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kinkyniragi · 2 months ago

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The Amendment

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader Genre: Smut 18+ Word count: 2,5k Summary: You are Mr  Shelby’s new maid, and you made the mistake of spying on him in an intimate moment. Caught in the act, you’re now compelled to sign a special amendment—one that grants him far more power over you than you ever intended to yield…and you are doomed to violate his rules far sooner than either of you imagines. CN: Domination/power imbalance…ok, heavy ownership vibes and kinda 24/7 BDSM relationship stuff, spanking. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care. Author’s note: You voted for this one, so here we go, have fun! Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing. Even though I'm not a native speaker, I'll do my best 😉

***

Can be read alone or as a sequel to “Through the keyhole”

Masterlist

Your name is written in black ink. Precise, unmistakable, on the envelope placed neatly at the center of your writing desk. The handwriting is familiar. Unrushed. Almost elegant.

You close the door behind you, still in your uniform, hands damp from the kitchen sink.

***

You’ve only recently begun working at Arrow House, a quiet appointment as housemaid to the estate’s elusive owner, Mr. Shelby. The position seemed simple at first: routine tasks, clear boundaries, unspoken rules.

But one evening, you lingered outside his office door. And watched. Through the keyhole. From your hidden vantage you witnessed him yield to a private pleasure meant for no eyes but his own.

He caught you.

He didn’t raise his voice. Instead, he invited you inside (at least that’s how he would have described what he did). Told you to undo the buttons of your uniform. Told you to match his rhythm.

It wasn’t punishment. Not exactly.

It was a demonstration — and a warning.

Since then, he has made it clear: there will be a formal adjustment to your contract. One that reflects your new responsibilities. One you will not refuse.

***

So, you stand there, hands trembling, when you start to read.

“Amendment to Employment Contract – Private Addendum for Domestic Staff.”

You haven’t yet unfolded the paper when the door opens again — silently, but not unannounced. You feel the shift in air before you see him.

“Sit down,” says Mr. Shelby.

You obey before your thoughts catch up. He crosses the room without hurry, closes the door with a soft click, and remains standing as you lower yourself into the chair. His warm hands come to rest on your shoulders. The weight of them settles like molten lead, grounding and inescapable.

His voice is even. “I would like you to read it aloud.”

You glance at him, unsure. “All of it?”

He agrees. “Clause by clause. And you will tell me whether you understand. Whether you agree. Whether clarification is required.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the page.

You begin.

“Clause I – Demonstrative Conduct

The employee shall make herself available, at the employer’s sole discretion, for purposes of demonstration, instruction, and corrective display...”

Your voice catches slightly on corrective display, but you keep reading.

“...public or semi-public scenarios wherein the employee shall serve as a living example of obedience, humility, and moral instruction. Any such engagement shall be undertaken without resistance, and with full acknowledgment of her subordinate station within the domestic hierarchy.”

You lower the paper. Your hands are suddenly very still.

He waits. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” The word feels small.

“Do you agree?”

You hesitate, your gaze drawn to the phrasing again. Living example. Subordinate station.

“I… believe I do,” you say. “It’s more symbolic than literal, perhaps?”

He smiles slightly — not kindly. “That’s not a clarification. That’s avoidance. Try again.”

You swallow. “Then…yes. I agree.”

“Good,” he says. “Continue.”

“Clause II – Extended Availability

The employee agrees to remain available beyond standard working hours — specifically during late evenings and weekends...”

You keep your voice steady. “…attending to the private and discretionary needs of the employer… duties may extend beyond ordinary household tasks… to be carried out in a spirit of loyalty, discretion, and unquestioned compliance…”

You pause. “It doesn’t say what those discretionary needs are.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s deliberate.”

“Then how—”

“You agree to serve. The nature of that service may shift. Your commitment does not.”

You nod slowly. “Yes. Understood.”

“And?” He touches your chin to turn your head up to him.

You meet his gaze, heartbeat audible in your throat. “I agree.”

“Clause III – Observation Compliance…”

You already know what’s coming. Your hands feel cold against the page.

“In compensation for her initial act of unauthorized observation, the employee forfeits her right to privacy. She consents to being observed by her employer at any time and in any state of undress or engagement, including but not limited to private quarters, bathing facilities, and during moments of personal solitude, without prior notice or justification.”

There’s a long silence after you finish the clause. You feel exposed already, just from reading it aloud.

Mr. Shelby doesn’t speak immediately. He lets the quiet settle like weight on your shoulders.

“You remember what you saw,” he says finally.

You nod hesitantly.

He moves a little closer, palms still rested on your shoulders.

“You chose to watch. And when I invited you in — you followed through.”

Invited.

You feel heat rise in your face. You remember too clearly what he asked of you.

Without giving you a choice.

“I didn’t force you,” he adds. “You crossed that line on your own.”

Your mouth is dry. “I thought—”

“You didn’t think,” he interrupts. “You indulged. And now you’re here because we both know it won’t stop unless it’s given shape. Contained.”

You try to hold his gaze. “I wasn’t going to do it again.”

“But you were thinking about it,” he replies. “Weren’t you?”

You say nothing.

He nods once, as if that’s enough. “Read the next clause.”

You look down and do as you were told.

“Clause IV – Behavioral Disclosure…”

You read it in one breath. The words are heavier than before. “The employee shall provide a written or verbal report upon request, detailing any private thought or fantasy of a sexual or emotionally compromising nature, particularly those involving her employer, his household, or her service therein.”

You glance up halfway through but find no reprieve in his face.

“...reenactment or embodiment of any disclosed fantasy... within the estate or a location of his choosing.”

You don’t speak immediately this time. He waits.

“That seems… intrusive.”

He taps a finger lightly against the clause.

“This part,” he says, “is not about punishment. It’s recognition. Your behavior makes it clear you entertain fantasies involving your employer. As such, I have a right to know about them. To prevent future… lapses in judgment.”

You close your eyes for a moment.

“Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“And agree?”

“…Yes.”

You lower your eyes to the next section.

Clause V – Controlled Autonomy The employee shall abstain from acts of physical gratification or stimulation unless expressly permitted by the employer. Any breach of this clause will result in corrective measures as defined solely by him.

You hesitate before reading it aloud.

When you’re done, the words seem to echo in the quiet room. You grip the paper a little tighter.

He watches you for a moment before speaking.

“You understand this one,” he says, not as a question.

You nod slowly.

“You’ve proven that your impulses require supervision.”

You take a deep breath. A protest forms — then dies.

“There’s nothing shameful about desire,” he continues. “Only about secrecy. And secrecy is no longer permitted.”

He steps around you, not touching, but close enough that you feel the brush of his presence. “You’ll bring that part of yourself under control. Or I will.”

You swallow hard and move to the next clause.

Clause VI – Confidentiality AssuranceAll provisions of this amendment are to be kept in strict confidence. Disclosure to any third party, accidental or intentional, will be treated as a breach of contract and may result in immediate dismissal, legal consequences, or alternative restitution at the employer’s discretion.

You read this one faster. It feels easier — at least on paper.

Still, you glance at him once you finish. “Alternative restitution?”

He smiles slightly. “You can imagine what that might entail.”

You press your lips together. You won’t ask. You’re not sure you want to know.

“Tell me,” he says quietly, “did you speak of…the recent event to anyone?”

“No,” you answer, quickly. Instinctively.

He nods again, as if you’ve passed a test. “Good. Keep it that way.”

So secrecy is forbidden—when the secrets are yours and he is the confessor. Yet you, in turn, must live a vow of silence beyond these walls, offering yourself up for him to devour. You realize you should never express this thought out loud. Any discussion would be pointless and potentially dangerous.

Your hands are trembling a little now. You move to the final section.

“Clause VII – Discretionary Compensation In recognition of the unique scope of this agreement and the demands therein, the employee shall receive compensation at a rate exceeding the standard for domestic staff in the employer’s service. This includes a monthly discretionary allowance, determined solely by the employer, in addition to full room, board, and suitable garments for all designated tasks — public and private. Said compensation is contingent upon continued discretion and full adherence to the outlined terms.

Your voice falters only slightly as you read it. When you’re finished, there’s a beat of silence.

“Does that seem fair to you?” he asks.

You nod.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” you say aloud. “It does.”

“Then sign it,” he says simply, producing a fountain pen and placing it beside the page. You stare at the spot where your name belongs.

And you know — the moment you sign, nothing about this role, or your place in this house, will ever be the same.

***

The next morning is almost normal.

You brew the coffee. Set the table. Fold the linens with practiced ease. But your hands move on instinct alone. You haven’t stopped thinking about the signature on that page. The way the ink felt much more dangerous than it should have. The way the clauses still weigh heavily on your shoulders.

It happens in the kitchen — a slip of your hand, a clink of porcelain, a splash of boiling tea that stains the white linen and scalds your wrist.

A lapse. Corrective display. You panick.

You mumble an apology to no one in particular, retreat from the kitchen, and duck into the hallway. Up the stairs. Down the narrow passage behind the guest wing. You lock yourself in the small bathroom tucked between the laundry chute and the old broom closet.

It’s silent here. Dim. Safe.

You place your palms on the cold porcelain basin and exhale. Your knuckles are white. You focus on the tile pattern beneath your shoes. Breathe in. Out.

A few minutes. That’s all.

Until you hear the voice.

Not raised. Not loud. Just there.

“Clause Three. Observation compliance. You're aware of the terms, eh?”

Your heart lurches against your ribs. You twist toward the door. “Sir, I needed a moment. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

Silence.

The doorknob shifts slightly but doesn’t turn.

You add, softer, “Please.”

The pause stretches. You hope—naively—that it might end there.

Then: a metal click. Not loud. Not rushed.

A master key.

You step back just as the door opens. The dim overhead light flickers above you, and he steps into the threshold like the air itself yields to him.

You straighten reflexively. Your hands slide down to your skirt, smoothing it without thinking. You’re still standing in front of the sink, the water never turned on.

He closes the door behind him.

No words at first. Just the sound of the latch catching.

His eyes flick to your wrist — reddened slightly from the tea — then return to your face.

“You locked the door,” he says.

“I... I needed to calm down. It was five minutes.”

“That’s not the issue. You created an environment in which observation was deliberately obstructed.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

He steps closer, voice even.

“Lift your skirt,” he demands.

You stare at him in disbelief, feeling like a bad actress at the same time, because with everything that's happened so far, you could have - should have - known where this was going.

“Have I made myself unclear, darling?” he asks, his tone nothing but strict—more rhetorical than expecting an answer, since you both know he doesn’t.

Without responding to his question, you obey as commanded. You don’t dare to meet his gaze.

“You leave me no choice but to enforce my duties under the contract—and to ensure that you do not cross the boundaries set for you as me employee.”

That’s a pretty elegant way of saying he’s taking the right to punish you, you think.

He moves behind you.

You want to turn, to speak, but something keeps you still. He doesn’t touch you — not yet. Only waits.

“Do you understand?” he asks.

You nod, barely.

“Say it.”

“Yes, Sir. I understand.”

“Good. Then place your hands on the sink and bend over.”

You hesitate — not long — and obey. Your palms meet the cold porcelain again, this time not for comfort.

He pulls down your panties with clinical precision. You flinch when the air hits your thighs. He doesn’t pause. You hear him pulling his belt out of his pants.

The first strike is precise. Flat. It echoes against your skin with a sting that feels almost clean.

“One for the breach,” he hisses.

The second lands sharper. Lower.

“One for the concealment.”

You grip the edge of the basin. Your legs tremble, but you don’t move.

The third comes slower, firmer.

“One to remember.”

You gasp — not in pain, not entirely. Something in your chest cracks open just enough to let something else inside. Something you’re afraid of naming.

Then silence.

You’re aware of your breathing. Of how still he is behind you. The lingering heat across your skin.

He pulls up your panties and adjusts your skirt with deliberate care. Then his hands — warm, steady — rest briefly on your hips before he withdraws.

“You may stand.”

You do. Slowly. Your eyes sting, though you haven’t cried.

He moves past you, opens the small cabinet above the sink, and retrieves a glass. Fills it. Hands it to you.

You take it with both hands, fingers shaking slightly.

“You didn’t cry,” he says.

You sip. Say nothing.

“That’s self-control, you know,” he adds. “Which is admirable. And exactly how I expect my maid to be.”

You set the glass down carefully. Did he just praise you? For enduring the pain he caused you?

Then, unexpectedly, he steps closer again. Lifts a strand of your hair behind your ear, almost absently.

“Clause Four,” he murmurs. “Shall I ask what was going through your mind... just before I unlocked the door?”

You freeze.

His voice isn’t cruel. Not mocking. Just... curious.

You shake your head. “I don’t think I can say it.”

“Then write it,” he replies. “You know where to leave it.”

He’s already at the door when you manage to speak again. “What purpose does it serve exactly?”

He pauses. Looks at you over his shoulder.

“Unvoiced desire has a tendency to misbehave. That’s why.”

The door clicks shut.

You're still standing there — pulse too fast, knees too soft.

The air still tastes like him. Your thoughts no longer feel like yours.

***

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Taglist @jbrownta @mythicalcowboyatheart @shelbybabysblog @simpfortoomanymen @moonbeamott @gothic-chinadoll @weaponizedvirtue

#tommy shelby #cillian murphy #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic #dark fic #dark tommy shelby

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softidiotsposts · 5 months ago

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Color Clash

mega fans are scary...aren't they?

{Hello! From this lovely request (please feel free to leave requests! i love them) Warnings: chelsea/lioness!reader, fluffy fluff, some crack and good vibes :) // word count: 2.3K}

masterlist

The London derby is quite an interesting event in the WSL, not only is it a clash between two of the most formable teams in the whole league but also quite the drama show.

Cards like to fly out of the pockets of referees, especially if McCabe is playing, players dive left, right and center but it's the atmosphere that is most important.

It's absolutely electric, so much so that it sends jolts down you- fans from each time show up fully decked out in their teams respective gear, holding banners, scarves and shirts to show their dedication and you thrive off the attention- you always have loved playing in front of a crowd.

Maybe that’s a part of why you love every single derby, maybe even more than the average player- Mostly because it feels really really good to win over your girlfriend's team but also because you're Chelsea through and through, no doubt about it.

You had grown up in Hammersmith and went to every single game you could- Stamford Bridge was practically your second home, right after to the local football pitch where you spent the remainder of your free time. You trained relentlessly and it all paid off when Chelsea's academy accepted you into their ranks- the rest is history.

At this point, after spending your whole career at Chelsea and clearly stating you'd never want to transfer anywhere else, you have become quite the face of Chelsea women.

That's kind of what makes your relationship with Leah so surprising.

Sure, you'd know each other for a while with both of you playing for England and all but the possibility of either of you dating the other was slim (at least in your teammates opinions) but you've never hated Arsenal- Sure, you'd never be caught dead in red but otherwise you were fine... unless they won of course.

