Kings Landing with her family, being more naive and only 13 then, and trying to fit into Southern culture, only to be betrayed and traumatized by the Lannisters one to many times.

Tyrion divorcing Sansa saved her family in multiple ways, and Sansa is eternally grateful for that act, for she and her family can flee to the North as Cersei targeted them over Joffrey's death.

Yet now, as Queen of the North, even with all that happened, Sansa feels more at home in the North than ever. For the first time in years, the North is finally an independent kingdom once again, away from whatever machination with the late House Lannister

Here in the North, Sansa feels at home

As she entered her dressing room, her attendants immediately got to work to help her change in the dinner meeting with Jon Snow at his tower.

Sansa opted for a dark purple Robe dress in more of Riverlands style, and also a black cloak with silver wolf fur trimmings akin more to Winterfell style. She let a handmaid style her reddish gold hair to a beautiful braided coiffure, as another handmaid gave her a handful of gloves to choose from.

Sansa chose a pair of black finger gloves - a classic Winterfell fashion staple. The North is also known for its gloves and furs in fashions.

As she made a quick work of light pink lip paint, dabbed her freckled cheeks with blush, she wore a beautiful silver crown upon her head, and thanked her handmaids, before Sansa went out of her dressing room to board on that carriage to Jon Snow's tower

Up at Jon Snow's tower at the borders of Winterfell, Jon Snow is pacing back and forth next to the fireplace of his tower's private dining hall. The dishes have already been placed, covered with beautiful silver lids. And Jon Snow smoothed over his navy blue robe as he looked out, in waiting of the Queen of the North.

What could possibly keep her? He wondered.

And on top of that, he had no idea why he was so nervous about this meeting. A dinner with a Queen, yes. He has dined with royals and nobles before, wined with soldiers who fought alongside him battlefields.

But this is totally different, especially when Jon Snow found his heartbeat quicken at the sight of the red haired Queen of the North.

No. He must be careful, and watchful. He cannot risk another heartbreak again, especially after the events concerning Ygritte and Daenerys.

His mind is still racing of the events concerning Ygritte, Daenerys and Sansa as of late, when all at once, his nerves are calmed somewhat when he sees Queen Sansa Stark being escorted out of her carriage to his tower.

' Presenting Her Majesty, Queen Sansa of the North. '

At the sound of a messengers announcement, Jon shuffled himself, and at Sansa's graceful entry, he bowed in genuine deference ans admiration

' Your Majesty - '

' No need for the formalities, Sir Jon. ' Sansa beamed as she motioned him to rise. ' You are also a Stark, remember? "

' Yes, I remember, Majesty. ' Jon stumbled. Pull yourself together, Jon! his little voice screamed inside his head, as he rose.

The dinner was overall smooth. The lamb and root vegetable stew is excellent, the apple cider warm, and the haggis is wonderful.

Even though it is technically a dinner meeting about border guard matters, the 2 gradually relaxed into the meal. Jon can't help but admire how far Sansa has come - from a desperate Princess who rushes to him for help against Ramsey, to now a dignified, wiser Queeb of the North.

' I must compliment the lamb stew, Jon. ' Sansa smiled. ' Brings back of some of the springs my siblings and I have in Riverrun. '

' A new chef from there made it, Majesty. ' Jon remarked.

' Is that so? Splendid, I shall send my regards to the chef later on. ' smiling, Sansa put down her chalice that she drank apple cider from and continued. ' Now, about the border guards - it seems we may need a new upgrade of the retinue of the border fleets. Arya written to me about the trade measures several nations of Essos wish to make with the North. Perhaps it has something to do with the matchmaking of Bran. Again. '

Jon Snow can't help but laugh, but Sansa only laughed along in agreement.

' Well, it seems that your brother has become one of the most eligible bachelors of the 7 Kingdoms. Lucky for him. Your brother has grown into a handsome, wealthy, King of the South. Of course I can't really blame several families trying to recommend brides to him. '

' My brother has to be more careful in these matters. ' Sansa noted. ' He is doing fine so far, with his regency of the South and diplomatic measures with the Bravoosi and all that. I sincerely hope he doesn't make similar mistakes as I did. '

' I understand. ' Jon spoke lowly, with a mixture of understanding and empathy. Yes, both of them made mistakes. Yet they were younger then, and didn't know any better. Now both are working to forgive themselves more on their past mistakes.

