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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 9 months

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Push the Sky Away - Part One

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x original female character (Lorra Stark) Chapter warnings: Angst. Canon typical violence. Mention of loss of virginity. Smut. Word count: ~6.5k

Summary: We are getting to know Aemond in this chapter. Some scene setting and world building, not much to be found of our OC until she is introduced towards the end. Laying the groundwork for what's to come later. Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @sapphirehearteyes. I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Fire and Blood, the infamous words of House Targaryen. It is a phrase that both haunts and eludes Aemond Targaryen from an early age, with its promise of greatness and constant reminder of all he will never be.

The Targaryen name is the only thing of any value that Viserys has ever bestowed upon his sons. Aemond ponders whether his father’s disinterest in him is a result of the illness that weakens his body by the day, or if he simply has no room in his heart for the children borne of his second marriage. When he watches him interact with Rhaenyra, how he lights up in her presence in a way that he does not for him or his other siblings, he knows it is the latter.

The fireplace warms his skin, uncomfortably so, and despite the septa’s caution that he not sit so close, he refuses to budge. Sweat prickles the back of his neck, dampening and curling the ends of the hair that sticks to it. His discomfort is of little importance to him, he needs to remain within this proximity to the hearth in order to keep his egg warm, to ensure it hatches. It is a vigil he has kept for as long as he can remember, not moving until he is forced to bed with aching joints and soot covered hands. Unable to understand why it had never hatched in his cradle, he is certain that if he does his due diligence then soon he will have a dragon of his own.

His mother is alerted of his disobedience, and Alicent regards him with sadness in her large brown eyes, as she reaches for him.

“Come away, my dearest love, you will have a dragon of your own one day.”

He simply shakes his head. She could not understand. He does not want just any dragon, he wants his. There must be a reason why this particular egg was imparted upon him, otherwise it is all for nothing.

Despite this, day after day the hardened scales remain cool to the touch, little more than a rock between his tiny fingers. Perhaps placing it within the flames themselves will yield the result he hopes for?

He leans forward into the fireplace, heat blazing against his pale cheeks, and an acrid stench fills his nostrils. It is not until he is pulled forcefully back by the firm grasp of the septa that he realises the ends of his long, fair hair have singed, charred and blackened by the heat of the fire.

The egg is taken away after that, and Aemond weeps bitterly at the unfairness of it. It is his birthright, his only birthright, and now his sole purpose for being has been snatched from him; it seems there is little point to his existence now. He never sees the egg again, but he often wonders what would have happened if he had been left uninterrupted to place it upon the flames.

When Aemond is a little older, he begins to frequent the Dragonpit, for what is a Targaryen without their dragon? If he no longer has his own egg then he will find another, or perhaps claim a riderless mount of his own.

The warmth beneath the Grand Sept is different from that of the fireplace. It is dank and humid within the pit, the odour of droppings hangs heavy in the air, mixed with sulphur and ash. The smell sticks to his clothes when he returns to the Keep each evening, and momentarily he feels his chest swell with pride as his mother winkles her nose in disgust at the scent. It is the same look of distaste that she bestows upon both Helaena and Aegon when they return from flying, and for the briefest of moments he can pretend that he has too.

Yet still he goes to bed each evening dragonless, and begins each day anew with the bitter taste of jealousy in his mouth as he watches his nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys, interact with their dragons, Vermax and Arrax. Targaryens are considered to be closer to gods than men, so it feels like a cruel twist of fate that his half sister’s bastard offspring should be blessed with eggs that hatched in their cradles when his did not. Rhaenyra’s children have the favour of the Seven, whereas they seem to have turned a blind eye to him.

Aemond’s heart soars with hope when the dragonkeepers reveal to his sister that Dreamfyre is gravid. If she produces a healthy clutch of eggs then he can claim one, one that will actually hatch. In spite of the warnings that the she-dragon be left in peace during this sensitive time, and Helaena’s frustrated and repeated requests to stop disturbing her, he cannot resist the pull towards where she roosts within her darkened cave. If she is to lay an egg, then he wants to be the first to see it, to ensure he can take one for himself.

The blistering heat of the flames that Dreamfyre expels with her mighty roar of anger as he approaches yet again causes him to stagger backwards, wide eyed and slack jawed. But Aemond feels no fear as gazes into her fiery maw, his only thoughts are that one day soon a beast of his own will do much the same.

When Aegon claps a heavy hand upon his shoulder, steering him forward, and claiming a dragon has been found for him, he does his best to remain calm. He is used to his brother and nephews’ cruel japes at his expense. But as he stands at the top of the slope to the Dragonpit, he cannot help the way his heart races with excitement at the possibility that it might be true.

His hopes are dashed when a pig is led out to him, trussed up in wings, having been jokingly named “the pink dread”. He bows his head at the raucous laughter of Aegon, Jace and Luke around him, humiliation flushing his cheeks for having dared to believe it could be true.

The echoes of Aegon’s mocking pig grunts ring in his ears all the way home, and he stands dejectedly as Alicent delivers yet another scolding for him having dared to disturb Dreamfyre. He is usually silently accepting of her scorn, confident he knows better, and prepared to defy her all over again the next day. However, this time he can no longer bear the injustice of it all.

“They gave me a pig!” He cries, feeling the prickle of tears in his eyes. “They laughed, they all laughed.”