You and Leah danced around your feelings for a while- it made England camps quite awkward, since the two of you were always some of the first to be called up and at that point you had nearly kissed multiple times- and had been forced to room together quite a few times.

But after the Euros win, with alcohol coursing through your veins, a push from Lucy and the high from the medal around your neck so finally confessed your feelings.

Through karaoke.

Which Beth convinced you was a good idea and you stupidly made a fool of yourself, singing You Belong With Me at full volume in the worst tone ever not only in front of Leah but most of the squad.

In the end though, it did win Leah's heart so maybe you should thank Beth?

Ever since then, England camps have gone by like a breeze, the only minus was that you and Leah could never bunk together but you realize there are worse things. You could only be thankful that the international window allowed for the two of you to play in England shirts together- unlike the London derby.

You roll over and wrap an arm around Leah, sighing into her neck as you pull her closer.

"Don't you have meetings or something before the game?" Leah chuckles and wraps her arms over yours where they are resting on her chest.

"I dunno, do I?" You say, eyes still closed in hopes of getting another five minutes.

Leah is not so forgiving because she manages to get out of your iron grip and gets out of bed, it makes you groan and roll over back over to the other side.

"I wouldn't know would I, darling?"

You sigh and crack an eye open to see Leah standing at the foot of the bed, looking at you with an expecting expression.

"Well, I'm not about to reveal secrets to the enemy."

You stick out your tongue at Leah and she laughs then throws one of the pillows that is resting by her feet at you. Then another and another, until you can't breathe because you're being suffocated by throw pillows.

"I yield! I yield!" You yell and throw the pillows off your head.

Then Leah pounces on you, straddling you on the bed and pinning your shoulders down. You smirk and wiggle your eyebrows suggestively making Leah scoff.

"I'm just trying to get information out of the enemy." Leah laughs and leans down to give you a long kiss, it's soft and utterly melts you into a puddle.

You kiss her back just as deeply before she pulls back to peck your cheek lightly.

"Is your method bribery, baby?"

"Maybe, is it working?" Leah presses another kiss to your lips and you moan into it- absolutely loving the way her lips feel on yours.

"Yeah- I think so." You say softly and Leah smiles then rolls off of you.

"Hey!" You reach for her but she's already too far away to drag her back into bed with you.

Leah tuts at you, "I don't think Bompastor will be happy if you're late- maybe she'll pull you out of the starting eleven?"

You gasp, with fake betrayal, "She would never and I'm not going to be late, she needs me to beat you."

Leah raises her eyebrows at you, "You beat us? Not going to happen, babe."

You laugh and finally roll out of bed only to tackle Leah back into it, she yelps and holds onto your forearms when you practically throw her over your shoulder in a half rugby tackle.

"Really? Because I swear we beat you at the Em-"

Leah covers you mouth with her hand to prevent you from speaking and you furrow your brows at her and she smirks back.

"Shhhh, baby- you don't know what you're talking about."

You reach to remove her hand and after doing so smile sweetly.

"I scored two that game, Lee."

She groans and gives you a little playful shove.

"Don't remind me."

You lean in to kiss her, hoping that it would soften to blow off your words and you think it works since Leah kisses back with just as much enthusiasm.

It's after a far too long make out session that you actually get ready, triple checking you had put on the correct things, packed your boots and not Leah's by accident and made sure that you had all you needed.

Then you're both standing by the door, saying goodbye with a light kiss,

"Hattrick for me in this game?" You tease and Leah rolls her eyes.

Then scoffs, "You're not getting past our defense, baby."

You wave her off with a, "Sure," Before walking to your car; a bright blue Skoda that Leah hates since it has a very proud Chelsea bumper sticker and probably because you have around a thousand other pieces of memorabilia inside of it.

The drive to the stadium is filled with minor road rage and lots of waiting because of all the London traffic but you eventually make it to the stadium on time. You might actually be a little early which is new and when you walk in you're greeted by the sight of some teammates.

Immediately, you see Guro sprint at you and you open your arms for a hug. You've practically been best friends ever since she joined Chelsea, the team even jokes that you're stuck at the hip- which might be true since you spend every second of training with each other and a large chunk of free time too.

"Ready to beat Arsenal again?" She asks when you wrap an arm around her shoulders.

You chuckle, "Of course, gotta keep winning, don't we?"

"Plus, I'm thinking of making Leah sleep in Chelsea bed sheets if we win."

You hear a wave of laughter behind you and turn to see Lucy and Millie,

"She's going to kill you if you do that."

You nod at Lucy's comment because it's probably true. The last time you mentioned those sheets, Leah had threatened to throw them out all together.

"She'll get over it," You wave them off.

Then Millie speaks, getting all captain mode on you, "Just be focused, 'kay?"

You nod because even through all the joking and laughter you knew just how important this game actually is- you had to win, not only to keep your unbeaten record but also so you could have bragging rights for the week.

The dressing room is nice and lively ahead of the game, everyone is buzzing to be playing at the Bridge, you included. So you come out on the pitch for warm ups absolutely pumped, giving your all in the shooting and build up drills that the management has set up pre-match.

Then make sure to properly stretch since you're not trying to risk an injury, not when you have such an important season ahead, with the possibility of Champions League glory being very much real.

It's soon after the walkouts happen, you grin in the team picture- arm wrapped around a teammate as usual- then shake hands before the match.

When you get to Leah, who is about half way down the line, you smirk, "Too bad for you that I'm not benched."

She scoffs but doesn't respond and you take that as her being focused- match ready.

The game is intense, as it always is when two top teams meet each other in a clash- especially in the London derby.

The first half is a struggle, tackles are aggressive and physical, the ball possession is practically divided and you're being marked very tightly by the Arsenal defense.

As you'd learned when you met Steph Catley on the left hand side- you try to fake her but she responds with relentless chasing and tugging and you take the opportunity to win a corner since there is no other way out of this one.

The corner is given and you go take your place in the box, it just so happens that Leah is right in front of you- clearly trying to mark you since you're of similar heights.

The corner is taken, ball flies in to the back post and all you can see is a mess of blue and red- then the ball somehow ends up at your feet and you just blindly boot it in the direction of the goal then hear the clear cheer of the fans and realize it has somehow ended up in the back of the net.

It's all really a blur but you run to one of the corners and wave your hands in the air wildly, the crowd cheers along with your odd celebration before it's time to get back in position.

You happen to catch a glimpse of Leah and shoot her a happy smile that she rolls her eyes at. You know she's just as proud of your goal as she is upset that you're one up to nil.

The rest of the game is a stalemate- neither teams really make any deciding plays and yellow cards are given out like sweets for fouls. By the end of it, you're exhausted, the Arsenal defense had been harassing you all game just like Leah said they would. You're so tightly marked that you can barely get a touch on the ball without someone being on your back.

Eventually the game ends in a 1-0 win for you and you're internally grateful for that lucky goal you scored in the first half. You participate in the team talk before walking over to some of the Arsenal girls, you greet them with a polite wave and hug Leah from behind- wrapping your arms around her waist- and she knows it’s you straight away.

“So…” You start but Leah cuts you off.

“Yes, yes, I know you won, babe.”

You chuckle, “Not what I was going to say but thank you,”

“You had a great game, baby,” You continue.

Leah turns in your arms and wraps her arms around your neck for a hug that you immediately lean into- squeezing her tightly. Then pull away to peck her cheek with a grin.

“Can I have your shirt?”

She laughs and gives your arm a light shove, “I have plenty at home that you can wear.”

You frown, “Not what I was going for but okay.”

She scoffs and you wiggle your brows with a smirk on your face.

“We are in public!”

The day ends with you and Leah cuddling on the sofa, watching reruns of love island since there is nothing else on TV that is worthwhile. You lean into her touch, soaking in the warmth from her arms hungrily and she squeezes you tightly as you lay directly on top of her.

You close your eyes, feeling the fatigue from the difficult game hit you like a truck- making you absolutely exhausted.

“You should tell Steph to lay off me next time we play against you,” You mumble out and Leah laughs, making her chest raise up and down.

“That’s the whole point, darling.”

You groan, “You guys need to relax.”

You hear Leah’s light giggle then feel a hand run down your back comfortingly and you let out a long sigh, the tiredness catching up to you fast.

“I love you, darling,” You hear Leah mutter into your hair when she kisses the top of your head and you smile to yourself.

“Love you more.”

It’s after a short nap on the sofa that you mention the Chelsea bed sheets and promptly get shut down but thankfully you can stop Leah from throwing them out completely. Instead they are now hidden in the deepest part of the linen closet.

You stop caring about the win when you and Leah slip into bed and she holds you as you drift off- there is simply no other place you’d rather be.

#woso x reader #leah williamson x reader #woso imagine #awfc #arsenal wfc #leah williamson imagine #awfc x reader #cwfc

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belit0 · 5 months ago

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Tobirama x Uchiha reader where he breeds her “so full of Senju cum the Uchiha will think you’re a disgrace” sort of vibe. Just very claiming idk jcjccjxjxxxjc love ur work!

Hot food on the way, spicy, spicy, very spicy.

Under the moon’s silver glow, pinned between cold stone and something far hotter, far hungrier, (Y/N) shudders.

Tobirama is not gentle. Not with the way his fingers press into her hips, nor with the way his breath ghosts against the shell of her ear, low, steady, merciless.

Not with the way the tip of his length brushes against her skin, moist, ready, savoring the anticipation.

Her clan would call this shameful.

They would call her shameful.

Because she is—her body yielding, her pulse racing, her mind unraveling at the sheer, unrelenting pressure of him.

She doesn’t care.

Not when he shifts, pressing closer—harder, enough for heat to curl low, for her breath to hitch, for her fingers to clutch at fabric as if that will ground her.

It won’t.

Not with the way he laughs, soft, mocking, knowing.

-By the time we're done,- he murmurs, voice rich, dark, dangerous, "-your clan will not dare to look you in the face.-

A sharp inhale. A tremor that has nothing to do with fear.

(Y/N) sways, thighs tightening, caught between resisting and succumbing. She wants the pressure, needs to feel him move, take, claim—surrender to the physical desire that clouds all reason. But oh, the Senju loves to take his time.

Tobirama tilts his head, nuzzling against the curve of her throat, his next words a brand against her skin. -And you’ll love every second of it.-

Her eyes flutter closed.

Because—gods help her—he's right.

His hips sink down slowly, parting her thighs at a torturous pace—teasing, making her crave, noting every small pelvic movement (Y/N) makes in search of what she so desperately wants.

Tobirama looms over her, his presence suffocating in the most intoxicating way, white hair falling like a curtain around his sharp, merciless gaze. There’s no softness in his touch, no tenderness in the fingers digging into her hips, keeping her exactly where he wants her—pinned, trapped beneath him with nowhere to run, no way to escape the slow, deliberate press of his body against hers.

Not that she would.

Not when this—this—has her burning.

His hips shift, slow and devastating, a tease, a warning, a promise of how utterly he intends to ruin her, and (Y/N) gasps, fingers clutching uselessly at his shoulders

The chuckle he lets out is dark, knowing—mocking.

-Pathetic,- he murmurs, voice like silk over steel. -An Uchiha, reduced to this? Writhing, shivering, needing a Senju?-

She exhales sharply, but it isn’t indignation that makes her body jolt—it’s the way he rolls his hips again, measured, intentional, dragging a soft, unwilling sound from the back of her throat.

Tobirama’s smirk is razor-sharp.

-What would your ancestors think?- he muses, nipping at her lower lip -The mighty Uchiha, brought to her knees—he grinds down, harder—so easily.-

(Y/N) whimpers, thighs trembling as heat coils low, traitorous and unrelenting.

And he feels it—of course he does. Feels the way she shudders, the way she melts, the way her body betrays her even as her pride demands otherwise.

His breath is a whisper against her lips, so close she can taste the mockery in it.

-I wonder,- he continues, dragging this out, drawing her closer to desperation, -will you even be able to look them in the eye tomorrow?-

Another roll of his hips— this time swift, blunt, snatching away any retort she might have had in mind to his taunts. She feels him enter—stretching, breaking her in ways no one else could understand, reaching the deepest part of her in a single thrust.

His grin is nothing short of cruel.

-Or will they take one look at you and know?

Her breath hitches.

Tobirama hums, pleased, amused, his fingers tightening their hold.

-Ah—so that’s it.- His voice drops to a murmur, lips barely brushing hers. -You want them to know.- He quickens his pace, reaching his own need—driven by the necessity to feel her, taste her, revel in the friction of her tight warmth against his cock.

Taking.

Claiming.

(Y/N) squeezes her eyes shut, humiliated by how easily he reads her, by how her body responds to his every taunt, every movement, every claim. Her pussy tightens against him in response to his every movement, with the sole mission of draining his seed, to get it all, to be filled by Senju's cum.

-Such a dirty whore- Tobirama chuckles, slow, dark, predatory.

"By all means, don’t hold back, Uchiha- he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers, nails leaving red marks on her skin, his next words a command, an order—

-Let them hear exactly how much you love disgracing your clan.

#naruto #tobirama senju x reader #senju tobirama x reader #tobirama x reader #senju tobirama #tobirama senju #tobirama #senju clan #uchiha clan #naruto shippuden #naruto imagines

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thesnarkmaidstale · 1 month ago

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Pulled together more of my rambling train station of thoughts RE: the THT/Nick matter (as so many of us are still trying to do in order to make sense of the trainwreck that THT ended up being in the end🥂)

You know, I want to start by saying...I've DEEPLY disliked characters before, but never once have I felt compelled to track down their fans just to preach about how morally superior I am for misreading the plight or arc of those said fictional characters. That kind of self-important grandstanding (usually built on vibes and not receipts - imo) just screams "projection."

And that crash landing ending? (lol didn't intend the pun but certainly keeping it) - that wasn't nuanced critique or character work; it was a loud, lazy display of “performative political solidarity” that read well to people who didn't/don't/won't engage with the work beyond a superficial "what happens next week" basis.

Meanwhile, detail-obsessed fans were left blinking in confusion while watching Nick Blaine, a canonically subversive character, get rewritten into a narrative scapegoat. And this all coming from the Hollywood bubble, wrapped either in moral absolutism or in Dianetics/LRH’s bottled sweat/imaginary alien overlords (I mean…I guess ¿porque no los dos?).

But none of it touched the reality of how real-world resistance actually works.. successful resistance efforts rarely include heroic bull-in-a-china-shop suspend-your-belief-in-logic singular action moments. Success is yielded from teamwork, working together in perhaps a few big ways but many more small ways towards reaching the common goal of true equality. This last season also did no favors as it pertains to increasing the awareness about current human rights atrocities nor in increasing the awareness about the slippery slope that the US was beginning to find itself in even at the time that Season 6 began filming (FDT hadn't "won" yet but the writing was clearly on the wall.)

All it was was glass mansions. With a megaphone. Expecting applause.

(And btw, record yourselves applauding please!)

The accusation that us as fans “just didn’t understand” is exquisitely rich, because it became painfully obvious once the existing source material ran out around the end of Season 2, that the creatives themselves didn't even understand the show they were making.