' Thus, the Border Guards of Winterfell may need upgrades on the custom checking of goods from Essos, lest there are any assassinations occur. ' Sansa shuddered at that and tried to keep her composure, yet Jon saw right through her attempt at composure - he knew that Sansa is actually concerned about such things. And rightfully so.

' I understand your concerns, my Queen. ' Jon said slowly. ' Yet fear not. As Night Watch, I and the border guards will keep greater watch of any other attacks Essos may have on The North. You have my word. '

Heaving a big sigh of relief, Sansa beamed at him. ' That's a reason why I asked you for help against the Boltons before. Because you are trustworthy. And you have proven it many times. '

' I thank you for such praise, my Queen. ' Jon nodded in respect

The rest of the sinner flowed smoothly, interchanging between on border guard measures, an upcoming diplomatic trip to visit Bran the next few days, and also how their days have been so far. They even enjoyed some stewed apples for desert while sipping some desert wine.

A hundred thoughts wracked through Sansa regarding Kings Landing. She hasn't been there for a time, especially when avoiding Cersei and her wrath about Joffrey's death ( Sansa remembered how her and her family rejoiced at that ). Olenna poisoned Joffrey, not Sansa. But that is a story of another time.

Sansa only hoped that the upcoming visit to Kings Landing can be overall smooth.

#jonsa #jon snow x sansa stark #winterfell #got fanfic

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joyfuladorable · 1 year ago

Note

for fanfic writer asks!!

5, 13, 15, and 18

✨Fanfic Writer Asks✨

HANNAH YOU ARE AN ABSOLUTE GEM 🫂🫂🫂

*INHALE* Okay, these are going under a cut, cuz it’s time to RAMBLE

5. What’s a fic idea you’ve had that you will never write?

I’ll give y’all a two-fer! One new-ish and the other old as balls

So last year, I had the idea to do a Parent Trap AU with the Rise turtles: Estranged Baronjitsu separating right after the tots were mutated, with Splinter taking Raph and Leo and living on a fancy movie star estate on the West Coast and Draxum taking Don and Mikey and staying in the Hidden City. Yokai would be revealed at some point; so by the time all the kiddos are middle school aged, society is just getting used to the integration of these two different worlds. The setting would, of course, start at summer camp, a prestigious camp smack dab in the middle of the US for budding mystic users regardless of if they’re yokai, human, mutant, or otherwise.

Leo and Raph would go with their buddies Casey and Junior (two foster kids who may or may not actually be related). Don and Mikey would go with April and Sunita. Shenanigans would ensue, with Leo and Don being mistaken for each other multiple times (mostly by Camp Counselor Todd who has poor eyesight in this AU for funsies). Then one thing would lead to another, and the turtles would realize that they are In Fact related and Obviously this means they have to secretly get their dads back together by using makeshift cloaking brooches to switch Leo and Don (the only viable ones to switch since they’re the same height) and eventually force their parents to reunite to switch the two back.

But who cares about THAT??? The idea actually spawned cuz I redrew caprisun in that one scene where Hallie goes “now that’s My kinda Woman!” when the tie dye girl manages to pull her duffel out from under a big pile without breaking a sweat. I really wanted to write tween Casey, April, and Sunita forming a close knit bond during the summer while the boys are off doing shenanigans and then continuing that when the switch happens with long distance phone calls and stuff. But alas, the other more urgent wips are a-calling, so I’ll settle for doing scene redraws whenever I feel like it lol

Okay, now the Old One was for a visual novel/dating sim called Hustle Cat, the first game I ever played that gave me they/them as an option for the protagonist’s pronouns. The different routes all followed the same pattern: a down on their luck young adult decides to apply for a job at a cat cafe and then finds out that all the cats are actually the employees who have been cursed in one way or another so that they can only be human while Inside of the cafe, and each route/romance option has the protag bonding with the chosen person and helping them with their problems and stumbling on a cure for the curse by said person discovering their unique magic.