The warmth of his mother’s embrace does little to comfort the inferno that blazes inside of him. Today is proof of the fact that his own brother does not view him as equal - how could he? Aemond is a second born son and has no dragon. He is worth nothing.

If he is not destined to be a dragonrider, then Aemond decides he will give his all to becoming a fearsome warrior instead. He excels in the training yard with each daily practice, every strike of his wooden sword against the straw stuffed target more ferocious than the last. The proud glint in the eye of Ser Criston Cole as he watches diligently, offering guidance on both stance and technique, serves to spur him on. He will be the best at this, he has to be.

Much to his displeasure, the allotted time for sparring is shared with his nephews. Though they learn under the watchful eye of Ser Harwin Strong, there is still a competitive element, and an underlying sense of animosity between Criston and Harwin that he does not quite understand.

Aegon later tells him it is because Ser Harwin is the true father of Rhaenyra’s children. He feels a smug sense of satisfaction at being privy to this information, and it brings him and his older brother closer together. The two of them share rare moments of comradery each time they don their armour and pick up their practice blades. It’s the only time that Aemond ever genuinely laughs or smiles.

There is an obvious divide from that point onwards, Targaryens uniting against Strongs, and as the tension grows between the boys, it does between their mentors too, until one day it reaches a boiling point.

At first Aemond titters along with his brother as they watch Criston scuffle with Harwin, but his smile quickly fades upon seeing how valiantly their father fights for them, knowing his own would never do the same for him. As he looks up into the solemn features of Aegon, he knows the sentiment is shared. It is yet another privilege that Rhaenyra’s children possess that he does not have; the love of their father.

They journey to Driftmark when they receive the news that Laena Velaryon has passed away in childbirth. The icy, coastal winds that whip Aemond’s hair around his face as the stone coffin is committed to the sea are as bleak as the mood that envelopes them all. He seeks warmth near the brazier, attempting to catch the eye of Jace, who stands on the opposite side. Despite the tension between them, he hopes to offer condolences, knowing the loss of both Ser Harwin and his aunt play heavily upon his nephew’s mind.

He realises it is a futile gesture the moment that Jace turns away in disgust, and once more Aemond is reminded of how alone he truly is, that he has nothing. Luke will inherit Driftmark, and their mother has betrothed Helaena to Aegon. Luke snivels at what he is offered, claiming that when Driftmark passes to him it means everyone will have died. Aegon scoffs at the notion of being married to Helaena, claiming they have nothing in common.

It angers Aemond, to be overlooked in favour of those who are so ungrateful for all they have. If he were set to inherit anything, he would do everything in his power to prove he is worthy of it and bear the title with honour. If his mother had betrothed his sister to him, he would do his duty and ensure the match produces heirs that would make House Targaryen proud.

His attention is drawn to the clifftop when he sees the spread of enormous wings and hears the mighty rumble of the creature atop it. Vhagar. Laena Velaryon’s dragon is now riderless, and the pull he feels towards her is one he simply cannot ignore. At last, he has found his purpose and his desire to claim a dragon is reinvigorated with new strength.

Aemond waits until nightfall. Sea spray has made the rocks slippery beneath his feet, and he ascends carefully, though determined, towards the top of the cliff where Vhagar roosts. Windswept and breathless by the time he reaches the top, he stands awestruck at the sleeping dragon. Even partially submerged in sand, she is a magnificent sight to behold. She had appeared massive when looking at her from above, but it does nothing to prepare him for the sheer scale of her up close. She is gargantuan.

For a moment, icy fingers of fear grip Aemond’s heart, and he considers simply turning back, he has made a dangerous mistake. He shakes the thought from his mind the moment it presents itself.

I am no craven.

His approach is tentative, palms outstretched to communicate that he does not present a threat, as the elderly beast grumbles and shakes sand from her back. He stares transfixed as she opens her jaws, the white hot inferno that swirls within their depths makes that of Dreamfyre’s seem like a mere campfire. He feels as though he is looking into the very mouth of the Seven Hells themselves, but instead of fear Aemond feels kinship. Vhagar is without purpose, as is he, until now.

“Lykirī,” he calls out, the wind carrying half the sound away with it. Yet she hears, and she stills, eyeing the child before her with keen curiosity. Be calm.

Emboldened by her calmness at his command, Aemond steps closer, fingertips ghosting against the heat that radiates from her scales.

“Dohaerās, Vhagar,” he tells her, voice trembling. This is the same dragon ridden by the great warrior, Visenya, the conqueror’s wife. She is battle hardened, and with the smallest of movements could snuff out his short life. Serve.

The faintest sound of displeasure reverberates through Vhagar’s body, yet she remains still. Aemond’s heart beats wildly in his chest as he grips the ropes attached to her saddle and begins to pull himself up. If he had thought the climb to the top of the cliff difficult, it proves nothing compared to this. His arms ache with exertion, the expanse of the great beast he is attempting to summit is vaster than anything he has ever climbed before.

By the time he pulls himself into the saddle, Aemond’s palms are red raw with rope burn and his skin is damp with perspiration. There is barely time for him to catch his breath though, as the moment Vhagar feels him settle on her back, she rises to her feet, vast quantities of sand slipping from her back and wings in drifts.

The movement startles Aemond, and he fears he will fall. His sore hands cling tightly to her reins as he shouts his final command to her.

“Sōvēs.” Fly.