Season 3 was my early warning sound off (wish I’d trusted it), and by the start of Season 5, it was crystal clear- this team was wildly underqualified to develop an original narrative that could even begin to touch what Atwood set them up with.

I voluntarily relinquished my "loyal-AF-viewer-tuning-in-right-at-11pm-cst-on-Monday-night" membership card around the start of Season 5, Episode 1- as Game of Thrones had given me trust issues..and I didn't even care half as much about those characters as I did for most of the characters in the HMT.

Something inside me felt really ick about the wedding ring reveal of Season 4, without a character to even go along with the ring.. it was haphazard and the explanations for it made no sense. I hate to say my instincts were right to begin pulling away immediately... but of course I always held out hope that someone competent would find a way to land the thing, and I figured I'd just go back and catch up once it was all over.

But I digress...

When you have even the actors (hey Max Minghella) side-eying their characters' choices and wondering if there perhaps were darker sides to them that over a span of six seasons/8-9 years, that they were never told about..or in retrospect now perhaps feel a little insecure about, like they magically should've diduced that darkness from nothingness..?

Well, in that case, we're no longer talking about art, and instead discussing the glaring slow-mo narrative malpractice that's been taking place since Season 3.

This series ending/"landing" really could have been their (writers/showrunners) big shot at successful critical longevity. Instead, they turned an open-book test into a public implosion. The bones of Atwood’s world were right there, mapped out and ready, but instead of following them, the writers/showrunners/actors-turned-directors misunderstood and eventually betrayed them.

Honestly, in retrospect, The Testaments feels like a deliberate course correction. A softspoken “no, actually” from Atwood herself, reaffirming where the moral core of this story lies. And yes, that includes Nick. The show had the source material in addition to the reinforced narrative/additional insights provided by Atwood in The Testaments (released in September 2019, shortly after the television adaptation began airing its third season.)

And when the backlash from the final season hit shortly after the "betrayal," they deflected by calling loyal fans/viewers love-blind, shallow, or naive (especially women) for caring about a character who dared to represent subtle resistance (apparently you need to be on-the-nose and in-your-face defiantly obvious about your intentions or you too could be called a Nazi twice in the last season of a show based on a literary narrative that you've been a character/major part of in since the 1980s).

In their defense, they love to mention OC characters like Lawrence as if he's the beacon of proof of their creative genius, but here's the truth- Lawrence worked exceedingly well in spite of the writing, not because of it. That was thanks to Bradley Whitford’s interpretation and creative latitude. Same with Nick.. except Minghella had far less input, because Nick was/IS Atwood’s creation. Ultimately, both characters (one canonical, one not) succeeded because the actors did the heavy lifting when the scripts couldn’t.

The writers should not misinterpret this as a flex, because it more appropriately should be ready as a red flag warning at the beach, ultimately showing the dangers of what happens when performers understand the source material more deeply than the people that were paid to adapt it, and when writers confuse praise for their original characters as being praise for their writing vs it just being masterful performance by the actor themselves that makes the character work.

.. dangers such as, for instance, now you've got a nonsensical last season, and not to mention, a ticked off loyal fanbase, who started with the show back in 2017, absolutely refusing to even consider watching TT.

They are so smart you guys, like you don't even know.

In the end, they confused moral ambiguity with moral incoherence, flattened complexity into cliché, and mistook erasure for subversion.

I'll end it here although I could keep going: Nick didn’t need a redemption arc, he already had one published in 1985, and then Atwood doubled down on it in her 2019 Handmaid's "sequel," The Testaments, but sadly, neither he (Nick) nor Minghella were backed by writers, showrunners, or actors-turned-directors brave enough to commit to it.

#the handmaid's tale #nick blaine #nick x june #june x nick #tht #osblaine #max minghella #handmaid's tale #hulu #fictional characters #character analysis #writing critique #fandom #margaret atwood #dystopian fiction #the testaments #screenwriting #bradley whitford

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 7: Tell Me That I Won't Feel A Thing]

A/N: Hello besties! Thank you for voting in the poll for Chapter 7. Below are your predictions...let's see how you did! 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is back yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Give Me Novacaine” by Green Day.

Word count: 9.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

Billboards ask you as the Tahoe flies across the flat emerald sea of Iowa: Have you heard the good news? Have you been saved? Where will you spend eternity? Are you struggling with same-sex attraction? Do you regret your abortion? Do you fear the Lord? Do you want to end up in Hell?

Aegon snickers, gnawing on a Slim Jim. The sun glare turns his wild hair to gold, etches crinkles into the ruddy skin around his eyes, murky like deep water, oceans you recognize from other corners of the world. “I thought I was already there.”

Jace’s Honda Rebel 300 is left on the shoulder of the highway with its fuel tank uncapped, drained to feed the Tahoe, prehistoric combustion, bottomless mechanical hunger. Rhaena takes over driving so Baela can sit with Jace, touch him, inhale him, convince herself he’s real. Aegon climbs into the passenger’s seat and skips songs on the CD player until he finds the one he wants: In Da Club by 50 Cent. The miles roll by so soft and so infinite that you can’t imagine ever feeling trapped again, warm July air unfurling down the darkest corridors of your lungs, hawks on lifeless power lines and fields dappled with white-tailed deer. And you think: Everything will be better now.

You cross the Missouri River and into Nebraska at Plattsmouth, which—according to a plaque mounted on the outskirts of town—the Lewis and Clark Expedition passed through over two centuries ago. Rhaena follows Aegon’s directions to cut between Lincoln and Omaha, avoiding the roiling wastelands of the cities and keeping well north of Cooper Nuclear Station, where in the absence of a successful manual or computerized shutdown before the power grid collapsed, rods of uranium are melting down and irradiating the surrounding area, anemia, cancer, heart disease, radiation sickness, an affliction that eats you alive.

Rhaena takes Nebraska State Route 66 north and then Route 92 due west, lush fields of corn and soybeans and sorghum planted before the dead began to walk, bones of devoured livestock. You stop for the night in a town called Broken Bow, the sky turning the colors of fire and rust and blood, the Tahoe exsanguinated like a man with a slit throat. Every vehicle you pass already has its fuel cap unscrewed; the farther west you go—the scarcer the resources, the longer it’s been since the world began to end—the less the earth will yield to you: less guns, less gasoline, less food, less human settlements scattered across what was once called the frontier. You commandeer a two-story house: white wood, wraparound porch, a long gravel driveway that winds like a snake. There is a small cornfield and a barn, both of which you sweep for zombies before making yourselves at home. You try not to think about what happened to the family that used to live here.

Helaena lights candles, Luke and Rhaena distribute bowls and silverware, Aemond and Rio gather kindling for the woodstove, Daeron keeps watch on the porch, Aegon picks all the Twizzlers out of a mixed bag of Hershey’s candy for Jace. There is a 12-pack of Ramen noodles in the pantry, gallons of water in the cellar, and a pot large enough to cook it all in one batch. Cregan takes Ice and disappears into the cornfield for half an hour at dusk—something none of the rest of you would ever consider—and reappears with an opossum that he’s nearly decapitated with his axe. He butchers it and you brown cubes of meat in a sauté pan placed directly on the glowing embers. The others are horrified and won’t eat a single bite until you do. It’s the first real food you’ve had since you left Saratoga Springs, and you feel satiated in a way you had forgotten existed.

In honor of Jace’s resurrection, some revelry is in order. There are bottles of Grey Goose vodka in a kitchen cabinet, and Aemond allows a two drink maximum for anyone eligible to participate: Baela is too pregnant, Daeron is too young, Aemond himself is too vigilant, too self-sacrificial, too indoctrinated into the religion of his own martyrdom.

“Daddy loved his screwdrivers,” Cregan says. “I remember being five or six and taking a big gulp of one thinking it was Sunny D or Tang or something. Lord almighty, was that a shock!” He guffaws, then inspects the pantry, scratching at the dark stubble on his cheeks. “We ain’t got nothing like orange juice though.”

“Mama made hers with Hawaiian Punch.” You point: there are several jugs of it on the floor between boxes of Pop-Tarts and Welch’s Fruit Snacks and Cheddar Whales, red like crushed blackberries or fresh blood.

Cregan grins at you over his brawny shoulder. “That’ll work, Miss Chips.”

Luke and Rhaena have first watch, Rio and Aegon will take the second. You are blessedly unburdened tonight. This house is big enough for you to get your own room; you climb the staircase with Grey Goose vodka burning in your throat, your head warm and dizzy, a sensation like freefalling as you lie down on the bed.

I left them, you think, the walls spinning around you, echoes of Mama’s voice through the phone as Rio stood there nodding, encouraging you to hang up. I left them and I never looked back. Can someone commit such an act of ancestral betrayal without incurring a curse?

You are still considering this when you feel Aemond’s weight on the mattress and fold into him, the world going dark and hushed and harmless.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I think it’s safe,” you tell Aemond between sighs, his lips on your throat, his hand between your thighs. Late-morning sunlight slants in through the bedroom windows; goldfinches and blue jays flap by chirping blithely. The dead pillage the misfortunate beasts of the earth, but creatures of the air and water are spared. You can hear geese honking from a distance, and the breeze through the cornfield, and calm indistinct voices beneath the floorboards. You can smell pancakes turning from white to gold in a pan sizzling with Crisco. Cregan must be cooking breakfast in the woodstove.

“How sure are you?” Aemond murmurs, his breath warm on your neck, those small teeth he’s always hiding nipping playfully, and if he leaves marks like stains of ballpoint ink you don’t care. He’s whisked every scrap of your clothing away. Beneath him you are bare and helpless and needing more.

“Like…eighty percent sure.”

“I’ll pull out.”

“Like Jace did?”

He laughs and kisses your mouth, not just ravenous but wild like a storm, and all the rest of the world goes quiet. Your ankles are linked around him, his hips rocking with yours. He is wearing only his boxers, black plaid from a looted Walmart, apocalypse chic. “Hopefully better than that.”

“Just try your best. I trust you. I’m willing to risk it.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s worth it to me.” I could be dead in nine months, he could be dead in nine months. I’m not wasting the time we have left.

“It’s your decision. You would be most affected by the consequences.” He draws away and glances down. “I want to look at you.”

“Ohhh.” You stall. “I’ve been trimming with scissors by candlelight. It’s a hack job.”

“I won’t mind.” He grins. “You don’t mind my hack job of a face.”

“I love your face,” you say as you skim your fingerprints down the length of his scar. And then, when he raises an eyebrow roguishly: “I didn’t break any rules. I didn’t say I love you, just your face. I’m totally using you for your face. Your personality is terrible.”

He snickers, kisses you goodbye, retreats to your hips and pushes your thighs apart as you cover your face and whimper, nervous, exhilarated. And then his lips are on you and the trepidation melts away, puddles pooling and then evaporating, and you have a vision of being home again, shivering and dripping in front of the crackling flames of the woodstove after playing outside in the snow and waiting for the fire to take the cold away. Now the fire is growing over you like ivy, tendrils snaking through veins and leaves opening in your lungs, bones vanishing, muscles turning pliant and weightless. You can feel Aemond’s fingers pushing into you, a fleeting second of tension and discomfort, and then a fullness that is delectable, irresistible, maddening.

“Come back,” you plead, and when he does you clasp his face with both hands, kissing him deeply as his fingers remain inside you, thrusting and bathed in your wetness. You’re finally ready for him, you have to be, you need him so badly: like you’re dying of thirst, like you’re running out of air. “Now, Aemond, please. I want all of you.”

And he wants it too. His boxers are gone and he’s positioning himself between your legs, his tongue in your mouth, one hand cradling your jaw as the other guides his cock to where you are slick and aching and aware of an emptiness that has never felt so dire.

He’s so big…

But you are determined to take all of him. You don’t care if there’s pain, if there’s fear. You want to feel what it’s like to be with him before it’s too late.

Aemond presses himself against you, rolls his hips cautiously…and nothing happens. He is a bit more forceful. There is immense pressure, then the beginning of a stretching that is sharp, searing, dreadful, unfamiliar in a way that is completely disorienting. You gasp before you can stop yourself; a wince ripples across your face too quickly to camouflage. Aemond shakes his head and climbs off you, settling beside you on the bed.

“Fuck,” you exhale in frustration, slapping a palm down on the mattress. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand why…why I’m like this…”

“Shh,” Aemond soothes, kissing you. “It’s okay, it’s fine. I’ll help you finish and then we can try again later.”

“Why isn’t this easier?”

“You’re just nervous,” he says gently, smoothing your hair back from your face, like it’s no big deal, like he’s pointing out a bird or a rabbit or the shape of a cloud.

“I don’t feel nervous.”

“It’s not always conscious, sometimes the body reacts without the mind even being aware of it. You tense up and things become…more challenging. But fortunately for us, the treatment is very enjoyable. We just keep messing around and working up to it until one day you’re so aroused and so relaxed that I can glide in without any discomfort whatsoever, and then your body adjusts to this glorious new experience and you aren’t so nervous anymore.”

“Can’t you just…you know…sorry, this isn’t very romantic, but like…shove it in?”

“I could, sure,” Aemond says. “If I was a horrible person. And then you’d learn to associate sex with pain, which would just exacerbate the situation.”

“The problem, you mean.”

He smiles patiently. “You aren’t a problem. We’ll figure it out, we have time.”

Do we? You stare morosely up at the ceiling, shadows of clouds, shades of wings. “I should have hooked up with that Marine at Corpus Christi. Then I’d have practice. I was so afraid of giving a man the power to hurt me or get me pregnant or otherwise ruin my life, but I didn’t know I’d meet you one day. And now I just want everything to be easy for us, and it isn’t.”

“Hey.” Aemond turns your face towards his. “For me, you are…” He struggles to decide on the words, his eye drifting to the window, sunlight turning the blue of his iris to a shallow, glass-clear river. “You’re like an island, and everything else is a sea of poison, and violence, and catastrophically fucked up situations, and when we’re alone together it all goes away for a little while. The world gets quiet. It’s never been like that for me before. I don’t mind if it takes time for us to figure this out. I just want to be with you.”

“What happens when we get to Nevada, and you’re supposed to turn south for the Bay Area while I go north to Oregon?”

Aemond shrugs, but his expression is contemplative. “I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe we’ll all stay together and go to one place, then the other. If Odessa is safe, I can bring my parents, Criston, and Grandfather there. If it isn’t, we can bring Rio’s family south and live in California in that beach house on the cliff.”

“I never thought I’d set foot in a mansion.”

“I never thought I’d eat opossum.”

You laugh and curl up against him, resting your head and a palm on his chest. “How was it?”

“Not too bad, actually. Kind of like dark meat chicken. A little gamey, but I like lamb and venison, so that’s fine with me.”

“Just wait until you try bear.”

“Bear?!”

There is a knock at the bedroom door. Luke’s bashful voice is muted through the wood. “Aemond?”

“Yeah?” Aemond replies impatiently.