The fic idea I had was basically a Special Route, where the protagonist in each timeline/route is Cursed and Dying, and the only way to save them is to send them back to the Beginning. So the protag, Avery, wakes up at the beginning of the game with all the knowledge from all these other routes. So, out of love for all the cafe people they dated in each route, they decide to play matchmaker for their friends while also trying to help them figure out their magic. Two of the three matches go well (Hayes/Landry & Mason/Finley), but the last match isn’t working that well. Avery Knows one of them (Reese) has a crush on the other (Graves), but it doesn’t seem like it’ll be reciprocated. At the same time, Reese is suspicious of this new coworker who seems to know everyone wayyy more than they should.

In the end, the curse would be revealed to have followed Avery through time and is still killing them, albeit very slowly through the story. Reese would eventually pressure Avery into revealing the truth, and the entire cafe would band together and figure out how to save Avery. Didn’t have much else planned out other than Avery/Reese being endgame cuz I Personally didn’t really like Graves’ route (what with him being significantly older and also the protag’s boss for a majority of any route). Anyways, happy ending! Everyone Gay with Magic and now able to be cat whenever they want!!

13. How much planning do you do before writing?

Usually, I let an idea kinda roll around in my head for a while (which can be as little as a few hours and as long as a few weeks) before I write anything. And then, when I do, I tend to start writing the beginning until I run out of steam, followed by writing notes of where I want the story to go. A note can be as simple as [characters fight] or as complex as [emotions and gestures and staging during a specific moment with possible dialogue]. Honestly, I tend to plan a lot because I struggle with actually writing, lol. Grasping the motivation to write is like trying to hold water in my hands! I really envy folks who are able to just go for it and keep going without needing significant breaks in between.

15. How do you come up with titles for your fics/chapters?

Depends on the fic! If it’s a fic based on art, like I’ll Be Ok! or Keep Your Eyes Open, then I’m directly pulling the dialogue from said art. If the fic has a specific vibe or references a moment in canon, then I’ll pull from those, too. A Light that Never Goes Out is a Kingdom Hearts reference cuz the canon material/cast heavily reference the games. “That’s My Mom!” is word for word what Casey Jr says at the end of the Rise movie and is also the exact moment I started to write and build off of in the fic. And if I’m doing neither of these things, then I usually try to keep the titles short and relevant to what I’m writing (like Training or Struck Match), sometimes changing them several times during the process if I ever think of something better.

Oh! And for chapter titles, I tend to do the same. I like for them to be relevant to the chapter while also building off the previous chapters. So like how I’ll be Ok! has “Promises Made” and “Promises Kept” and A Light that Never Goes Out has “The Heart May be Weak” and “Without a Doubt” (more KH quotes). Naming Ramifications’ chapters is Easy cuz they’re just the title of the relevant episode/movie, lol

18. What’s one of your favorite lines you’ve written in a fic?

Oh man, I’ve really enjoyed writing banter, lately, like Mikey and Raph’s whole exchange at the beginning of Keep Your Eyes Open. But! I think a few lines I’m immensely proud of are what Professor Honeycutt says to Mikey in Scrambled after being asked about giving up his memories during Season 3:

“Well, Michelangelo, to be completely honest, I did not give myself much of a choice. I saved what was absolutely essential at the time: understanding my mission and who I could trust to help me. The rest of my memories, whether they carried over or not, were left up to chance. I believed, at the time, that I could not spare a moment to weigh their worth.”

“If you’d had that time, what would you have kept?”

“Everything,” The Professor answers without hesitation. “I feel, even now, after having several associates - friends - recount to me what I had forgotten, that I am… fragmented. There are pieces of me that I had to give up forever; and while I do not regret their sacrifice, I miss them. I mourn them as I do for the life I had before my fugitive status. If I had been allowed the means, I would have saved Everything.”

It’s dialogue I came up with while at work, sudden inspiration that rocked me with how perfectly it fits with and aids the narrative. It’s also insight into Honeycutt that I’d never really thought about before. Like, here’s a wholeheartedly good individual who sacrificed parts of himself over and over again, whether intentionally or not. How would that feel over time? How much has he mourned these losses? The loss of his real body, the loss of sensation of a real body, the loss of agency, and the loss of memories, the only parts of him that are solely and wholly his own. I finished writing Scrambled and came out the other side a MUCH bigger fan of Professor Honeycutt, and I wouldn’t have it any other way!