As she rises into the air with an effortless flap of her wings, he feels as though he has left his stomach on the ground below. The rush upwards is dizzying, frightening and exhilarating all at once. Aemond begins to laugh as he grows used to the weightless sensation of every ebb and flow through the air as it whistles past his ears, and chills his skin to the bone. He is finally complete, he has his dragon, and for the first time in his life he is genuinely happy.

That happiness is short-lived.

The moment he reaches solid ground, his cousins, Baela and Rhaena, are waiting for him, alongside Jace and Luke. He had anticipated this, and is well prepared.

“It’s him!” Rhaena shouts as soon as she sees him.

“It’s me,” he responds calmly, confident there is nothing to be done now that Vhagar is his.

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!”

“Your mother is dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now.”

“She was mine to claim!”

“Then you should have claimed her. Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride? It would suit you.”

He is startled when Rhaena angrily charges towards him, though he is bigger than her and pushes her to the ground with ease. A punch from her sister, Baela, catches him off guard, the pain in his face enraging him and causing him to hit back so hard she falls over.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” He snarls angrily.

Jace and Luke rush at him, and in a moment of confidence Aemond thinks he has bested the both of them, until all four children knock him down and begin to rain their fists down upon him.

He is the rider of the world’s largest dragon, and his new found confidence coupled with the surge of adrenaline allows him to fight them all back. He grasps a rock, holding it above Luke’s head as he grasps him tightly by the collar.

“You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did. Bastards!” He hisses.

“My father is still alive!” Luke wails.

Aemond smirks, rock still held above his sobbing nephew, and he glances to Jace. “He does not know, does he, Lord Strong?”

Jace unsheathes a dagger, to the protestations of both Rhaena and Baela, and the distraction is enough for Aemond to knock it from his hand. His dedication in the training yard has paid off and he quickly gets the better of Jace, snatching up the rock once more, prepared to bring it down upon his skull should he try to attack him again.

In Aemond’s mind, the matter is settled, they should accept what has happened and retire to bed.

Unfortunately, his nephews do not share the sentiment. He winces, staggering backwards as Jace throws sand in his face, and before he has had time to fully recover, Luke is racing towards him, Jace’s dagger in hand.

The pain is excruciating as his nephew slashes upwards, and suddenly his vision shows blackness on one side, instead of his surroundings. He falls to his knees, a shriek of agony leaving him as blood seeps through the fingers of the hand he clasps to one side of his face.

His only focus is the searing, torturous pain he feels, waves of nausea rippling through his prone body, until a clamour of armour alerts him to the presence of the Kingsguard. As a knight kneels beside him, coaxing his hand away, his pale, horrified expression and exclamation of “Gods be good” are all Aemond needs to know that his face is ruined forever.

The fire in the hall of Driftmark is warm against his skin, and he does his best to focus on that sensation instead of that of the Maester extracting his eye from his skull. Though he has been dosed with milk of the poppy, he still feels every cut, every tug, and the pierce of the needle as it’s pulled through his skin repeatedly to stitch up the wound.

Aemond is unsure if it is the milk of the poppy that dulls his senses, or the satisfaction he feels at having claimed the world’s largest dragon, but he does not feel anger or sadness as he expects he would have when he is told his eye is lost forever.

When his mother snatches a knife and charges towards Rhaenyra, he is certain she has more blood of the dragon coursing through her veins than his coward of a father does. She is willing to risk everything to avenge his disfigurement, while Viserys makes excuses and appears more affronted at his eldest daughter’s children being called bastards. The loss of Aemond’s eye seems of little importance to him.

It is in that moment that Aemond feels the tiny semblance of respect he had for his father wither and die. As he takes in the harrowed expressions of Alicent, Aegon and Helaena, he knows they are all he has left.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” he says softly, rising to comfort her, though unsteady on his feet as he adjusts to his partial sightedness. “I may have lost an eye, but I have gained a dragon.”

A scar mars the flesh of Aemond’s face, but also ravages its way through the Targaryen family. Rhaenyra and her children leave King’s Landing, settling upon Dragonstone with Daemon and his daughters. Meanwhile, the health of Viserys continues to decline and the instances he is not bedridden grow fewer. Aemond does not miss his presence.

Worry hangs over his mother, a permanent shroud of anxiety, while Aegon becomes more debaucherous, sinking further into his cups with each passing day. Helaena retreats deeper into herself, rarely speaking unless spoken to, and bristles at any initiation of physical touch.

Slowly, Aemond heals, though it is not without struggle. He must learn to do everything anew. His favourite books become a chore to read, no longer able to pore over their pages for as long without suffering a terrible ache in his head.

Criston has to begin his training with the sword all over again. There is a newfound blind spot to account for when he fights. Not only does he have to learn how to balance, pivot and wield his weapon with accuracy, he also has to develop hyper vigilance and an acute awareness of where his opponent is at all times, to prevent them from drifting to the side from which he cannot see, and besting him.

Even flying on dragonback is difficult, though he only has one flight to compare it to. He learns fast, and is grateful that Vhagar’s advanced age makes her placid and more forgiving than a younger mount might be. When Aemond is airborne he can almost forget his disfigurement entirely, until he returns to the ground and the world is half blackness once more.