This was not an invitation, but Luke doesn’t seem to know that. He opens the door, and as he does Aemond throws the blanket over you so you’re covered, leaving himself completely exposed.

Luke begins: “I’m really sorry, I didn’t want to bother you, but…” His eyes go wide. “Oh, you’re like, all the way naked.” He turns and stares at the wall to be polite. “If it’s a bad time, I could come back in five minutes. Do you need more than five minutes? Wait, that was rude, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sure you can last way longer than five minutes…um…”

Aemond sighs. “What’s wrong, Luke?”

“Jace is sick.”

“Sick?” Aemond sits up straighter, his eye narrowing. “Sick how?”

“He’s been puking since he woke up.”

You and Aemond exchange a startled glance as you clutch the edges of a blanket patterned with wild horses. Illness, virus, plague, curse.

“He hasn’t been bitten or anything,” Luke says quickly. “So it can’t be…you know…that. And he and Baela don’t seem that worried. But you should probably take a look at him.”

Aemond nods, less alarmed now. “I agree. Can I get those five minutes first?”

Luke smiles. “Yeah. See you downstairs.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.

You look to Aemond. “Why—?”

He yanks the blanket away and drags you towards him. “I said I was going to help you finish,” he says, grinning, a hand slipping between your thighs.

You bite at his lips when he kisses you and tease: “I don’t need your help.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t. But it’s better when I’m here.”