#sea rambles #my writing #ask game #thanks again Hannah!!!#love having opportunities to ramble #and yes yea I KNOW a Rise Parent Trap fic’s been written already #I found it After the Fact #and y’know what it wasn’t my jam

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ofwaneoft · 21 days ago

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“Oh,” Andi says, a little dryly. “You’re one of them.” She tries not to let it get to her. The idea of someone who’s both within and above. A vampire vampire wrangler. Of course that’s a thing. “For how long?” she asks, lightly, though there’s an edge to her curiosity—measured, restrained.

But then the tea arrives.

She reaches for the cup without much thought, the warmth of it a small comfort against her fingers. She brings it to her lips and takes a sip—and suddenly she is elsewhere. Not in this room. Not in this body. Not in this year. She’s back in the Russian countryside, in that nowhere place where the maps stopped and the world forgot to look. The air is damp with woodsmoke and secrets. The house rises in her mind at once—tilted shutters, warped floorboards, windows that watched. The silence there was not peace, but pressure. And him. Nikolai, with his grave, unreadable eyes and the way he always handed her this same tea like it was merely hospitality. As though it wasn’t the only thing anchoring her to herself. As though it wasn’t the only thing he could offer that wouldn’t haunt them both.

She knows this taste. She knows this taste.

It hits too fast, too hard. Her eyes go glassy. She blinks, but the tears still come, involuntary and hot. She puts the cup down a little too quickly, the porcelain giving a muted clink against the table. Her fingers tremble.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I didn’t know that’s what it was called. Verbena, you said? Oh.” She swallows. Her throat is tight, the memory caught somewhere in it, sharp-edged and refusing to dislodge.

She turns slightly in her chair, pulling a folded handkerchief from her coat pocket. Not one of those gauzy little things for show—hers is practical, pressed and clean. She dabs at her eyes, breath catching as she tries to find her composure. “Where does it grow? Is it native to Port Leiry?” she asks, not looking at him just yet. The question is real, but also a distraction, a life raft in the form of botany.

It takes her another moment to breathe deeply, steady herself. She hates crying in front of people, but this one caught her off guard.

“I thought it was just tea,” she says softly. “But I’ve only ever had it a few times before. And I’ve been trying to find it ever since.”

Andi exhales a thin filament of tension, letting it unspool between them like thread from a bobbin. “Sure, it’s your job,” she concedes, voice warm, “but even professionals deserve a gratuity now and then. Think of it as — oh, I don’t know — seed money for a new obsession. You strike me as someone who could use a hobby less lethal than vampire wrangling. Take up sailing; buy a ridiculous little sloop and name it Something Punny. Or polo, if horses feel safer than the sea. Worst-case scenario, you blow the tip on good bourbon and tell no one. My conscience stays clear.”

The joke lands softer than she expects; he’s already flagging down a staffer, issuing calm instructions about verbena-laced tea. Andi’s brows knit, curiosity catching like silk on thorns. “Verbena,” she repeats, tasting the word. Internally she ranks the irony: five years married to a war-profiteer vampire and no one mentioned the botanical equivalent of garlic. Another thing he kept from her, alongside his offshore accounts and pet generals. The realization sings through her with a bitter edge, but she seals it behind a practiced smile.

When Malcolm straightens again, she lifts her chin. “Thank you. Sincerely. If it keeps the clientèle from confusing me with lunch, I’ll drink it by the gallon.” Her gaze lingers a breath too long — she knows he noticed. “Sorry,” she adds, unflustered. “Assessing the man who put himself between me and an unscheduled bloodletting. Habit.” There’s a flicker of self-mockery. “I had an upbringing teaches you to catalogue motives like wine notes: oak, cherry, threat level.”

He assures her he intends no harm, and something in her shoulders unclenches. “I believe you,” she replies, softer now, sincerity shading each syllable. “But forgive my vigilance; I learned early that safety is seldom free, and never permanent. Until the tea arrives, I’ll keep close. You’re the only guarantee in the room that I leave upright.”