It is enough to make Aemond want to scream in frustration and give up at times. However, he is accustomed to a life of feeling out of place, of having to work harder than everyone else to prove his worth. There is nothing to be gained from a defeatist attitude, so he hardens himself to the challenges he faces, determined to be better with one eye than he was with two.

If his vision of the world is now limited, then he will simply expand his mind beyond that. He loses himself in tomes of history and philosophy, ignoring the dull pain that plagues his skull as he reads into the small hours.

In the training yard, he is quick to learn to keep Criston within his line of sight at all times, and wields his sword viciously, relentlessly, always striving to be faster, stronger, more precise. The proud look upon the Knight’s face means little to him now. The only person he means to prove anything to is himself.

He reasons that a warrior must appear as fearsome as they fight, and takes to wearing a sapphire in the empty socket of his eye, when it is not covered by a patch.

The single matter that Aemond is never able to quite grasp is that of the fairer sex. Aegon has always seemed to have an overly indulgent interest in women, moreso what lies between their legs, but he has never understood his brother’s obsession with fornication. He has read about the mechanics of it in books, and the idea makes his lip curl in disgust. However, he reasons that Aegon is older, and perhaps his own appetite will develop in much the same way as he ages.

Aegon reasons that women’s skin is soft, they smell nice, and when you find one that has the perfect pair of tits and legs then there is little else that matters. While it is agreeable to Aemond that women are indeed more pleasant to look upon than men, he questions why he should not take an interest in their education or how they like to pass the time. His brother argues that once you are sheathed inside a woman, it is not what is in their mind that matters in the slightest.

Upon Aemond’s thirteenth name day, Aegon slaps him on the back and informs him that it is “time to get it wet”. The very idea makes his guts churn with unease, yet he dons the clothes of common folk just the same, pulling a hood over his head, and allows his brother to guide him to the Street of Silk.

The walk through Flea Bottom reeks of urine, with men staggering half drunk through the narrow cobbled streets, while women in varying states of undress beckon them forward into darkened hovels. Aemond keeps his head bowed, dreading what is to come, and is thankful when the establishment that his older brother guides him to looks slightly more respectable than the half a dozen they have passed by already.

The pleasure house is dimly lit and the heady scent of cheap perfume burns his nostrils, though it barely covers the smell of another undesirable stench that he assumes is the byproduct of what goes on here. He half wonders if it will stick to his clothing, much like the smell of sulphur and ash does when he returns from dragonback. He sincerely hopes not.

His throat runs dry when Aegon staggers away with a busty woman, full of giggles, leaving him alone. The brothel’s madame has a kind smile, though it does not meet her eyes, and when she places her hand upon his shoulder it makes him shudder. He feels her touch there like a brand long after she has taken it away.

“Choose any of my girls that you like,” she tells him.

Timidly he eyes all of them. He wants none of them, but how can he say that?

When he hesitates, she chooses for him, pushing him towards a room with a girl that cannot be much older than he is. Her hair is the colour of straw, her skin reeks of the same perfume that lingers thick within the air, and there is wine upon her breath.

The fireplace burns low in the room as he lays upon the bed, and he keeps his eye fixed upon it until it is over. He has enjoyed none of it, the finish feeling little more to him than the satisfaction he experiences when scratching an itch. He cannot understand why Aegon makes such a fuss about it, if that is all there is to it then he never wants to partake in such an act of vulgarity ever again.

He leaves without saying a word, and walks as quickly as his legs will carry him back to the Red Keep. In the bathtub that evening, he scrubs until his skin is red raw, wanting nothing more than to erase every trace of what he has endured that day.

When he is served his favourite meal for his name day feast, roasted haunch of venison, he finds he has no appetite. Sickly perfume fills his nose and turns his stomach, and he leaves his plate untouched.

From that day forth, Aemond decides that he has no taste for depravity, and dedicates his time to reading, training with the sword and taking flight on Vhagar. Despite the nagging ache at the back of his mind that Aegon is set to succeed their father when he passes away, despite neither wanting nor deserving it, he feels a sense of fulfillment in knowing that he is making both their mother and House Targaryen proud.

There are few books in the Keep’s library he has not read at least twice, and he trains daily in the yard with Criston, now at a point where he is the victor in almost every sparring match.

The years pass, and Aemond is content with solitude, assuming that is his lot in life. Fire and blood course hotly in his veins, and in spite of his disfigurement he feels every inch a true Targaryen.

Viserys deteriorates to the point that Aemond’s grandsire and Hand of the King, Otto, now oversees most of the royal duties, and he has begun in earnest to plan with Alicent for Aegon’s eventual coronation. It comes as no shock to Aemond the day that he is beckoned to the Small Council Chamber, though he is surprised to find it is just his grandsire that sits at the table, there is not even a cup bearer present.

“I trust you are aware of the plans to crown Aegon once your father passes?” Otto asks, once Aemond is seated in the chair nearest to him.

Aemond sits up straight against the backrest, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, as he regards Otto impassively. “I am.”

“Good,” Otto nods, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “Then I am sure you must know of your own duty to the realm.”

Aemond purses his lips, eyeing the older man carefully. “I will do what I must to ensure Aegon’s claim to the throne goes unchallenged.”

Otto sighs, leaning back and regarding Aemond with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Rhaenyra is sure to challenge your brother’s birthright, as your father foolishly named her heir, but there are means to remedy that.”