And he’s right; it is.

~~~~~~~~~~

Daeron is out on the front porch sharpening sticks into arrows and using goose feathers for fletching, attaching them to the wood with a tube of Gorilla Glue that Helaena found for him. Helaena herself is presently floating through the house—soundlessly, ethereally, traceless like a ghost—and partaking in what you all call “apocalypse shopping,” pilfering the clothes and accessories of the former occupants. She seems to know everyone’s sizes without needing to ask. Aegon, Rio, and Cregan are sitting in the living room and eating pancakes off paper plates, carelessly spilling Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup on hideous 1970s couches ornamented with scenes of pheasants and autumn leaves. Down on the Turkish-style area rug, Ice is merrily chomping her way through a stack of burnt pancakes.

“So Cregan,” Rio says, his bare feet propped on the coffee table. “What did you do before the whole zombie situation?”

“I was a lumberjack.”

“No way!”

“Yes sir. I cut down trees for the power company.”

“What a coincidence,” Rio says around a mouthful of pancakes. “I was an electrician!”

“Well how about that? We oughta go into business together once the world straightens itself out. Where’d you work?”

“All over. Wherever the Navy sent us.”

Cregan sets his fork down on his plate. “You were enlisted?”

“Yeah, me and Chips both. That’s how we met.”

Cregan, much to Rio’s surprise, seizes his hand and shakes it soberly. “Thank you very kindly for your service.”

“No problem,” Rio replies, then turns to Aegon. “No gratitude from you, huh?”

“I showed my gratitude when I let you have the last pancake, you ogre…”

In the only bedroom on the first floor, down a hallway and towards the back of the house, Jace looks worse than you expected. He is heaving into a reusable plastic popcorn bucket, gluey ropes of saliva dangling from his lips; his skin is pale and bloodless, his dark curls damp with sweat. Baela is perched beside him on the bed and holding a wet washcloth to the back of his neck. Rhaena and Luke are loitering anxiously in the doorway, watching Aemond to determine if they should panic.

Jace casts you a bitter glance. “You poisoned me with your poor people food.”

“There’s nothing wrong with eating opossum,” you say, somewhat defensively.

Aemond feels his forehead. “That wouldn’t give you a fever. And everyone else is fine.”

“Maybe I’m extra sensitive. My digestive system has higher standards. I’m built different.” Jace resumes retching into the bucket.

Baela tells Aemond: “He can’t keep anything down. There’s nothing left in him, but he’s still so sick…it has to be a stomach flu, right?”

“Who would he have caught it from?” Luke asks, and Baela doesn’t have an answer.

“Stand up,” Aemond orders Jace when his wave of nausea abates. “Strip down.”

“Aemond, he wasn’t bitten,” Baela says. “I saw his whole body last night. He doesn’t have any scratches or bruises or anything.”

“Fine. But I want to see for myself.”

Jace stumbles out of the bed, pushing away Baela’s hands as she tries to stop him. “Okay, Nick Fury. If you wish to gaze upon the goods, I won’t deny you. I’m not shy.” Aemond rolls his eye. You turn around to give Jace privacy. “What’s the matter, Chips? The only dick you’re interested in belongs to Mike Wazowski over there?”

“Jace,” Baela says, but she’s chuckling. Amused, you stare at a picture on the wall—a haloed Jesus guiding a flock of lambs—as Jace sheds his clothing and follows Aemond’s instructions: lift your arm, turn around, show me the bottoms of your feet.

“No bites,” Aemond confirms, deep in thought. “But the symptoms…”

“It’s not that, Aemond, I’m telling you,” Jace insists, rasping breaths between each clause. “Listen, I got sick when I was alone, before I found you guys again. My stomach, my head. Maybe it’s the same thing now. It didn’t last long, and I thought I was over it, but I guess not.”

“People don’t get better and then worse again after they’ve been bitten,” Rhaena observes softly. “They just get worse.”

Jace lies back down on the bed, his face crumbling with pain. Baela uses the wet washcloth to cool his cheeks and neck. “My head hurts so fucking bad…”

“Because you’re dehydrated,” Aemond says.

“Helaena brought pills, but every time I try to take one I throw it up before it can start working.” There is a gurgling sound in his guts, and then a horrified expression. “Baela, I gotta get outside again.” She and Luke immediately swoop in, grab one arm each, and usher him out of the bedroom, through the back door of the farmhouse, and into the cornfield to allow him some semblance of dignity.

Rhaena gives you and Aemond an awkward smirk. “Helaena found Jace a 24-pack of Angel Soft toilet paper in the basement. So there’s some good news.”

“He needs electrolytes,” Aemond says. “We can’t let him get so dehydrated that his kidneys shut down. IV fluids aren’t an option. Pedialyte would be the next best thing, Gatorade or Powerade if that’s all we can find.”

“We passed a pharmacy on our way here,” Rhaena recalls. “It’s only a mile back, I think.”

Aemond nods. “Then that’s where I’m going,” he says, and walks out of the room.

You say as you follow him: “I want to go with you.”

“No.” Aemond points to Rio, who is now playing Uno with Aegon on the coffee table in the living room. “You and I are going to a pharmacy to get Pedialyte for Jace so he doesn’t die.”

“Cool,” Rio says, standing and fetching his Remington shotgun from where he propped it against the wall. “What’s wrong with him?”

“We don’t know. Maybe food poisoning.”

Aegon says, a hand pressed to his heart: “Personally, I loved the opossum.”

You stare defiantly up at Aemond. “If Rio is going, I have to go too.”

“Aww, so you can protect me?” Rio teases fondly, patting your back with one monstrous palm, an unintentional battering.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Rio looks at Aemond. Aemond looks at you, touching his chin agitatedly. “You are stressing me out.”

“I’m the best shot. I want to be there in case anything happens.”

“Fine, okay, whatever you want. Just stay near Rio.”

“That’s the idea.”

“A pharmacy?” Aegon asks excitedly. “Can I go?”

“No,” Aemond snaps, and continues out onto the porch. In the gravel driveway, Cregan and Daeron are kneeling by the Tahoe and inspecting the front tire on the driver’s side. “What’s wrong now?” Aemond asks, exasperated.

“Got a flat,” Cregan says. “The little fella here noticed it.”

Daeron is mortified. “Please don’t call me that.”

Aemond peers around mistrustfully, out at the road, into the cornfield. “Someone sabotaged us?”

Cregan shakes his head and taps the tire. “Naw, we just ran over a nail yesterday. You can see it right here. A big one too, a masonry nail, I suspect.”

“Can you fix it?” Rio asks.

“I think so. I saw a jack and a lug wrench hanging up on the wall in the barn, now I just need a new tire, a real one. A spare wouldn’t do us much good, not with all the weight we’re carrying. It’d pop in twenty miles.” Cregan gestures to the main road, but westward, the opposite direction from the pharmacy. “Don’t remember seeing a tire place on our way in. Figured I’d try the other direction. I’ll walk ‘til I find a shop or a truck with the right kind of tires to steal from, whichever comes first. Can’t change a tire on gravel, though. I’ll have to drive the Tahoe out to the road and fix it there. I’m gonna need Rhaena’s keys.”

There is an uneasy lull as Aemond studies him. You, Rio, Daeron, and Aegon—who is lingering on the front porch, not yet ready to admit defeat—glance between them apprehensively. Ice is rolling around in the gravel, coating her grey fur with dust. “How do I know you won’t take off without us?”

Cregan’s face goes dark. His brow, heavy and furrowed, settles low over his eyes. “Look buddy, I’ve done a lot of things for you and your people that I didn’t have to. And now I’m fixing the Tahoe so it can take you west, someplace you decided we’re going. If you don’t trust me, do it yourself. Kill your own opossum. Change your own flat tire. But you can’t, can you? Just like I can’t shoot a zombie straight through the eye or tell you how to cure that sick boy in there. We’ve all got jobs here. Let me do mine.”

Aemond glowers at Cregan, knowing he’s right. Daeron averts his eyes; Rio, grinning, eats a handful of Cheddar Whales from a pocket of his cargo shorts. You lay a palm on Aemond’s forearm. “Aemond…he’s trying to help.”

“Sure,” Aemond replies crossly.

“You want collateral?” Cregan says. “Take my dog.” He whistles, and Ice scampers to his side. He points to you. “Go on, princess.” Ice obediently trots over to stand with you, shaggy ash-colored fur, bestial amber eyes like a rattlesnake’s. “She’ll look after you on your way to the pharmacy and back. And if the Tahoe and I have mysteriously vanished upon your return, you can eat her for dinner.”

“You don’t want a warning if you’re about to run into zombies?” Rio asks.

Cregan chuckles as he picks up his axe off the gravel. “Don’t you worry about me. We haven’t heard a peep since we got into town, and I’m just going a little ways up the road. Any less than ten of those abominations, and I can take care of myself.” He gives you and Rio a parting salute and strides into the farmhouse to collect the Tahoe keys from Rhaena.

Aemond turns to Daeron. “Stay here, keep watch. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

Daeron nods, glancing to where his compound bow rests on the front porch. “Got it.”

“Aegon will help you.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Aegon says. “I want to go to the pharmacy too.”

Aemond is losing what remains of his patience. “No.”

“Please?”

“No!”

“Then can you at least bring me something back?”

Rio is confounded. “What do you need?”

“You know…” Aegon gestures vaguely. “Percocet, Vicodin, Oxy, maybe some of that cough syrup with the codeine in it—”

“Grow the fuck up,” Aemond flares, and Aegon falls silent. “You’re thirty years old. Take some goddamn responsibility for something, for anything. I have to go to the pharmacy, Cregan has to fix the Tahoe, someone has to stay here with Daeron to help protect Jace and Baela, and Luke and Rhaena, and Helaena too. Just shut up and do the right thing. You have to start acting like an adult. Who do you think is in charge if I get killed? I’ve never for a single day of my life had the luxury of making selfish choices, and now I feel like I’m not even allowed to die. Leaving everyone else with you would be like leaving them with nobody.”

Aegon gazes up at him, not offended but childishly, mortally wounded. His oceanic eyes are huge and glistening. “But you’re not going to die before me.”

“That’s not the point,” Aemond pitches back, cutting, caustic. Then he starts down the long gravel driveway towards the road. You give Aegon a small, apologetic half-smile and then follow after his younger brother, Ice loping alongside you.

Rio thumps Aegon encouragingly on one shoulder. “See you soon, Honey Bun.” And Aegon watches the three of you disappear, standing in the dazzling midday light with his arms folded over his chest and his hair in hie face, kicking at the gravel with the Sperry Bahama sneakers he once wore on yachts and golf courses.

“Please try to be nice to him,” you tell Aemond when you’re far enough away to be out of earshot. Rio is humming a song you don’t immediately recognize—probably Enrique Iglesias—and acting like he’s not listening. “You don’t know how much longer any of us have. And if that was the last thing you ever said to him, you’d feel awful about it.”

“You have no idea what it was like being his brother. Since I was born all I’ve done is try to plug the holes he blasts into ships. But there’s always water on the floor, I’m never done bailing it out. He needs to learn how to do things for himself.”

“Yes, he does. But he loves you, and he wants you to be happy. He would never intentionally take anything from you. He’ll grow into his purpose, whatever that is.”

“He needs to do it faster,” Aemond says harshly, and you walk the rest of the way without speaking, listening for snarling or lurching footsteps, hearing nothing but birdsong and wind whispering through leaves.

The pharmacy—a diminutive family-owned business, not a chain—has been ravaged. The glass of the large bay window has been broken out and the shelves looted, empty containers and wrappers littering the floor, crystalline shards threatening to gash, stab, infect.

“Stay out here with the dog,” Aemond tells you. Ice is panting calmly, her ears relaxed, her strange yellowish eyes taking in the scenery without any concern. “If she gets her paws sliced up, Cregan will have yet another accusation to levy against me.”

“You’re going to have to get used to him.”

“Not much of an adjustment for you, it seems,” Aemond says, then steps through the shattered window, glass crunching beneath his shoes. Rio gives you a wink and goes after him. They rummage through the remaining merchandise, strewn about randomly and interspersed among trash. Aemond peeks behind the counter where pharmacists once filled prescriptions and climbs over it, searching for any bottles or boxes that were left behind.

“Sorry guys, no condoms,” Rio announces, then laughs at his own joke.

“Be careful,” you urge from outside. “Look underneath, check the bottom racks. Rio? Rio, down low, check them!”

“Relax, ain’t nothing going on in here. It’s silent as the grave.” He laughs again. “Get it? As the grave.”

“Aemond?”

“I’m fine,” he tells you as he squints to read medicine bottles.

“Okay, okay,” Rio says, squatting to examine the shelves closest to the cluttered floor. “I’m checking all the racks. There’s nothing scary under the racks. Happy now?”

“Very. Helaena said something that freaked me out.”

“She can be a bit of an enigma,” Aemond admits. He is taking a tiny box from a drawer to keep.

“Oh, we got Pedialyte!” Rio says, yanking a jug of pink fluid from a pile of debris. “You think Jace likes strawberry?”

Aemond hurries over to help him hunt for more. “Yeah. It’s like a Twizzler, right?”

Ice noses your hand and whimpers softly. You look down at her. “What?”

She whirls and canters around the side of the pharmacy, then returns to make sure you’re keeping up. You go after her, slow and wary, a hand on one of your Beretta M9s. There’s nothing of note to be found in the narrow, shadowy alleyway other than an overflowing dumpster and two skeletons stripped of every shred of fabric and flesh; even the bones were licked clean.

You turn to Ice. “Did I need to see this?” She whines and shifts her weight from foot to foot, ears perked up. Something else? You look down the alleyway. Far behind the pharmacy and the shops that surround it is a church on a jade green slope, old-fashioned, white wood and a belltower. There is a cemetery beside it, and amidst the small grey blurs of headstones are… “Oh,” you breathe. “So that’s where the rest of the town is.”

The graveyard is full of limp, swaying figures that can only be zombies. You are far away and draped in shadows; you retreat back to the pharmacy without any indication that you’ve been spotted, Ice trailing close behind. Aemond and Rio are climbing out of the window just as you arrive. They are each carrying three jugs of Pedialyte in various flavors.

“Where the hell’d you go?” Aemond says; but he sounds more relieved than irritated.

“There’s a church about an eight of a mile away. And there are a lot of zombies in the cemetery.”

Rio sets his Pedialyte down on the sidewalk and reaches for the Remington 12 gauge hanging over his shoulder by its leather strap. “Okay, let’s go clear them out.”

“No, I mean a lot. Like a hundred.”

He freezes. “Oh.”

“We should leave town,” you say.

“While Jace is puking and shitting everywhere? You want to be stuck in a car with that?”

Aemond is thinking, toying with the little box you saw him pick up earlier. “We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

“What’s that?” you ask him.

He shows you the label. “Injectable morphine. All the pills were gone, but I found one vial of this, and I have syringes in my medical kit. It doesn’t need to be refrigerated. It should still be useable.”

“For Baela?” For when she delivers the baby?

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Just in case.” Then he looks at both you and Rio meaningfully. “Don’t tell Aegon I have this.”

“We won’t,” Rio promises. And Ice begins trotting back towards the farmhouse, as if trying to rush you along.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Tahoe is at the mouth of the long gravel driveway, still up on a hand-cranked scissor jack. The tire appears to be new, but the lug nuts haven’t been tightened, and the wrench is nowhere to be found.

“Cregan?” Rio says uncertainly, peeking through the cornstalks as they bend in the wind. “Hey, Cregan? Aemond’s sorry he was a bitch to you earlier. He wants you to return ASAP and do manual labor for him.” Aemond grimaces; Rio beams in reply. But Cregan does not appear.

You can hear them long before you reach the farmhouse, muffled chaotic chattering, raised voices and rushing footsteps. As you ascend the steps of the front porch, Rhaena bursts through the door.

“Thank God you’re back,” she says; there is blood on her hands. “It’s Jace, he…he…come look at him. Aemond, you have to do something. He’s sick, he’s really sick. He’s bleeding.”

“From where?” Aemond asks, urgent, bewildered.

“From everywhere,” Rhaena replies, and beckons for him to follow.

The bedsheets Jace is swathed in are blooming with crimson, flowers of doomed gore. Blood drips from his nostrils and his eyes; when he retches into the popcorn bucket, clots of pink and red spew out. Everyone is gathered around him and speaking at the same time, except Helaena. She is crouched on the floor of the hallway just outside his room, her arms wrapped around her bent knees and her face stricken. Ice curls up beside her.

Above the other voices, Baela screams at Aemond, a desperate horrified moan: “What’s wrong with him?!”

Aemond pushes by the others and feels Jace’s forehead, then grabs his wrist to measure his pulse. As Aemond’s fingers tighten, Jace’s skin rips beneath them, the top layer sliding off and leaving only glistening, raw pink. Jace howls, tears of blood streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t know,” Aemond says, his voice unsteady.

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t know?!” Baela shouts back. “You’re a doctor! Fix him!”

“It hurts, Aemond,” Jace gasps, fresh blood on his teeth. When Baela touches his hair, locks of it fall out into her hand.

“He’s turning, right?” Rio says to you. “This is what happened to Snowflake, the blood and the skin and everything—?”

“He wasn’t bitten!” Luke insists, positioned in front of Jace’s bed as if he’s guarding it.

“I don’t care if we can’t find a bite mark, he’s decomposing for Christ’s sake, what the fuck else could it be?!”

Daeron returns with more blankets and towels. Aegon grabs a strawberry Pedialyte out of Rio’s grasp and tries to help Jace drink it. Cregan is muttering: “I ain’t never seen anything like this…”

Decomposing, you think dizzily. He wasn’t bitten, but he’s falling apart…what else does that to a person?

Baela cleans blood from his lips, a towel turning from snow to rubies. “Jace, baby, it’s going to be okay, we’re going to help you…”

“Could it be rat poison or something?” Cregan is saying. “Rabies? Mad cow disease? Ebola?”

“How the fuck do you think he got Ebola?!” Aemond exclaims. “You think he took a jet to sub-Saharan Africa when he was on his own? Use your brain.”

“I’m just trying to come up with ideas here, doc, and I don’t see you with any bright ones!”

He’s decomposing. He’s decomposing.

And then you remember. You kneel down beside the bed so you can look into his face, so you can make him pay attention. “Jace, listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” he replies faintly. He coughs, wet and gurgling. Fresh blood paints his lips. There are blisters beginning to form up and down his arms, you see now, the skin bubbling and separating.

“Jace, do you remember Three Mile Island?”

“What the fuck.” He is baffled, dismissive. “Three Mile what? Huh? What are you talking about…?”

“You’re upsetting him,” Baela says fiercely, tears glittering in her eyes.

But you are determined. “Outside of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, after we left Fort Indiantown Gap. There were these huge concrete cooling towers. We saw them from the Wawa parking lot.” But he wasn’t there when we talked about radiation. He was still inside searching for guns. “Remember, Jace? Do you remember?”

Now Aemond and Rio are looking at you, petrified, realizing what you must be thinking. No one else understands yet. After a long pause, Jace nods feebly. “Yeah. I remember the towers.”