She extends a hand—not fluttering, not fragile this time, but deliberate, grounded. “Andromache Waneoft. And if you won’t take my Venmo, at least let me buy you that bourbon sometime. Consider it an investment in smoother nights for both clans."

#AHHH love that i get to write in the letters here #( andi ; interactions )#( andi ; malcolm )#( queue. )

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ask-psychotic-twilightsparkle · 8 years ago

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Mod Lixi: UhhHhhhh okay holy shit??

I leave for a bit and I’ve missed an eNTIRE SEASON OF MLP??! HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?? WHAT?? I NEED TO WATCH SOME EPISODES AAAA

Also hiya I’m working on updates for Psychotic Twilight- Sorry for leaving this blog so suddenly- I’ve had things in rl to deal with aaaand...

..I’ve actually been managing another askblog and it’s @askgoldenbendy hueheheeee~

Yes Bendy and the Ink Machine has stolen my soul and I love it so much aaAAaaaa give him a follow he’s a cutiee and totally won’t eat your soul for breakfast~ >w>

#mod post #Holy shit I'm alive??#DAMN #*Rises from the grave and DABS*#*Then sinks back down into grave*#I'll update I promise aaAaaa #Just wanted to let you guys know I'm alive yeeeey

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averagewriter-inthedark · 3 years ago

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Valentine’s Day w/ Peter (A.G) ♥️ | Marvel HC

Link to my Marvel masterlist

Slight implications of nsfw content

Spending Valentine’s Day w/ Peter would be:

There’s never a dull moment when you’re with Peter—and Valentine’s Day is no exception. In fact the chaos seems to be heightened by the holiday, because lets be honest our man loves to the high life.

He’s also a big romantic—candles are lit, rose petals fill the bed in the shape of a heart, chocolates all around and of course kisses are peppered all over your face. “I love you, I love you, I love you so so much. Happy Valentine’s Day baby.”

The entire day Peter is taking pictures of you. Sometimes he asks you to pose—giving your best smile, while most of the time its candids & off guards when you’re not looking. He plans to make an entire album of just the photos he took from that day.

Peter will do whatever you want. If you wanna stay indoors he’s game but if you want to go out then he’s up and ready. “What do you want to do today, Y/n? We can watch a movie, go to the coffee shop or stay in bed and make-out. I-I personally love the third option but I’ll leave the deciding up to you.” “Well when you say it like that…”

Stay in bed and make-out it is. After about an hour of doing this activity you two eventually do end up going to your favorite coffee shop for lunch.

You stop by Aunt Mays home to bring her flowers and chocolates. It had been so long since she’d received anything on Valentine’s Day that the action brought tears to her eyes. You also lay a few roses on Bens grave with a small picture of May taped to the stems.

Peter doesn’t go on patrol that night—dedicating his evening to you so he can shower you with attention. You two cuddle by a fire, enjoying the company while a random show you’ve been binge watching plays on the tv. “I can’t believe you got me into this reality trash tv.” “Oh hush you love it—ooo Snooki is not going to be happy with Vinny.”

The man is the type of person who will order a pizza for you guys—but requests for it be cut in the shape of a heart.

Ice cream is a must for Valentine’s Day date night. You both get your favorite flavor and feed spoonfuls to each other—Peter even dabbing some on your cheek so he could lick it off. “EW! Peter—what the hell?” “Mmmh I love strawberry—great flavor.”

You two dance around like maniacs when you get tired of watching tv—basically having a dance battle in the living room, but Peter always wins cause he’s got knees like no other man you’ve seen. “Dancing to Rasputin on Just Dance prepared me for this moment, Y/n.”

When the song changes to Paul Anka’s ‘Put Your Head On My Shoulders,’ you’re brought to his arms, Peter tucking your head beneath his chin—because he’s so damn tall—and you two sway to the beat of the soft melody. It’s makes the warmth in your heart rise, enjoying being held by the man you love—your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

Eventually Peter becomes mischievous because his lips go to your neck to press kisses to the skin—the action making you heat up. “Peter…” “What I’m just giving you some lovin’.” “You know how this is going to end. “Maybe that’s what I’m hoping for.”