Aemond says nothing, waiting for Otto to say what he means. He watches as he fills both their wine cups, before setting the jug down. He takes a deep drink from his own, but Aemond leaves his untouched, wishing his grandsire would just get to the point.

Otto clicks his tongue before continuing. “To strengthen Aegon’s claim, we must curry favour with the other Great Houses of the realm.”

Aemond lowers his gaze, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the armrests of his chair. “You wish for me to marry.”

“Yes, Aemond, you are to be betrothed.”

The tone of voice in which Otto says this has such finality, it sounds as though a match has already been decided. His eye flickers upwards to meet the unyielding gaze of his grandsire.

“To who?”

“Your mother and I thought it best not to present you with suitors, we know you would not enjoy such a spectacle.”

You know all of them would take one look at me and be horrified by the very notion of being married to me.

Otto continues, “So we have chosen for you. The daughter of Lord Rickon Stark, Lorra. She is a pretty girl, and having the allegiance of a Great House of the North will weaken Rhaenyra’s claim.”

Aemond stays silent as his mind races.

House Stark. Their sigil is a dire wolf, their words are Winter is Coming.

Beyond that, he knows nothing of Northerners, what could he possibly learn about his betrothed from a book anyway?

He wets his lips, resigned to his fate. “When?”

“She will arrive in King’s Landing in two weeks, so that you can begin your courtship of her.”

“I will do my duty.”

“I trust that you will.”

Aemond retires to his chambers for the remainder of the day. He had anticipated that he would have to marry to form a political alliance at some point, however, the thought rattles him all the same.

He is a solitary creature by nature, what on earth will he do with a wife? He supposes life will stay much the same, if his mother and father and Aegon and Helaena are to be used as examples - both couples married, yet living entirely separate lives. It is a mere formality. He will not be expected to spend time with her.

They will be expected to produce heirs, however. Nervousness swirls in his gut at the thought. He does not want to endure what happened to him at the brothel each time he couples with his wife, yet he cannot leave her childless either.

Lorra is a highborn lady, however, not a common whore, so perhaps he will be able to find pleasure in the act. Doubt niggles in his mind as he ponders his inexperience. A Prince must know what he is doing if he is to produce children, and Aemond possesses neither experience nor interest in the act of procreation. He will need to prepare if he is to perform his marital duties as anticipated without embarrassing himself or his wife.

The thought of returning to Flea Bottom makes him shiver in revulsion. He has no desire to part with coin for an act that sickens him. He will need to find an alternative.

There are plenty of maidservants around the Keep who are pretty enough, and of a similar age to him. He does not wish to be like his brother, however, and will not take what is not freely given. He has observed the way that Aegon expresses interest in the women that attend to them during mealtimes and decides to deploy some of the same tactics, though in a much more subtle manner.

At supper the following evening, he spots a young woman who is pleasing to him. She has a slender neck and pretty face, her large eyes framed by thick lashes. He watches her carefully as she rounds the table, filling each cup with wine, and when finally she approaches him, he deliberately reaches forward, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her wrist as she pours from the jug she holds. She glances down at him and he looks up, holding her gaze, the faintest of smirks on his face. A slight blush creeps up her neck, dusting its way across her cheekbones and he knows she is interested.

He spends the rest of the meal catching her eye whenever he can, and when the evening draws to a close, he lingers in the doorway, beckoning her with the slightest tip of his head when she looks at him, before walking back to his bedchamber. Aemond does not have to wait long for the knock at his door.

“Your grace, will you be needing anything else this evening?” She asks with a polite smile.

He closes the door behind them, steeling himself before turning to face her. “You understand why you are here?”

She nods, reaching up to cup his face as she leans in. He turns away, pulling back slightly.

“I have no need for you to kiss me.”

She nods in understanding and moves towards the bed, slipping out of her clothes. Aemond stands in silence as he watches her disrobe. She is attractive to look at, much more desirable than the girl he had coupled with in Flea Bottom. Smooth skinned, with subtle curves and firm breasts. He wonders how many others have looked upon her in the same manner that he has.

“Lay down,” he instructs her, once she is fully bare before him.

She moves to position herself face down, but Aemond steps forward, halting her actions.

“Let me look at you.”

“As you wish, your grace,” she whispers, blushing again, and repositions onto her back.

Aemond stands over her, his eye raking over her form as he takes in the way her chest rises and falls with every breath, the way the narrowness of her waist expands outwards towards her hips.

Tentatively, he reaches forward, fingers trailing lightly over the plush flesh of her inner thigh, tugging gently.

Obediently, she spreads her legs and he sucks in a breath at what glistens between them, curiosity guiding his actions as he spreads his fingers through the slick folds. She sighs in pleasure, and he looks back up at her face. Her lips are parted, eyes hooded with desire. Admittedly, though this is a much better experience than what he’d endured when he was thirteen, he still feels little in the way of excitement. Aemond appreciates that she lays there quietly, however, allowing him to take things at his own pace, and he feels his body respond to her regardless of his lack of emotion.

When his cock strains almost painfully against the lacings of his breeches, he unfastens them, crawling over the maidservant to cage her body in with his. She feels better against him than the whore had, her skin is more supple and her scent not quite so overpowering. He grunts as he pushes himself inside of her, her tight, wet heat gripping every inch of him as he slides forward.