“Good,” you say, smiling to encourage him. “Okay, this is important. After we lost you at the river, before you found us again, did you see anywhere that looked like Three Mile Island?”

“Yeah,” Jace murmurs as he stares back at you with glazed, bloody eyes; and Rio sighs and shakes his head. “I drove right by it on the Honda. The sign said Byron.”

And it’s been over for him since that moment.

“Alright, Jace.” You want to touch him, to embrace him or cup his cheek. You know it will only make his suffering worse. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted to ask.” He begins to gag again, and Baela hurries to place the popcorn bucket so it can catch his liquefying organs. You turn around and walk through the doorway.

“What’s happening?” Aegon asks you, hushed voice, frantic eyes. He has followed you to the living room, along with Aemond, Rio, and Cregan. You nod to Aemond. He knows.

“It’s radiation sickness,” Aemond says, low and bleak.

“What?!” Aegon gapes at him. “I mean, are you sure…?”

“It fits all the symptoms. He was in close proximity to a nuclear power plant, something the rest of us have intentionally avoided. If there was a meltdown, there are miles and miles that are poisoned with radiation. Passing by on a motorcycle could definitely result in a lethal dose.”

“Poor guy,” Rio says. “Not a good way to go.”

“No,” you agree. It isn’t.

“So how do you treat something like that?” Cregan asks Aemond.

“It can’t be treated,” Aemond replies tersely. “Not here, not by me, not by anyone. Not even if the world was normal again.”

“What do you mean it can’t be treated?! Everything can be treated nowadays! Cancer, heart attacks, diabetes, hell, my cousin got testicular cancer and he was fine a month later, he even got to keep one of his balls!”

“Radiation sickness can’t be treated. He’s going to die.”

“But how is that possible when—?!”

“I need you to try to not be stupid for five minutes,” Aemond snaps.

You say quietly: “He’s not stupid, Aemond. He just doesn’t know about this.”

“You are always defending him.”

“Because not going to med school isn’t a character flaw.”

Cregan asks mildly, looking at Aemond: “Could you explain it to me?”

“It’s pennies in a jar, man,” Rio says. “Radiation stacks up and at a certain point it kills you. It destroys your DNA and your body falls apart. You can get it just by going near someplace contaminated, and you might not even feel it happen. And there’s no way to undo the damage. The pennies never leave the jar.”

Cregan raises an eyebrow at Aemond. “Was that so difficult?”

Aemond ignores him. “We have to tell Jace,” he says instead.

Back in the bedroom—a mineral stench in the air, coppery blood and the salt of sweat—Aegon sits on the edge of the bed and takes one of Jace’s swelling, blistering hands carefully in his own.

“Don’t hold my hand, you loser.” Jace mumbles, and Aegon respectfully releases him.

“Jace,” Aegon begins. “We think you have radiation sickness.”

Jace blinks up at him, wincing and disoriented. “Which means…?”

“Which means, um, it’s going to be…not great.”

“Why are you the person explaining this?”

“You’re right, I really shouldn’t be explaining it. Can someone else explain it…?” Aegon glances around hopefully.

“Jace,” Aemond says. “Those cooling towers you drove by were part of a nuclear power plant that melted down when the power grid collapsed. You received a fatal dose of radiation. It’s the only thing that explains what’s happening to you.”

“Fatal…?” Daeron ventures.

Rhaena gasps and reaches for Luke. Baela’s face is a mask of numb shock. Jace stares up at Aemond for a long time before he speaks. “Aemond, fix me.”

Aemond’s words are brittle and fracturing. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Stop fucking around, man, you’re a doctor. You can fix me. I know you can. You’re a genius. You’re a total freak but you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. Give me the pills, give me the shots. Cut me open if you have to. I won’t scream, I promise. Fix me. I trust you.”

“Jace, I can’t do anything. No one can.”

“I have to meet the baby, Aemond,” Jace whispers, scarlet tears bleeding down his cheeks. “I have to be here for Baela and Luke. Fix me, man. I’ll do anything you tell me to.”

“Jace,” Aemond says, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I can’t help you.”

Jace looks to Baela, Luke, Rhaena, and at last back to Aemond. “How long?”

“Not very. A few days, maybe.”

“Days?” he echoes, dazed. “What happens?”

Aemond shakes his head. You don’t want to know.

“Yeah I do. Tell me.”

Aemond can’t respond; clear silent tears snake down the right side of his face. Rio answers for him. “You continue to bleed out of every orifice and the rest of your skin falls off. And eventually you die.”

Jace breaks down in sobs. “I was trying to find you guys.”

Suddenly, Baela turns to you and Rio and Aemond, wrathful, hissing. “This is your fault.”

Aemond pleads: “Baela, please don’t—”

“You made me leave him at the river. I knew he was still alive, but you forced me to leave him. If he’d been with us, this never would have happened. But he was alone, and it was because of you. You did this to him. You stole him from me.”

Rhaena tries to console her. “Baela, no one meant to—”

“I just got him back!” she screams, and then shelters Jace in her arms as he clings to her, the skin of his fingers and palms flaking at the pressure, holding onto her anyway. No one knows what to say; everyone has tears burning in their eyes and embers in their throats. “Get out,” Baela demands. “Leave us alone. This is the last time I’ll ever have with him and it’s your fucking fault. So get out.”

And you leave them to their final moments, failing flesh in a dying world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Only Luke and Rhaena flit in and out of the bedroom, carrying soiled linens and the plastic popcorn bucket to be periodically emptied. The rest of you are engrossed in a grim, thunderstruck deathwatch in the living room. You discuss the inevitable in hushed murmurs. It is cruel to let Jace suffer; it is unspeakably horrible to let Baela witness it. Ice alternates between receiving scratches from Cregan, Helaena, and Aegon, never trying to enter Jace’s room. You can hear Jace and Baela talking in there, his retching and groaning, her sobs.

It is not until dusk that Rhaena summons Aemond. Luke is weeping as he paces back and forth in the bedroom. Baela is still sitting on the bed with Jace, resigned now. She does not apologize, but she doesn’t have any more venom to spit either. The rest of you watch from the hallway, keeping a respectful distance. Ice nudges your hand with her nose, but you ignore her. Jace’s bloody eyes roll to Aemond.

“I’m keeping you here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Aemond replies. There’s no point in lying.

“And I don’t need to feel myself melting like this for days. I get the idea.” Jace looks at Aemond for a while. His voice is anemic but calm; there are fresh blisters on his face and neck. “What can you give me?”

Aemond opens his medical kit and shows Jace the vial of morphine. “I found this at the pharmacy today. It would be painless, like going to sleep and never waking up.”

“Why do you have that?”

“I was thinking a small amount might help Baela during labor.”

“Is it the only morphine in your kit?”

“Yes.”

Jace nods. “Save it for Baela.” His gaze drops to the Glock in the holster at Aemond’s waist. “Can I borrow that?”

Rhaena stifles a dismayed yelp. Baela closes her eyes, but does not protest. Aemond says: “I don’t think you want to do this.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Cyclops,” Jace says, smiling. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“It’s heavy,” Aemond warns. He clicks off the safety and gives the Glock to Jace. “Are you able to use it by yourself?”

“It’s a very simple two-step process. Barrel to skull, finger on the trigger. I think I’ll manage.”

Again, Ice bumps her nose against your knuckles; again, you barely notice. Baela kisses Jace on the mouth, her lips coming away bloody. Rhaena says goodbye to him, then Luke, whispered parting words you don’t try to listen to. Before Aemond exits, Jace grasps his hand.

“Take care of my family, Aemond.”

“I will.”

“Don’t let the zombies eat me afterwards.”

And then it becomes real. Aemond’s composure falters. “Jace…I’m so sorry…”

“Go,” Jace urges him. Then there is a coughing fit, fresh blood and pieces of stomach and lungs. “Right now. Before I lose my nerve.”

Baela is the last one to leave the bedroom; she shuts the door behind her. Almost immediately afterwards is a deafening bang. Baela sinks to the floor and wails, one hand on her belly, the other embracing Rhaena and Luke when they rush to her. Ice is whining and pawing at the floor, her nails screeching on the hardwood. Aemond alone returns to Jace’s bedroom and reappears with his Glock. He places it back in his holster, his scarred face vacant. There’s blood on his fingers, you see. Jace’s blood, the last he’ll ever shed. Aemond hasn’t noticed yet.

You reach for Aemond’s hand; he flinches away. You ask him, pained: “Do you think if you don’t touch me, it won’t hurt you when I die?”

“Please don’t say that,” Aemond responds in a hoarse, splintering whisper.

Ice yowls, and Cregan is abruptly aware of her. “Oh shit, the Tahoe is still up on the jack. I’ll go get it.” He opens the front door. Under the moonlight, there are upwards of a hundred zombies stumbling down the long gravel driveway. Everyone begins screaming. Cregan slams the door shut and shoves one of the couches in front of it. “What now?!”

“We go through the cornfield,” Aemond says as you are all frantically gathering your sparse possessions. “It will be more difficult for them to see us. We kill as many as we can and we make our way to the Tahoe. Cregan, how long will it take you to get it ready to drive?”

“Maybe a minute. But I’ll need someone to spot me while I tighten the lug nuts.”

“Sounds like my kind of job opportunity,” Rio says, pumping his Remington. Helaena gives you a flashlight. Cregan secures the lug wrench under his belt and picks up his axe. Rhaena has her Ruger out and is telling Baela to breathe, to stay focused, to let her and Luke lead the way.

Aemond comes to you and leans in close so the others can’t hear. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Not enough. Maybe fifty.”

“Do what you can. Stay near Rio.”

“I’ll try.”

Now there are zombies at the front windows, beating their spongy swamp-colored palms against the glass. Baela, Rhaena, and Luke are leaving through the back door with Daeron; you can hear the whizzing of his arrows and the sick soft sound they make when they pierce rotting meat. Under the weight of so many hands, one of the living room windows pops from its frame and clatters against the floor. You open fire, bullets exploding skulls and spraying brains, corpses jolting and then diving to the ground. You shoot until both M9s are empty, then pause to reload, boxes of bullets that Cregan gave you back in Iowa.

“Let them in,” Helaena says.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Aegon shouts at her. He’s firing his Marlin .22 beside you, quite poorly; Rio and Aemond are in the backyard killing any zombies that find their way towards the cornfield. “We’re not letting them get through the house!”

“Not through,” Helaena says placidly. “In.”

“Oh.” Aegon understands. “Oh! I get it! Trap them inside!” He races to the kitchen and tears the remaining bottles of Grey Goose vodka out of the cabinet, then begins spilling them onto the wood floor. “Helaena, give me a lighter.”

She places one in his outstretched palm and then leaves with Cregan as he escorts her away, leading her by her fragile hand. They vanish together into the cornfield, Ice on their heels.

“Time to go, Chips!” Rio booms; he can’t be far behind Cregan.

“We’re on our way!”

Zombies are pouring through the front of the house; another window has given way. You pull the trigger over and over again as you move with Aegon towards the backyard, his clear river of vodka drawing a path from one end of the house to the other. You hit the grass before he does, then wait for him by the edge of the cornfield. Aemond and Rio are shouting for Aegon to hurry up. He crosses through the threshold, flicks the lighter to life, and throws it into the house. His plan works—the farmhouse is abruptly aflame, cooking zombies like long-spoiled hams—but he neglected to realize that in his haste, he had also accidentally doused his own left leg and Sperry Bahama sneaker. The fire licks up over Aegon’s skin and blazes there radiantly. He shrieks and falls to the ground. Rio yanks his own shirt off and uses it to smother the inferno, then throws Aegon over one shoulder to carry him.

“Go to Cregan!” Rio tells Aemond, shoving him in the direction of the Tahoe. Rio will be slower now, but no one else could still run with Aegon’s added weight. “You and Daeron spot him until I get there!” When Aemond is gone, Rio glances back at you.

“I’m fine,” you say, felling zombies as they round the house. “Get Aegon to the car!” And Rio listens to you like he always does, vanishing with Aegon through the cornfield.

You weave through the leafy stalks, investigating each growl and rustling with the beam of your flashlight. Grotesque, fetid faces plunge through the greenery, and you demolish them. You’re in the rhythm now, wheeling for a target and locking in, squeezing the trigger and watching ghoulish faces disappear. And then you spy a zombie lurching towards you from fifteen feet away, a twenty-something in a red Nebraska Cornhuskers t-shirt making her way down the dirt aisle between two rows of corn; and when you pull the trigger, there is only a dry click in reply. Your other M9 is already empty. You’ve used all the ammo Cregan gave you.

“I’m out of bullets,” you say, but no one hears you; you are alone. Aemond always told you to stay near Rio and you never did. Too late, you realize what an oversight that has been. “Rio? Aemond?!”

There are human voices and gunshots, but reverberating from a distance. Far closer are snarls and groans of the dead. You click off your flashlight, drop to the earth, and crawl until you are as far under a row of corn as you can be, long leaves tickling the back of your neck and damp soil in your nostrils. Clumsy, lumbering footsteps trod by you. From the road, you hear the Tahoe’s engine start with a rumble.

They’re leaving.

You shake your head, here with no one to see you in the dark. Still, the thought persists.

They’re leaving. I left my family and now my family is leaving me.

“Chips, stay where you are!” Rio shouts. “We’re coming back, we’ll find you!”

You wait until they are within ten feet of you, Rio cracking skulls with his Remington—he must be out of bullets too—and Aemond firing his Glock. “I’m here, I’m here!” you cry, and they are lifting you up from the dirt and dragging you towards Tahoe, and Aemond puts his pistol in your hand knowing you can do more good with it. You fire ten rounds before the Glock is empty, and you think with terror: Do any of us have bullets left?

Then you are being helped into the Tahoe, and the second all the doors are shut Rhaena floors the gas pedal, heading west on State Route 92.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I got my drugs after all,” Aegon rasps as Aemond injects him with morphine on the floor of a laundromat on the edge of Merna, Nebraska, far enough to escape the zombies, not so far that the Tahoe risks running out of gas before you reach the next town. His left leg is burned from the knee down, and burned badly: skin, fat, muscle, blood-red scorched ruin. Even through the modest dose of morphine—Aemond is terrified of accidentally killing him—Aegon can still feel what has happened to him. He knows it’s bad. He knows it could be the last mistake he ever makes. “I’m so thirsty…”

“I got you, Honey Bun,” Rio says, and then uses the butt of his Remington to bust open the vending machines and bring him bottles of Powerade. Baela is sobbing in the corner with Luke and Rhaena. Helaena is shining a flashlight on Aegon’s leg so Aemond can see. Daeron and Cregan are keeping watch by the entrance. You don’t even know why. All the bullets and arrows are gone, Aegon can’t walk, the Tahoe’s gas tank is nearly drained. If you are descended upon now, what will you do?

Aegon sobs and clutches for you, links his arms around your waist, rests his head in your lap. You hold him and comb your fingers through his unruly hair over and over again, like a compulsion, like a ritual. You are so afraid to let go of him. You are terrified he’ll disappear.

I wish I knew what to say. I never know what to say.

He’s shaking uncontrollably as Aemond cleans his leg: peeling away dead skin, wiping down the raw flesh with disinfectant. Aegon’s eyes are wide and glassy. There is blood on the white tile floor, pinkish lymph fluid, bits of charred skin. Ice is whimpering, her muzzle propped on her paws and her eyes darting around the room. Aegon manages through the pain, a reedy, gasping whisper: “Tell me about all those places you went when you were in the Navy.”

You can see it like the miles-deep blue of his eyes: the Indian Ocean, the jewel-tone equatorial sky. “On Diego Garcia, they have these birds called red-footed boobies—”

Aegon barks out a weak laugh. “They do not. You’re making that up.”

“No, really, I swear! They’re like seagulls, but they have blue on their face and bright red feet, hence the name. They’re extremely stupid, and one night a few of us were hanging out drinking Guinness and playing pool, and a booby flew in through an open window. We panicked, it panicked, and then it was flying in circles and couldn’t get out. We opened all the doors and windows, and the booby still just flew around banging into the walls. And of course the whole time it was shitting and bleeding and getting feathers everywhere, we knew it was going to take hours to clean up. After thirty minutes of chasing this idiot bird around, Rio snapped, took off his boot, and smacked the booby with it. He was trying to fling it out the window, like hitting a tennis ball with a racket, but he accidentally hit the bird too hard and murdered it. Its beak literally separated from its body and flew across the room. None of us could believe it, we didn’t even know that was possible. Rio felt so bad he started crying. We took the booby—and its beak, of course—out to the beach for a Viking funeral. We made it a little raft of coconut tree leaves, set it on fire with a lighter, and pushed it out into the waves.”

Aegon is cackling. “Bryan Osorio, terrorizer of the homicidal undead and boobies!”

“What else?” Baela says, and you look over at her, startled. The flashlight incandescence turns you all to ghosts, phantoms, half-shadows. At first you don’t know what she means. “What else did they have on Diego Garcia?”

“Oh, tell them about the coconut crabs,” Rio prompts you. He’s settled down beside Aegon and is resting one broad hand on his trembling shoulder.

“Coconut crabs?” Rhaena asks you, wiping tears from her cheeks with her delicate, small-boned fingers.

You are abruptly aware that you have an audience. You can feel yourself shrinking beneath their gazes. “Rio should tell the story. I’m not good at it.”

“Sure you are,” Rio says, smiling kindly beneath dark, wet eyes. “Go on. Tell them.”

So you do.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fanfic #hotd fic

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fernwehreader · 17 days ago

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So excited to come home from my family vacation time / social media hiatus to fantastic news from SJM herself about her ACOTAR drafting! 🎉

So what did SJM's post reveal? Not much! But we can certainly have fun theorizing and making some inferences. It's all subjective, but let's have some fun with it!

I think the fact that SJM is leaning into a pine/mountain area vibe seems intentional--very Terrasen coded for sure!

But, what do I think of the visuals we got from her "Decomposition Notebook" and the imagery from a location of a grassy valley surrounded by pine, among a mountain background?

My opinion?

FRIENDS. ILLYRIA IS CALLING OUR NAME.

The Illyria plot, Ramiel, and the aftermath of the Blood Rite are central to Azriel, Cassian, and our Valkyries . . . and this has me very excited.

Am I reading too much into it? Maybe. Again, it's all conjecture at this point. But I also don't think it's an accident that SJM chose to show a notebook (which states ACOTAR 6 on the cover) that matches a mountain and pine tree terrain which she also included in the background as she popped champagne.