Lovers day was all about loving after all 😉

#andrew!peter x reader #andrew!spiderman #andrew!peter parker #Andrew!spiderman x reader #Andrew!spiderman headcanon #andrew garfield #spiderman #spiderman x reader #spiderman imagine #Andrew!peter Parker imagine #marvel fanfiction #marvel #marvel imagine #spiderman headcanon #andrew!peter imagine #andrew!peter headcanon #marvel headcanons

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ihavedenewacount · 3 years ago

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AVM ep 29 spoilers

*Rises from my grave after not posting for god knows how long* *Brushes dirt off my shoulder*

THE PIG FUCKING DABBED

#animation vs minecraft #avm #alan becker #This was all I had to say #I literally just started this episode #And choked on my ice cream when I saw this

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the-insomniac-emporium · 4 years ago

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Bound Blood (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 2

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village

Rating: T+ for blood, language, nudity, and horny

Warnings: Implied pain/blood kink

Summary: Local vampire tries to give her human soulmate a bath, but the human is feral and loving it. Then it gets a lil horny, to both of their frustration.

Previous Chapters: 1: Sharing Is (Not) Caring

2: Bloodbath, Baby!

“I take it you changed your mind about the clothes? Or am I supposed to use these towels like a makeshift toga?” You asked, glancing around the bathroom, eying the ornate tub with mild interest. This certainly wasn’t where you had expected Cassandra to take you, especially not when she had somewhat promised you garments to wear. There were no pants or shirts (or even dresses) in sight, just a rack of the softest looking towels you had ever seen. It was admittedly difficult for you to resist the urge to use one to wipe the blood off of your shoulder. However, you figured that it would be best to save that for after you were given a good behavior prize. After all, it was much more fun to be a bastard if your “victim” (not that Cassandra really counted as that) knew how polite you were capable of being, and you were, under normal circumstances, very polite. Most of the time. Maybe.

“What did I say about talking?” Cassandra snapped at you, glaring at you from her perch on the counter. She was sitting on the edge, waiting for something, occasionally eying the room’s entrance.

“You told me to shut up for ‘five minutes’. It’s been eight, at the very least! I’ve been holding back, just for you, babe,” you replied, smirking as you did. For a moment your soulmate seems to consider chucking a bar of soap at your head. Eventually she thinks better of it, opting to roll her eyes at you instead. “For the record, I did count, just to be sure. Wouldn’t have wanted to make any assumptions about the passage of time, considering how fast time seems to fly when I’m with a loved one.” Unfortunately, this does not get a rise out of Cassandra, who has shifted to face away from you. Not yet willing to give up your buffoonery (and assuming that you would not, in fact, be getting a good behavior prize anytime soon), you released a loud, exaggerated sigh, before switching tactics.

Standing up with the blanket still curled around yourself, you maneuver over to the tub, eagerly climbing inside. With how large it was, laying down was fairly easy, though you weren’t entirely flat. Wanting to be as comfortable as possible, you adjust yourself and the blanket until it covers you, while letting one end go behind your head like a pillow. It’s nowhere near as nice as you had hoped. On the plus side, however, is the attention it gets from Cassandra. Before long she’s standing adjacent to the tub, staring down with an expression of exasperation.

“What the fuck are you doing?” She asked.

“Napping, obviously. Care to join me?” You answered, without hesitation. Then you gently pat the blanket, as if offering to let her sit on top of you. This only serves to make her angrier. Now she’s leaning over the basin, bracing one hand against it, her other hand reaching to grab your throat and pull you towards her. The two of you are so close that you can’t help but blush, and the feeling of her skin against yours is weirdly attractive. “I should have known you were the kinky type. Not that I mind,” you murmured, gaze wandering a little farther south than her lips. Before you know it she’s shoved you back down and let go of you. She shakes her hand a bit, like she’s just touched something gross, but you see the pink rising on her cheeks. As much as you want to tease her, the sound of approaching footsteps takes priority. Soon the door is opening, revealing a stressed servant, a pile of clothes in her arms. Suddenly you’re glad that Cassandra pushed you away, considering you don’t think she would have enjoyed having someone walk in on the two of you in that position.