The inside of her is different from the grasp of his own hand. Aemond is no stranger to the act of self pleasure, using it as a means to clear his mind or lull himself to sleep on nights when rest evades him. It is not a carnal act for him though, he simply focuses on the sensation, guiding himself to release. Despite the pleasant warmth of her body, he does not feel driven to desperate passion as he had anticipated, as he has so often heard Aegon describe.

As he rocks his hips into hers, back and forth, the growing ache he experiences is nice enough, but it does not light a fire within him. He is simply rutting against another person. The dulcet sounds that fall from her lips as he pistons into her sound too performative, and he feels resentment as he looks upon her face, just wanting to put an end to it.

He speeds up, and her sounds grow louder. Annoyance prickles at his skin.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses.

She falls silent and the room fills with the sound of the slap of his skin against hers, until finally he spills inside of her with a quiet gasp. He is quick to withdraw from her, standing and tucking himself away.

“You can go now,” he tells her, turning away.

He doesn’t watch as she dresses and quietly leaves his chamber. Aemond feels disappointment that he is unable to derive pleasure from such a carnal act. He has read that it is supposed to evoke excitement within a person, and from the way Aegon behaves he knows it is certainly true. So why does such a feeling evade him?

It matters not, he supposes. He will treat his wife in the same way he has the maidservant this evening. He will not take her by force, and he will be gentle with her. The act will be for the sole purpose of producing heirs, besides that they will live their lives as they please. He did not choose her, and she did not choose him, so he is confident that this will be an arrangement she finds satisfactory.

The next two weeks pass by without incident. Aemond reads, he trains and he flies, and thoughts of his betrothal scarcely enter his mind.

Upon the day of Lorra’s arrival to the Red Keep, he gathers in the Great Hall, with Alicent, Otto, Aegon and Helaena to greet her upon her arrival. He stands straight, hands clasped firmly behind his back, eye scanning the room impatiently. He hates the formality of it all, and wonders what could possibly be taking such a long time.

He will, of course, be dutiful and stand here for as long as necessary, but irritability simmers within him as he exhales heavily through his nose, wishing to be anywhere else right now, the library, the training yard, on dragonback. Such a display seems wholly unnecessary for an arrangement that is a mere formality.

When finally the doors open to the steps that ascend into the Hall, he faces forward, eye fixed upon the Kingsguard that file in. Until he sees her.

Draped in a cerulean cloak, trimmed with grey fur, she seems as though she is floating, rather than walking as she approaches. Her ivory skin is tinged with the faintest of pink against her cheeks and the curls of her ebony hair are braided down her back.

Aemond’s throat runs dry, his heart pounding quickly against his ribcage, and he realises he is holding his breath. The last time he felt such a powerful combination of fear, awe and longing had been the night he had first laid eyes upon Vhagar. It unsettles him, and he is grateful that his hands remain behind his back, otherwise he is certain that she would be able to see how they tremble.

“Lady Lorra of House Stark,” comes the announcement to the Hall, but it sounds distant and far away to Aemond as he stands, transfixed by her.

His blood pumps like liquid fire through his veins. Her eyes, so blue they could almost be sapphires, meet his and he feels a shiver run through him. After a lifetime of resonating in the warmth of flames, he is chilled by the ice that is reflected back at him.

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starwarsalltypesoflove · 9 months

Text

SW - ALL TYPES OF LOVE WEEK

INFO

Star Wars: All Types of Love week is a fandom event of fancreations, lasting a week, that celebrates love in its many forms! Since we celebrate romantic love and familial love often, we thought it might be time to give an opportunity for other kinds of love to shine!

Inspired by the Ancient Greek Philosophers and their seven kinds of love, we aim to showcase those different, less celebrated loves. Rooting for the little guys!

HOW TO PARTICIPATE

No sign-up, nothing. Just create!!!

Post during the appropriate week and you’re good!

We welcome any kind of creation, as long as it is truly yours. Even old posts being reblogged is fine! Old creations deserve as much love as new ones.

Fanfics, fanarts, moodboards, fanvids, fancomics, banners, playlists… An epic fic or a 100 word drabble, an amazing painting or a stick figures funny scene- we love it all!!

WHEN TO POST

Wednesday 7th of February, 00h00 PST, to Wednesday 14th of February, 23h59 PST.

HOW TO POST

Post under the tag SWATOLW during the week the event is running. Add the tag of the type of love you are representing.

Be sure to @ us so we can appreciate what you’ve made and put it in the round-up!

WHAT TO POST

Star Wars characters, places, animals, games… Be it from the movies, the novels, the comics, the shows like The Clone Wars, The Mandalorian, Andor or even your own OC, the important parts are:

It must be from the Star Wars fandom

It must be about Love and that love must be not romantic or familial

To get a better idea of what we mean by that, you can read more about the seven types of love here. In short, we want to give a chance to shine to:

Love of Friends #philia

Love of Strangers #agape

Love of Partners #pragma

Love of Players #ludus

Love of Self #philautia

You can post about any of these, at any time of the week. There isn’t a day assigned to each type. The point is to create without pressure and celebrate all the types of love we don’t often focus on! The more of these you depict, the more we will love you for it!

QUESTIONS

“I love my two clones who are bffs, but they are clones. Does their love count as familial?”

Well, the truth rather depends on your point of view how you present it.

Pairs like Fives and Echo, and Rex and Cody, are usually understood in canon and fandom to be family. They can be friends too, but we’d prefer to focus on other pairs for this event. Post another time. We’re sure people will love it.