Why do I think this may be an intentional Easter Egg? Well, for starters, pine trees are central to the Illyrian landscape--it's referenced repeatedly throughout the series, even before ACOSF. But it's worth noting how often these mentions and breadcrumbs are described in just ACOSF alone and how they are used in conjunction with topics such as Ramiel, the Valkyries, Eris, Gwyn, fire, or a specific feeling that the pine trees or the landscape itself invokes--not to mention how often these details are referenced during the Blood Rite.

Need convincing?

Let's turn to the texts:

FROM ACOSF:

"But even as she sat on that rock and stared at the swaying pines covering the mountains, she watched Cassian from the corner of her eye, aware of every graceful movement, the rasp of his steady breathing, the flow of his dark hair in the wind."

"But Cassian paused before a landscape painting of a towering, barren mountain, void of life yet somehow thrumming with presence. Snow and pines crusted the smaller peaks around it, but this strange, bald mountain … Only a black stone jutted from its top. A monolith, Nesta realized, stepping closer. Cassian murmured, 'I didn’t realize Feyre had painted Ramiel.'"

"Cassian hated to admit it, but for a spoiled, soulless asshole, Eris had his uses. Mostly one: the bubble of heat that warmed them against the chill winds wending through the pines of the Illyrian Steppes. Some fire magic to warm their bones."

"Eris winked before winnowing away. Alone in the howling wild, Cassian blew out a breath. Embraced the chill winds, the pine-fresh scent, and willed it to wash away his irritation and discomfort."

The wind murmured, wending between the peaks. Shadows slowly crept over the craggy sides of the mountains, the lingering sun casting their upper limits in gold, the chill deepening with each inch yielded to the rising dark. The river roared down the mountainside, a constant rushing that she’d heard throughout the day as they walked, its many rapids just barely visible from the outlook. Even here, with the light fading, the river’s colors shifted from slate to jade to pine as it wandered between the peaks along the valley floor. It was all so still, yet watchful, somehow. As if she were surrounded by something ancient and half-awake. As if each peak had its own moods and preferences, like whether the clouds clung to or avoided them, or trees lined their sides or left them bare. Their shapes were so odd and long that they looked as if behemoths had once lain down beside the rivers, pulled a rumpled blanket over themselves, and fallen asleep forever."

"Scents hit her. Male, varied, and so many— Hard, cold ground lay beneath her bare legs, pine needles poking through the thin material of her nightgown. Chill, blood-icing wind carried all those male scents above a tide of snow and pine and dirt."

"Slowly, silently, she twisted in place. Unconscious Illyrian warriors were strewn around her. At her back, at her head. At her bare feet. More surrounded her, at least two hundred, stretching between the towering pines. The Blood Rite."

"Nesta refused to consider it as she hurried through the pines, putting distance between herself and the sleeping warriors before she found a towering tree. She climbed, sap quickly coating her fingers, and when she cleared the canopy … Ramiel might as well have been across an ocean. It loomed straight ahead, with two mountains and a sea of forest and the gods knew what else between her and its barren slopes. It looked identical to Feyre’s painting."

"The magic recognized her as a person and not a thing. She hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to be shown that distinction. She inhaled the pine and distant promise of snow. Alive. Even in this hellscape, she was alive."

"She pushed off the tree. Slipped to the next. And the next. Followed the river, her steps barely more than the whisper of water over stone. Through the pines, down the hills. The rapids increased, the rocks rising like black spears. A waterfall roared ahead. If Emerie had gone over it … "

"They halted behind two pines, surveying the terrain, the snow-heavy sky. Nesta consulted her charm. “That way,” she said, inclining her head to the left. “The fire is also in that direction—the wind’s carrying the smoke down from that ridge.” “It could be Gwyn’s fire,” Emerie suggested hopefully."

"The fourth day brought sun, bright enough to make the snow blinding, even in the shadows of the pines. Gwyn had climbed their tree to its summit, then estimated that Ramiel lay days away to the northeast. Leaving them, should they make it, a day to climb its barren face."

"The males around them were down. Utter silence filled the snowy forest. Even the birds in the pines had stopped chirping. 'Valkyries,' Emerie said, eyes blazing bright. Nesta grinned through the blood she knew was splattered on her face. 'Hell yes.'"

But it's not just ACOSF.

In ACOMAF:

"We’d been flying over the most beautiful mountains I’d ever seen—snowy and flecked with pines—heading toward rolling steppes beyond them when I said, 'You’re training female Illyrian warriors?' 'Trying to.' Rhys gazed across the brutal landscape."

"Pines dusted with fresh snow blurred beneath us. 'What’s the Blood Rite?'"

In ACOWAR:

"Azriel’s wings spread, dark reds and golds shining through in the bright sun, and he opened his arms to me. 'The pine forest will be good—the one by the lake.' 'Why?' 'Because water is better to fall into than hard rock,' Cassian replied, crossing his arms."

Goodness--the Gwynriel imagery this invokes with the lake and it being "better to fall into." Lol. 🤭

There are even some references to pine in ACOMAF, ACOWAR, and ACOFAS, but I don't think it's necessary to include them all here. I mean, even the carpets at Griffin Antiquities in HOEAB are described as pine-green multiple times. So, I think it's clear that pine, rolling hills, snowy terrain, and mountain range descriptions are all reflective of what SJM chose to highlight in her "FIRST DRAFTS FINISHED" post. How exciting?!

Do I think this is a confirmation that Azriel's book is on its way? Kind of. I mean, I already believe that--and I don't see how highlighting overly Illyrian imagery in her post is going to dissuade me of that opinion. It also excites me because, in my opinion, Gwyn fits into an Illyrian plot for Azriel as the Valkyries have unfinished business in that regard.

The end of ACOSF tells us this:

"Gwyn laughed hoarsely. 'The Illyrians are going to be furious about our winning, you know. Especially because I have no intention of being called Carynthian. I’m content with being a Valkyrie.' 'Oh, they’ll be in hysterics for decades,' Emerie agreed, grinning. Nesta grinned back, slinging her arms around her friends again and sinking into the deep cushions of the couch. 'I can’t wait to see it.'

This directly connects the Valkyries to an Illyrian plot--which means it directly connects Gwyn to an Illyrian plot. I can't help but believe this is part of the fantastic foreshadowing we see throughout ASCOSF in regards to the foundation being laid for Azriel's story to be next.

Time will tell of course. But I'm ending today with an extra sense of excitement about what's to come with an official announcement down the road.

#acotar #acotar5 #acotar6 #illyria #Sarah j maas #sjmaas #gwynriel #pro gwynriel #pro gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #illyria acotar #acotar 5 #acotar 6 #Azriel acotar #azriel x gwyn #gwynriel supremacy

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melliemell · 9 months ago

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Pairing: Poe x f!reader

Contents: SFW, touch-starved Poe, lap-sitting, Sub!Poe vibes flying everywhere, fluff Approx 1.1k words

One two three, one two three. Deep breath. One–

Your laugh startled him, forcing Poe’s attention away from the Cambodian calming technique he specifically read on in preparation for this. It was of no use– the sensation of your thighs against his, legs straddling his lap as you oozed confidence as if this was merely your typical Wednesday afternoon.

It hardly counted as afternoon yet, and it certainly wasn’t any laughing matter!

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll be serious, yes,” you said, smile barely contained, and you looked at Poe with doey eyes of pristine innocence.

His head flopped, sighing dramatically as the tell-tale signs of worry spread over his body again, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his vest. Remaining stock still, like a wire drawn through his entire figure, Poe was hyper-aware of every single point of contact between you. Which wasn’t much, considering. The warmth of your body mass was merely accumulating, drawing attention with its effect against his.

Although, if he were to reach out and touch, Poe would simply faint.

It was not going as planned. At all.

Neither of you were anywhere near being naked. The mere thought made Poe’s ears flush deep. No, this was simply an exercise. One born out of necessity.

One which you insisted on and he carefully considered, yielding in the end because– as much as he enjoyed your mind and way of thinking, Poe could hardly come up with times he’d expressed his affections more… physically.

He could’ve never predicted you’d climb into his lap; what started as a plain jest– an equivalent to diving in the deep but ended up far more deadly than expected.

“If you must know,” Poe began, carefully, “this a lot harder than it seems. I’m hardly used to such closeness, let alone initiating it. I hope you’d forgive me for being as I am.”

“Poe…” Your hand reached, cupping his as your thumb stroked gently against his knuckles. His heart could barely take it. You were so tender with him. “Oh, I’m sorry too. This was a silly idea. I don’t want you to feel bad.”

“Nonsense!” He forced more authority in his speech, only to wince at the result as you raised a brow. “I believe it was splendid. I just need some time to… um– it is quite all right, I assure you.”

You were so small compared to him; he was used to perching over others with his height. But now, sitting like this, you could almost be considered at eye level. He was so very lucky to have this– to have you. You with all your silly ideas, always pushing him beyond the edge of familiarity. Never doubting his capabilities, not once, only encouraging. Poe hardly noticed leaning closer, mind distant yet instincts sharp as a feathered quill.

You had yet to share a kiss.

The realization froze Poe in place, eyes going wide as he registered what he was about to do. Thank goodness you were too preoccupied with holding his hands, gaze distant and deep in thought as you looked down.

What absurdity. To think of doing such a thing without asking you first. The fright it would give you. It was good he caught himself in time. Yes, quite good.

“Hey, Poe?”

He blinked. “Hmm?”

“I will rest your hands on my legs. Is that okay?”

“You will what?” Poe said, voice going higher. A slight dusting of pink spread over his cheekbones. “I mean– I, well. You see–” It grew even deeper by the second.

You leaned in quick, barely giving Poe time to react as you booped your nose against his, a wide smile on your lips a moment later.

Poe swallowed.

“If you insist,” he whispered.

Breathing was crucial now. Poe had to remind himself of that as his fingertips brushed against your clothing, resting flat on your upper thighs. Your hands remained over his, drumming an absent rhythm as if calming him.

“Huh.”

A nervous shiver ran through Poe’s back. “Is something the matter?” Blast, what if his hands were too sweaty? Surely he could have used a handkerchief before or–

“Just thinking,” you said, humming. “We really are two silly little people. Doing silly things we worry over like it’s the end of the world.”

Poe found it hard to deny. He was being over-dramatic, he’s well aware. But ever since he found you, every interaction just felt a bit… too much. Like keeping up with a never-drying well of– emotions that he hardly had to deal with before.

He cherished you. A lot. And holding himself back from expressing it was unfair to you when you were so…

Poe’s lower lip trembled, and he gasped, trying to catch himself in time before becoming too emotional. You had just about the opposite idea, looking at him confused. Poe felt your pull at his wrists.

“Hey, if this really isn’t okay, we can stop. You know that?” you said.

“No, no.”

Poe took a breath, bracing himself before he tentatively trailed his hands up, embracing you from the waist instead. You looked even more confused, but there was no time for hesitancy! You were warm, and soft, and so lovingly you. Poe sighed, feeling your hair brush his cheek as he pulled you against him.

For a moment, you stood still. Poe’s mind spiralled. Self-doubt was beginning to seep in again when hands rose up, draping over Poe’s shoulders as you hugged him back tightly, an, “oh, you silly man…” whispered against his ear.

Poe melted right there and then, body completely slacking against yours as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You trailed your hands through his hair, pulling at his locks lightly as your boyfriend turned into a glorified pudding.

“You know what I think?” you asked, humming absently.

Poe did not move as he answered with a muffled, “yes?”

“If we’re like this now…” you pulled back, cupping Poe’s face as you brushed his hair aside, eyes locked with his blinking ones. “I really wonder what sex would be like.”

A moment.

Two…

“Don’t– don’t say that!” Poe spluttered, pulling back.

You laughed. His face was beet red, and no matter how dedicatedly he tried to sculpt it into one of neutrality, it seemed to only serve in making you laugh even more. “I am confident we’ll have a great time!” he said, and immediately winced.

Still giggling, you squished his cheeks together before brushing your nose against his. It was like a swarm of butterflies had found refuge in Poe’s stomach, eyes blinking and breath heavy as he tried to regain some sense of dignity.

It was a long night after that. Even if Poe doubted he’d live this down anytime soon, at least he got to hear your joy because of it. He was going to sulk about it later, though.

Definitely.

Probably.

He wouldn’t mind if you made him company then too.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd fanfic #bsd x reader #bsd x y/n #bsd x you #edgar allan poe #poe x reader #poe bsd #bsd poe #bungo stray dogs poe #poe x you #sub!poe #bsd edgar allan poe

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deepperplexity · 8 months ago

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Prompt 6: Wrapped Tightly [OS]

Pairing: Young Severus Snape x Young Female Hufflepuff You

Set in: Year Seven of Yours and Severus’s Hogwarts time

POV: Second, Reader

A/N: I wanted to write something sweet, something cute, something fun and warming in a one-shot to take a little break from the serials of Brandon, Gruber, and Turpin that I have going on so far this Rickmas so here we are with a young Snape 🥰 Now, it was supposed to be short but… umh, yeah… 👀 P.S the potion in this story is completely made up.

Also, side note, we had a family Christmas crafts day at work (the library) today and there was so much happening I feel like I've been in a whirlwind and I need to finish tomorrow's prompt but I'm all drained after the super-energy at work 😅

Tags/TW’s: Mutual Secret Pining, Young Love, First Kiss, Hand Holding, Knight In Shining Armour Vibes, Illegal Potion Making, Rule Breaking, Sneaking Around After Curfew, Disastrous Potion, Slight Banter/Teasing (fun kind!), Nervousness, Low Self-esteem

Abbr.: Y/N - Your Name | Y/L/N - Your Last Name

Word Count: 4.6k

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

Wrapped Tightly

Your hands ached, your mind solely focused on counting the stirs of the cauldron. …forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one… On and on it went, you would count until you hit eighty-three and then stir the potion counter-clockwise sixteen times before setting it to simmer for the upcoming eleven hours — perfectly timed for when you’d return from breakfast the day after. You’d have to get an early breakfast to make it in time but curfew was coming closer for this Friday evening so you had no choice but to make it at this time.

What you were doing wasn’t exactly allowed, but then again, no great things are discovered or created by strictly following rules and regulations, right? There, switch to counter-clockwise and one, two, three, four, five… It was a relief to move your arms in the opposite direction while you focused on counting — trying not to let the potentially disastrous outcome of brewing an illegal potion in a restricted tower of your school could yield; especially if the potion didn’t go as planned.

You pulled the wooden spoon of honey-waxed oak out of the potion at the exact right time, staring into the still-swirling potion for any signs of it changing colour for a long minute. It did not, and you let out a sigh of relief. The icy blue liquid was thick and white fumes with what looked like minuscule crystals wafted up from the cauldron as you adjusted the burner beneath it. Nothing happened, the potion remained the same and you clapped your hands giddily.

Before leaving the cold room with a slight shimmer to their walls as the fumes filled the space, you cast another three secrecy charms and a trespass hex for good measure. Rather someone gets a bit of a headache than discovering what you were up to, honestly.

The clock struck nine, the giant clock tower not far from the tower you occupied boomed it out and you closed the door to get yourself back to Hufflepuff quarters. You were on the wrong end of the school, and at the top of it which also happened to be opposite to where your dormitory was. Hufflepuff wasn’t as deep down as Slytherin in the dungeons but still, like the badger representing your house, you were down below.

You sneaked down the swirling staircase of stone, staying close to the inner wall, and made sure to keep your steps light and quiet. The curfew was in effect and now, with the halls lit with more candles and dressed in sparkly globes of magical ice, your reflection could be spotted as well if a teacher on patrol happened to pass nearby.

“Miss Y/l/n,” came a quiet voice and you halted while stiffening. “Perhaps you should take a left, lest you run into old Filch in a minute,” it continued as you turned your head only to find Sir Nicholas peaking his head out from the wall, literally just the head and the tiny flap of skin holding it attached to his shoulders which were hidden within the wall or perhaps behind it — you weren’t sure how thick the walls actually were. “Sir Nicholas,” you whispered. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the teachers’ side?” He smirked, his moustache twitching. “Oh, I like a good joke as much as anyone and what you’re brewing will be a fantastic one.”

You scrunched your brows. What you were brewing wasn’t intended for any joke. “What do you mean?” “Come now, he’s nearly here.” You looked around. “I can’t walk through walls,” you whisper-hissed. “No, but you can open the door,” he chuckled and disappeared. Door, what door? “In here,” came a voice you knew all too well. Your heart quickened at the dark drone and you looked slightly behind you. “Severus?” “Come on,” he said and a hand shot out through the wall— no, through a crack in the wall that suddenly opened wider. A hidden passage? I thought I’d found all— woah! You got yanked through the second your hand landed in his and darkness wrapped tightly around you along with stale air and an eerie quietness.

He pulled you closer, you stumbled on the uneven stone floor and planted your face against his harsh chest in the process of nearly falling face-first. He smelled too good. Sage, peppermint, and a scent all his own. Your heart leapt anew and your pulse quickened rapidly. “Sch,” he hissed as you were about to apologise for stumbling into him.

Footsteps moved past the other side of the wall— erh, door. You both stood absolutely still and you could not help but inhale his scent deeply, feeling that ever-growing warmth in your gut once more — as you did each time you lay eyes on the young man who a year ago had fully caught your attention when he saved you from a potion about to explode in class. It hadn’t been your potion, but the benchmate you sat next to. Had Severus not pulled you away and down from the bench next to you on the other side you would have ended up in the Hospital Wing for weeks, like Mr Biscy (the boy who was brewing) had.

You’d liked Severus before that, mostly by his appearance and this strange allure he had. You’d chalked it up to the bad-boy-vibes and the utter lack of interest he seemed to hold in anyone — even the world — and that was something you were fascinated by. Fine, alright, given your badger status, you were also quite happy to make friends and drag those friends along for the crazy ride that was life. To see people realise how not docile Hufflepuff people were was like the icing on the cake, to be honest.