“Lady Cassandra, I have what you requested. Would you like me to draw a bath for you? Or-” she pauses when she sees you, clearly unsure of what to make of your behavior. Hell, she almost drops what she’s carrying, and makes a soft ‘oh’ sound. Presumably dying inside, Cassandra quickly takes the bundle from her. Then she stands between the two of you, blocking line of sight, looking as tense as could be.

“Just get back to work, and don’t mention this to anyone,” she growled, gesturing towards the door. As soon as the maiden closes it behind her, Cassandra is turning back to you. “Get rid of that stupid fucking blanket or I’m forcing you to wear wet socks.” Understandably, you start giggling at her request, hardly able to believe that she had really just said those words out loud. “Would you prefer I cut up the soles of your feet? I’ll heal long before you do, asshole.” Now that makes you pause, trying to figure out whether or not her threat held up. Even though everyone had a basic understanding of how blood bonds worked (the less romantic, and more historic, way to refer to soulmates), the specifics were confusing for most people, including yourself. Would your aching wounds bother her? Or only the initial injury?... Somehow you had a feeling you’d figure out the answer within the next few days.

Until then, you decide to err on the side of caution, for once in your life. Still, you roll your eyes before you pull the blanket up and out of the tub. Again you spot a faint rosy tint on Cassandra’s face, and her gaze most definitely lingers on places other than your eyes. In the end you have to bite your lower lip to stop yourself from calling her out on it. Gotta get some clothes first, you think, then back to being a dick. Holding back only gets harder from there.

Wordlessly, Cassandra takes a seat by the front of the tub, where your feet are propped up on the edge. Giving you a judgemental look, she pushes them aside so she can reach the controls knobs easier. You give an exaggerated pout in response, only for her to ignore you completely, trying very hard to look anywhere but at you. It was in stark contrast to how she had looked at you a mere half an hour earlier. There were several interesting things to note about her behavior, and you found yourself almost excited to figure out the puzzle she presented. Did she care about you now? Simply because of your blood bond? Did she have a genuine soft spot for romance?... Those sorts of questions were all you could think about, even as Cassandra turned the handles, letting cold water splash into the tub.

“I’d say ‘fuck you’ but honestly, were I in your position I would likely do the same,” you said, shivering a little. Cassandra raises an eyebrow, staring at you like you were stupid, before turning the handle a bit more. Eventually you figure out what she meant by it. “What, you guys don’t have a quality water heater? This is Romania for fuck’s sake. I would have figured the water would be a hell of a lot hotter by now,” you added, only for her to splash some still very much cold water on your face. “Is this fun for you? Are you enjoying this? God, I hope you assholes have Legos somewhere in this maniac menagerie, so I can step on them while you sleep.”

“Do you always spit in the face of kindness?” Cassandra asked, moving towards the other end of the tub as she spoke. Once more you laugh, though this time it’s much more of a hollow sound, and your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “My sister wanted to kill you, but I pulled your pathetic corpse out of the basement, now I’m letting you use my bath, and you’re mocking me. This is why I don’t bother with this shit,” she growled, even as she wets a washcloth and starts dabbing at your wounds. On one hand you understand her frustration… but on the other you couldn’t get the image of her past victims out of your head.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather be clean than not,” you started to say, pausing to think for a moment. Then you reach out, putting your hand over Cassandra’s, making her freeze in place. It’s soft enough of a touch to surprise her. Which is why it’s so easy for you to snatch the towel from her hands. “You ‘don’t bother’ with this ‘shit’ because you’re a fucking sadist, who thinks all humans are beneath you, who acts like she has every right to bleed innocent people dry, who thinks she’s God’s gift to this goddamn hellhole we call Earth. Do you think this makes up for your sins? Do you-” her nails dig into your arm and she grits her teeth in pain- “think that I can forget listening to the screams of your victims? Whose graves is this castle built upon? Whose fucking bones am I standing on? Who died to keep you alive? How many other versions of me have you killed, in other timelines, in other lives, where the universe didn’t demand that we be together? I’ve seen your heart, girl, and it’s as raw as they come.”