Alpha-17 and Cody have a cross-generational friendship? As long as the way their relationship is described/shown isn’t the dynamic of big brother & younger brother, or father figure & son figure, it’s good!

Want to show off Waxer & Boil being two peas in a pod? We would love that! As long as it isn’t a ship or they, the characters, don’t feel like the other is kin in the way we understand it.

“I want to show my two Mandalorians who are Partners In Bounty Hunting, but they are from the same clan. Does this work?”

No. I’m sorry, but it does not. We consider clan to be the SW equivalent of immediate family, a close circle, so it’s not the right event for this. But it does work if they are just from the same house or faction!

“Can I do two Jedi who are teammates and lovers?”

You can show any characters (two, three, four…) having a relationship that is sexual and based on love. As long as that love is not romantic.

If what moves your Jedi is the sense of purpose found in duty, the common love for the Light and the wider galaxy, the playfulness and affection shared between bed partners, these feelings can be as big as the moon, and it is still fine!

That is the whole point!

Feelings can be enormous and serious and important and still not be romantic or familial.

But if it’s shown or implied that the relationship is romantic/familial or turning so at some point, that is not what our event is focused on.

We know people are a bit tired from the holidays and that Valentine’s Day is a period often rich with events, which is why we put these conditions so it can be as low-pressure as possible. The point is to rejoice in all the breadth and the richness of the human sentient experience of love. In the love of Star Wars. And in the love of this community.

Be civil and show goodwill to participants and spectators. Be kind. YKINMKATO. Go crazy! Be creative! Have fun!

Love!

@swfandomevents

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autumnteawithfriends · 5 months

Text

I despise CherriSnake and here’s why

Before we begin, something I want to clarify is that I don’t care if you ship or don’t ship CherriSnake. You do you, I’m not here to stop you and neither is this post. I just personally wanted to make a post on why I absolutely hate this ship.

Also, props to @cagneyblooms for helping me come up with some of the points.

REASON#1 - They don’t really work as partners for me

This is more of a personal reason to me, but CherriSnake is one of those ships to me where it feels like they absolutely can’t work out as a couple. Since the pilot is somewhat treated as canon in the show, they make no sense considering the fact that Pentious and Cherri absolutely despised eachother in the pilot. Both of them were locked in a turf war against one another and that hatred was mutual. Yet the show does a complete 180 from that and makes Pentious have this crush on Cherri out of nowhere, likely because Vivziepop wanted a straight HH ship and instead of deciding to just make a different character to pair Pentious/Cherri with or just make a entirely new ship. She just looked at the fandom, saw that CherriSnake was somewhat popular, and decided to make it canon last minute. CherriSnake during 2019-2023 just felt like a joke ship to me or something shippers who ship every character together would make. I mean, CherriSnake practically falls into a TON of popular tropes (Enemies/Rivals to Lovers, Angel x Demon, Girlboss x Goofball, probably way more) I’m not dissing this tropes, I even do these tropes myself with OC x Canon pairings I make. It’s just that CherriSnake felt rushed and last minute.

REASON#2 - They lack chemistry and actual interaction

To be fair, I partially put the blame on both Amazon Prime and Vivziepop for this. Amazon Prime because they only gave HH 8 episodes to really show its story, but I also blame Vivziepop for this. Because not only did she waste whatever time she had with those 8 episodes by showing us useless filler with the Vees and The Overlords instead of actually delving into the main sinners and why they’re in Hell. But she also crammed WAY too much content into 8 episodes instead of giving HH proper pacing.

But onto CherriSnake chemistry, Cherri and Pentious’s regular interactions pretty much prove to me that Vivziepop understands nothing about how actual relationships work and just make their dynamic one sided on Pentious’s part. Let’s be honest, Cherri does not reciprocate Pentious in the slightest considering the stuff she does to him. The shitty two dicks joke aside, not only was the kiss between her and Pentious forced because it was only a “heat of the moment” deal, but she also did this.

(Source: TV Tropes under Sir Pentious’s page)

I get that Cherri isn’t exactly a nicest sinner demon in Hazbin, but this combined with the two dicks joke and the kiss she and Pentious share makes her seem incredibly shallow (which she is considering how rushed this ship is in general) If Hazbin Hotel was like Bojack Horseman like some people claim it is, either these would happen.

A. Cherri realizes she was shallow for only wanting Pentious for his two dicks and never really considered how he felt, either leading Cherri and Pentious staying friends or Cherri breaking it off with him.

B. Pentious calls out Cherri for being shallow, thus giving both him and Cherri some development.

C. Cherri realizes that she only liked the kiss because it was less of them being in love and more of a heat of the moment adrenaline rush.

Or literally anything else. Cherri and Pentious never have a genuine interaction that either doesn’t make Cherri seem incredibly shallow or isn’t comedic.

As for the final reason, it may be a bit of a stretch, but I still think it counts.

REASON#3 - It’s borderline pedophillia

Again, props to @cagneyblooms for making me realize this point. Also, because pedophillia is very much a serious topic + I don’t want to throw the term around. I’ll be providing more evidence than the other two.

I’m not kidding, CherriSnake (atleast to me) becomes borderline pedophillic once you think about the lore Vivziepop spoon feeds us through her livestreams instead of diving deep into it. According to Vivziepop, Sir Pentious was in his mid 40s (best speculated to be 45) when he died while Cherri died in her early 20s, already raising a few eyebrows.