“He’s gone,” Severus said, the dark drone even deeper with your head so close to his chest. You almost whined a complaint as he let your hand go and stepped back. Your eyes had adjusted to the darker space but it was still hard to see much of anything. “Thanks,” you said with a wide smile. “Why are you out beyond curfew?” he asked, and you could have sworn his brow arched and his face hardened a smidge. He was so pale and his hair and clothes so dark that the features were actually visible even in the gloomy space. “Wouldn’t you like to know."” “I would not have asked otherwise.”

You rolled your eyes, the saying going over his head apparently. “It’s my business. I could ask you the same question, you know.” “True.” He turned and began walking, you followed quickly. "But I am not the one nearly caught. Good for you Nicholas told me.” “Wait, he told you? What did he tell you?” Please, nothing about the potion for Merlin's sake. “That you were about to get caught by Filch. I can come out of that unscathed, you, however, could not.” The drawl of his voice nearly sounded smug.

You knew the squib and Severus had some strange form of friendship, or even a bond perhaps, but there was never a chance for you to ask anything about it. Hell, you barely got a chance to ever speak to or even be this close to Severus — he was a bloody expert at keeping distances… Annoying. You couldn’t quite bring yourself to admit that you truly fancied him, because there was no happiness to come from that given Severus barely acknowledged anyone's existence — yours included.

“There should be rules about teacher pets,” you said quietly. “True. It would not have any effect on the caretaker of Hogwarts, though. Would it?” he said, again, a hint of smugness to his voice you could not quite remember ever having heard before. “You’re awfully smug, bit of a git behaviour that,” you said in a we’re-talking-about-the-weather kind of voice. “Smug? No.” “Then, what?” He stopped, you nearly crashed into his back before he looked over his shoulder at you. “Happy…” he murmured before speeding off in long strides while your brain misfired and your legs had to start sprinting on instinct to follow the leader - so to speak - as you had no idea where you were or where the small hallway was taking you.

Happy? Why happy? Have I never heard him happy before? I don’t think I have. Why is he happy though? Is it me— pfth, don’t be daft. But why? You caught up to him as your brain fired thoughts at you in rapid form. “Happy?” you asked. “Why? What makes you happy? I love it, but why?” you rambled while walking as fast as your shorter legs would carry you. Severus took such long strides you had to fight to keep up as the hallway twisted and turned, sometimes going down a few steps, and sometimes going up.

“I could help you,” he said quietly, his words barely audible. “Help me? Well, yeah, Filch would have caught me so I’m very thankful for the help.” It looked as if he nodded at your words but you weren’t quite sure in the gloom. Come on, get him talking, this is your chance! But Severus beat you to it. “Why are you… sparkling?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

You held out your hands and arms, well, shit, you hadn’t thought about the fumes sticking to you as well as the surrounding area. “Erh, glitter bomb?” Severus snorted. “Sure, glitter bomb. Engineer a better excuse.” “Unicorn farted on me?” you said with a whitheld laugh. “Better. Try again.” What, no laugh out of that? “Fine, a Christmas elf sprayed me.” He sighed. “Try again. Careful, steep drop here,” he said right after and slowed his steps.

Severus stepped down, turning him a few inches shorter than you which looked so odd. “Here,” he said, holding out his hand. You hesitated for a moment while your fingers tingled with the prospect of getting to hold his hand. You grabbed on, he took a sturdy grip with those long fingers, and you stepped down the high step with a bit of manoeuvring. “Where are we?” you asked and he released you. “Almost by Hufflepuff.” “What?” “Yes.” “But we were over on—” “Hogwarts has many passages and secrets.” Severus glanced back at you. “Now, another, better, excuse.” How about the truth? “Alright, I was brewing the Dragon Ice potion and the fumes got all over the place.”

Severus halted, you crashed into his back with an oomph! and a thud. “You what?” he asked, turning to face you. “Brewing the Dragon Ice potion—” He grabbed your upper arms. “Are you completely out of your mind?!” he hissed. “Where’s the potion? Where are you doing it?” “Southwest tower, the restricted one with the—” “Idiot. Come on,” he said with exasperation and annoyance mixed with urgency. “What? No, it’s not done until eight in the morning, it’s simmering for—” “For eleven hours as per the recipe in the restricted section, yes, but that’s the incorrect recipe!” he snarled, grabbing your hand and pulling you back the way you came.

You dug your heels in. “What? But it says the same thing in all three books,” you said, halting all movement. “Yes, and they are all incorrect to keep people from brewing it!” “What?” you asked, worry beginning to gnaw in your gut despite the warmth and absolute joy it was to have Severus so close. “What will happ—” “It will explode, turn everything in close vicinity to ice.” “You say that as if you’ve done it before.” “I have, and I learned,” he said. “You’re about to learn that you don’t brew dangerous, illegal potions at school where, if things go wrong, the evidence is in everyone’s faces. Y/n, what were you thinking?” he asked, anger and frustration seeped through his voice but he was not quite mean to you. “I need the money.” “So brew less dangerous potions!” “No, I need a lot of money.” “Don’t we all…” he muttered

“Come on, we need to break the potion cycle before it turns half the castle into an ice cube.” “Wait, what?” He jerked on your arm and you both began moving again. “Yes. The fumes are already turning your clothes hard, aren’t they?” When you thought about it, yes, your cloak felt stiffer than usual and your skirt wasn’t moving as swiftly around your thighs. “I’m becoming ice?” There had been no bloody warning about that in the books. Severus snorted. “No, of course not. It’s more like your clothes being covered in frost, not ice. It stops after a few minutes. The potion, however, is another matter.”

You both walked at a brisk pace all the way back to where you came from. Sir Nicholas appeared just in time when you reached the wall that was really a door. “Back so soon?” “Dragon Ice,” Severus said, and Sir Nicholas smiled and chuckled so his head nearly toppled to one side. “Yes, quite the jester our Miss Y/l/n.” He glanced at me with weird eyes of mischief one usually didn’t see in them. “It will be so much fun when—” “No, Sir, it’s the wrong recipe, half the castle will turn to ice if it explodes. And it will.” Sir Nicholas stiffened. “Oh dear, Miss. Quite the pickle we’re in now.” But there was definitely mischief in his eyes, it looked wrong on this specific ghost but not in a necessarily bad way.

He floated backwards, out of the wall, and then reappeared again. “All safe, onward mighty students, to stop the botched potion!” he said with fanfare as if you two were knights in shiny armour. It was endearing but the bravado was a bit too much at the moment. “Let’s go, Severus said and pushed open the wall— door, before grabbing your hand anew and pulling you close behind him toward the entrance to the tower.

You started up the swirling stairs, rushing up them. Truth be told, it was hard to be fast when Severus held your hand, but you had no incline to let go. Who knew, perhaps you’d never get to feel his fingers squeeze around yours ever again after tonight? It felt as if you were in a whirlwind — there was so much happening that you barely had time to reflect on the fact that you were with Severus, holding his hand, nearly running with him and that he’d spoken more to you in the past fifteen minutes in one go than ever before. And he said he was happy… But you had no time to think any more of it as you reached the door.

“Good hex,” he said, grabbing at his forehead with his free hand while you drew out your wand and undid it. “Thanks, it was in—” “Uncomfortable Spells For Protection, restricted section.” You chuckled. “Yeah.” “And here I was, thinking you badgers were sweet, none rebellious creatures,” he said, that smug sound in his voice once more but now you knew better. “Aren’t you serpents supposed to be greedy, evil people? Not ones to help those in need with diffusing disaster potions and keeping people out of harm?” “Touché.”

You chuckled before pushing the door open with the back of your wand-holding hand and arm. “Shit,” Severus said, seeing the room filled with a blue-tinted fog that wasn’t at all the type of fumes you’d left it filled with not too long ago. “It didn’t look like—” But Severus let go of you and rushed toward the cauldron, looking into it and interrupting you. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” he muttered before starting to search through the pockets of his robe. “Where is it, where is it?” he muttered further as you moved closer in the freezing room with walls, ceiling and floor covered in a thin sheet of ice and small icicles were forming across the ceiling, too.

“Well, this is bad,” you said, not sure if you were panicking or having a laugh at the whole thing. “Yes, bad, very bad,” Severus muttered distractedly, still searching his robes. “Maybe we should get a teacher?” “No, this will not end well for us.” “Us? You haven’t done—” “I’m here, aren’t I?” True… “But you haven’t done anything, you can go to the dungeons while I get a teacher.” “No time for— Shit! It’s going!” Severus snarled, nearly tearing his clothes apart when ripping at the pockets.

Panic surged through you as the cauldron began trembling and creaking while the potion swirled like a whirlpool. A very beautiful whirlpool of glitter, silver, and blue. But ominous. “Get out, Y/n!” “No way!” you shouted back. “This is my fault!” “We’ll be pop-sickles in a minute!” Had the situation not been so grave you would have burst out laughing. But Severus looked far too serious. “We’ll melt eventually!” you shouted over the sudden storm-like winds spinning around the room, coming from the cauldron. Small flecks of ice scratched at your skin and forced you to squint.

Severus grabbed his wand, shouted something, and a small cluster of purple twigs with white leaves flew from a pocket and into his hand. “Get down!” he ordered and you ducked as he threw the material into the cauldron before covering you with his own body. Your heart hammered, your pulse raced and in the midst of whatever was going on with the potion and dire situation you were in some bizarre form of heaven with Severus holding you tight while half laying over you to protect your head and back was there too, wrapping itself tightly around your heart.

The cauldron exploded. You gasped and whimpered from the shattering sound before the noise of splattering liquid came a second later. Another second passed and quietness took over. No more storming winds, no creaking cauldron. Only the odd dripping noise now and then along with the drumming of your own pulse in your ears and the feel of Severus’s heart against your back with his harsh breathing fanning over the top of your head.

After another moment you both straightened. The room was an absolute mess of darkly blue goo. A dense liquid closer to slime than anything else covered everything, including the wide-eyed Severus standing before you. He had protected you from most of it. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice gruff and low. You nodded. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” you replied while looking around the room before landing back on him again. “You’re not though, your hair, it’s turning blue…” “Blue?!” He reached up and grabbed at the long black strands turning blue from root to tip like the black lake freezing over.

“It’s not so bad—” He gusted out a harsh breath through his nose while glaring at you. “Not, so, bad?” he snarled. “I’m blue, Y/n. Blue.” You couldn’t stop the giggle as all that had been black on him turned blue. A vibrant blue to boot. “It’s pretty, very, umh, Christmasy,” you said, endeavouring to hold back the laughing. But, in your defence, he looked like a blue gnome with porcelain skin. “Christmas is red and green, if you’ve not noticed.” “No, it can be any colour you—” “By Merlin, if you say one more word about it I will hex you, Y/n.” “Well—” you stepped closer, loosening the tightly gripping fingers out of his own hair “—hex away if it makes you feel better, I owe you big time for this… I mean, I could have been blue. Can you imagine a vibrantly blue badger? Nope, nope, nope. Blue snakes exist, so, no worries there.” “Pacifying me with facts, are we?” he asked, but he seemed less angered and softer as you brushed away some blue hair from his face and adjusted the now blue coat that had been askew.

Looking up at him, you found his onyx eyes mesmerising. He looked slightly alarmed, but there was something to say for being the focus of his attention. Your heart certainly had a say about it, it galloped along like reindeer across the Christmas night sky rushing to bring the sleigh of Santa all around the globe.

“Purple,” you said. “Purple?” “Plum purple, now that would suit you splendidly. Perfectly matchable with black, too, mind you.” He arched a brow. “Plum purple?” You nodded. “Make plum juice next time then, badger.” “Next time?” you asked, your knees turning slightly wobbly. His eyes hardened and widened a bit at the same time. “Or not, not like I care either way.”

His voice trembled ever so slightly, a lightness to it — as if he was suddenly embarrassed or something along those lines. You were too occupied with wondering what he meant to think much of it.

“You know, it’s not nice to say you’ll stick around if you have no plan to do it. I keep my friends, forever. Unless they do something shitty I can’t forgive,” you said. He glanced away for a second and then looked back at you. “Well, I wasn’t suggesting friendship.” You tilted your head, trying with all your might to understand if he was rejecting you despite having helped you immensely or if this was his way of saying he felt something for you as you certainly did for him. You had hinted at it, you had tried to get closer to him — but Severus, well, he wasn’t one to allow distances to shrink.

“Severus, are you saying I should keep my distance or are you asking me out on a Christmas date?” you asked, throwing caution to the wind and diving in head first. The blue hair shimmered as he glanced all around the room except at you. “Maybe…” he muttered, redness creeping up along his neck and covering the tips of his ears peaking through the still-moist hair.

You sighed, trying to find his gaze with your own. “Maybe what? Maybe a date? At Madam Puddifoots next weekend with some sweet treats and hot drinks in the corner booth?” “Something like that, perhaps…” His voice was so deep, so low, you barely heard him. “Will you still be blue? Should I match?” you asked, unable to hide the warmth and giddiness in your voice despite trying to lighten the mood as the poor bloke seemed absolutely stressed about the potential of going on a date. Pfth, it's probably more just talking and being with someone and admitting to feelings and all that stuff but bloody hell I am right now damn thankful for potions going wrong.

Severus still hadn’t said anything, he just looked at you. “Well? Will you still be blue?” “Are you— Are you making fun of me now?” he asked and the depth of his voice turned uncertain. “Absolutely not.” “You will go on a date, in public, with me?” he asked, his features tight but his eyes soft. Better be clear here… “Yes.” “I didn’t think you actually liked me.” “I’ve been trying to show that for a year now, you're very difficult, you know.” “Too difficult?” “HA! There is no such thing as someone too difficult to love, Severus.” “Love?” he asked, alarmed. “Well, I’ve had a crush on you since Biscy nearly landed me in the Hospital Wing with his potion exploding.” Severus snorted. “How he messed up so grandly I’ll never understand.” “Perhaps not, but you noticed before anyone else did. I’ve always found you interesting, you know.” “Have you?”

You smirked, wiggling your eyebrows at him while the atmosphere softened and eased. “Well, yeah, I’m a friend collector and I always want to rope in as many kinds of friends as possible — you certainly are one of a kind, helpful, too.” “Why does that sound incredibly ominous, badger?” “’cus it is. And if you’re my boyfriend, well, all the more fun things I can rope you into doing. Do you think failing a Dragon Ice potion is the only mischief I’ve ever been up to?” you asked, laughter and mirth in your voice as Severus’s eyes widened in alarm. “I believe I am about to find out…” “We badgers are on a whole other level. Like the time the cups turned into mice in the great hall, that was us. The singing trees in the dungeons, also us. The ice rink in the hallway on the fourth floor, also us. Remember that time everyone started floating about as if gravity went haywire?” Severus nodded. “Well, that was me. Who knew messing with gravitational spells to create a new one could make such a bloody mess of everything?” “Anyone with two brain cells to combine,” he snarked and you smirked at him, he wasn’t serious or harsh about it — it sounded as if he were joking with you, to be honest.

“Think you can handle it?” you asked, stepping closer. “Obviously. I may be blue, but we’re alive and the castle is whole, no thanks to you.” Severus looked down at you as you inched even closer, feeling all tingly as his eyes warmed a bit. “So, knight in shiny armour it is,” you said, grabbing his hand and squeezing. He arched a brow, not impressed apparently. “Shiny armour?” “Ugh, fine, black knight,” you conceded and reached up on your toes.

Before he could react, or step back, you planted your wanting lips atop his and kissed him with everything you believed he could handle. It wasn’t your first kiss, but it certainly appeared to be his as he stiffened and did not so much as soften his lips — it was sweet, endearing even. When you leaned back he looked paler than a ghost but he didn’t appear to particularly dislike what you’d done.

He stared at you for a long moment while your hands warmed each other. “You kissed me,” he said, eventually. You smiled widely. “Supplying me with facts?” “I wasn’t prepared.” “Oh, shall I do it again on the count of three?” you asked, joking and smirking at him. His eyes flickered from yours to your lips and then up again. “If— If you want to…” His ears turned scarlet red at that and your heart absolutely melted. “Three, two, one,” you said quietly as you leaned closer and then you kissed him again. This time, he softened and tentatively kissed you back while his hand turned utterly warm around your own.

When the kiss broke, Severus seemed as shocked as before. “You did it.” “Well, yes, I wanted to,” you said brightly. “Now, will you still be blue for our date and the breakfast tomorrow?” “No. It will pass in about six hours with a good shower and new clothes.” “So no matching then,” you said with a smile. “And no plum purple,” he replied. You laughed as he smiled carefully. “You’re quite the hoot, you know that?” “Perhaps you hit your head when you ducked?” You laughed again. “Perhaps, perhaps, but at least my head isn’t blue.” “Touché,” he replied before turning to look at the mess of the room. “This will take time to undo,” he continued. “Nah, a few spells and we’re good. On toward the next mischief.”

You never did tell him why you brewed the potion, or why you needed the money only illegal and dangerous potions to sell could bring in. That was a future discussion; if the relationship led to something more serious. For now, you’d enjoy a Christmas with the Slytherin you’d wanted for over a year — even if he were currently very blue you had no qualms about kissing him for a third time when he undid his cloak and rolled up his sleeves to help with the cleaning. The fact he stiffened and his ears reddened this time, too, only made you feel as if he was the sweetest thing that you’d eventually corrupt with shenanigans, of course.

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: Well, this was fun 🥰👏 It really was supposed to be a short thing, just like a small tidbit of fun teenage shenanigans and then boom - inspiration hits and you gotta type type type 😂👌

I hope you’re enjoying this first week of Rickmas - which character is your favourite to read about when it comes to Alan? 😍❤

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