There’s a brief second of intense, furious eye contact. Then a flash of movement, a rush of pain, tears filling the corner of your eyes. Blood pours from the new hole in your shoulder, but Cassandra is quick to lick it up. She’s groaning in between each run of her tongue across your skin, clearly feeling it every bit that you were, yet she shows no signs of stopping. If anything, her pain seems to spur her on harder. Even you can’t help but blush a little as you struggle beneath her grip. Why did vampires have to use their mouths? Why couldn’t they get blood transfusions, like the rest of society? This way, your pleasure mixes with your misery, leaving you confused, and the fact that you’re still naked is not at all helping.

“Oh fuck off, please,” you gasped, trying to push her off of you. To your surprise, she does as asked, pulling away after one last lick. When you turn to look at her, you see your blood covering her lips and dripping down her chin. “You’re a mess, Cassie. Hot water?” With that you return her favor from earlier, splashing some of the (finally above room temperature) water in her direction. Most of it misses her. A few drops, however, do manage to hit their mark. Then she’s wiping her face on her sleeve, scowling the whole time. There’s still plenty of blood on her face afterwards, but it’s nothing compared to what’s gathering on your shoulder. She eyes the wound, nostrils flaring briefly, a predator dying for one more bite. “If you bite me again, I swear to whoever that one lady y’all worship is, I will bite you. My teeth aren’t made for that shit, but I don’t care. We’ll both be miserable and that’s it, baby! That’s love! I’m threatening you with an unhealthy perception of affection, dipshit!”

This time you expect her to move away, or hit you, or do anything other than what she does. Calling your bluff, she moves around the ever-filling tub, pausing to turn the water off, before hiking the edges of her dress up and… oh. Oh. Somehow she’s in the tub with you now, legs on either side of your waist, presenting the side of her neck to you with a knowing smirk. But you are not known for your cleverness. Nor your ability to make good decisions, at that. Perhaps your blood loss was starting to affect your cognition. Whatever made you so feral, so beautifully unhinged, you embraced it with utter glee. Soon enough your teeth find themselves on Cassandra’s throat, digging in enough for you to feel your blood bond reacting. For a moment she stiffens in response. Then she relaxes, even takes in a rush of air that sounds oddly content, leaning into your touch. What the fuck? You think, almost shocked enough to let go. Almost.

“What’s the matter, pet? I thought you wanted me to know what it felt like on the other side of things?” Cassandra teased, voice quiet and low. Something about her tone sends a familiar, although unwanted, feeling to your core. Still, her words egg you on, and you find yourself biting harder, tugging at the skin a little. More tears gather in your eyes, but you fight through the pain as best as you can. You drag your teeth across her skin, wishing for sharper canines, before letting go to inspect your work. There’s a clear outline where your mouth had been, but not a single drop of blood. Frustrated, you go back in for seconds, choosing a different spot to target. Again you go through the motions, only for no crimson to stain your lips. This cycle repeats several more times, with you running your tongue along her neck in between bites, so focused that you don’t realize that she’s grinding against you until she stops.

“I need to file my teeth,” you mused, trying to forget about what you had just done. Now that it’s over, Cassandra seems to feel the same, and she quickly climbs back out of the tub. She’s refusing to meet your gaze, instead focusing on arranging the clothes the servant had brought earlier. By the time she’s facing you again her blush is almost entirely gone.

“Finish cleaning up, then bandage yourself and get dressed. I’ll have a maiden wait outside to bring you back to my room. Don’t even think about trying to run,” Cassandra said sternly. You’re too distracted by the thought of what happened to give her any snarky response. So she simply nods to herself, then leaves, slamming the door behind her. Though you had expected to be relieved by her absence, you find yourself groaning, holding your head in your hands. Why is she so attractive? This is probably illegal, you think, in at least several countries. Or it should be, at least. Now that she’s gone, there’s nothing to distract you from the price of her attention, with your shoulder and neck aching horribly. Cleaning up was going to hurt even worse. Still, you think, at least I’ll have some time to think of new insults. With that in mind, you begin to wash away the blood, thoughts entirely consumed by your newest ‘partner’.

#cassandra dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu x reader #resident evil: village #re8 village #unhinged maiden #well personally I prefer the term feral #absolutely feral #goddamn menace #blunt teeth sharp tongue #please enjoy #not beta read

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