Yeah, this is already gross enough, but something that makes the age gap worse is the difference timeframe in which these two died in. Sir Pentious was confirmed to have died in 1888 London and Cherri Bomb died somewhere in the 80s. So not only was Pentious A GROWN ASS MAN WHO ALREADY HAD LIVED AND DIED BEFORE CHERRI WAS BORN, CHERRI WAS LIKELY BARELY A ADULT SINCE SHE WAS EITHER IN HER EARLY 20s AT BEST OR BARELY IN HER 20s AT WORST! This is also mentioning that Sir Pentious is also technically older than Cherri in Hell because depending on what exact year Cherri died in, Sir Pentious had either already spent nearly 100 years in Hell or he actually spent 100 years exactly in Hell when Cherri died. The only thing that really softens blow is that Pentious got a crush on her when they were both in Hell, meaning Cherri was technically still in her 20s in a way.

To conclude this, I hate CherriSnake. It’s one of the few Canon ships I actually despise since I either don’t care for Canon ships or I actually ship Canon couples as well. Even if Vivziepop wasn’t a terrible person, she’s still a really fucking awful writer who can’t stick to anything at all and is more concerned about her shitty Stoltliz soap opera rather than writing a good story. Writers like Vivziepop are the reason why research makes a good story.

#anti hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel critical #hazbin hotel criticism #hazbin hotel critique #anti vivziepop #vivziepop criticism #vivziepop critical #sir pentious hazbin hotel #cherri bomb #anti cherrisnake

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opal-owl-flight · 2 months

Note

Can you please tell us more about Neo4. What's their background.

“I need your help.”

Thing is -- I dont exactly own that character! Hes owned by @pastille-pain ... I asked them abt his deets, so here it is under the readmore!

His recruitment by 3 is also under the readmore :) (+more notes abt pre-sploon3)

(From my pal)

My Precious Soy Sauz

Aka croissant

Where he comes from is inkopolis

Lived there his whole life actually. A very sheltered kid due to being raised by grandparents that were in Octaria at one point. So they wanted to make sure nothing really happened to him

An only child but he had his cousin (Nakji, Takoyaki) of the three, he'd be the middle child with Nakji and the youngest.

He's got two friends (three if we count malachite -- the smallfrt) outside of the platoon. Dulce, and (unfortunately) Scara

He dating Melon (oc of mine), we know this

Kinda funny it started as her just battling with him cause he was good but then it turned something more

His time before the platoon was mostly

"Hey are you related to that Sauz idol?" Or "hey, you related to that Sauz wrestler?" It got annoying very quickly so he started introducing himself as croissant and nothing else

Aside from that, if he wasn't turfing he was at home reading or watching shows. Guys a very boring person

He's a pretty big OTH fan...

All this above is still the same even while being apart of the platoon minus the constant questions about his relatives and adding college into the mix

He can do some really cool shit when he's focused (like absolutely demolish competition in turf) but he's also easily distracted so I think you can imagine how that goes

His stress relief is shopping (mostly window shopping, very rarely does he actually buy anything)

He never gets too mad but we know the face if he does

Fun fact, you will never catch this man in pants

Short and anything else

Not pants

The only time he's ever seen wearing pants is in his agent gear and that's cause it's what was given to him.

-----------------------

Heres a bonus too, of 3s recruitment of him!

It was a turfing match, and theyve been watching the krak-on user the whole round. They took note of how he responded to stress, to bad calls, and how he acted on his own following calls he had judged as bad. Once it was over, they followed the team into the lobby.

They stand tall against the doorframe theyre leaning against, presence as cold and as commanding as ever.

(Nevermind that Croissant is taller AND older than them, that squid is intimidating as FUCK)

A whistle, calling the team over.

"|May I have a word?|" they sign, "|Ive been watching your team turf for the last few rounds.|"

Scara, the team captain, spits a "Who the FUCK are you."

3s eyebrows raise in surprise. But they should expect it... casual turfers dont usually know their name.

They went to the smaller leagues for a reason. If something happened to a big name in the scene, and its found that they had something to do with it-

No. No. They mentally shake their head. They are NOT picking this person because they are going to be fucking canon fodder.

"|Who I am is not important. Not much, anyway.

I am... interested in one of your teammates.|"

a nod towards Croissant. "|As a krak-on user myself, his performance has impressed me.|"

"Has he now. You seen our losses?? Are you making fun of us??"

"I can train my team perfectly, all by myself. Get lost."

They give a cold stare back. "|Im sure that has worked very well for you thus far.|"

The captain didnt seem to want to back down. 3 continues, ear twitching.

"|This request was not aimed towards you, anyway. Im asking him.|"

"BUT-"

"|I want to hear HIS answer.|"

A test. 3 saw that Scara was pushing him around and the only reason they won the match was bc Croissant decided to go his own way. Will he go his own way now?

"Well I know he'll choose to stick with me-"

"Oh I'd love to train with you I like helping others :D"

"You weren't supposed to say that."

3 nods. "|It begins now. Come. We have much to discuss. And as for you.|"

They clack their beak. "|Captain to captain. You need to listen to your teammates more.|"

-----------------------

Once they are in a more private space...

"|Training is only one part of the deal.

I apologize for not being upfront. This is a matter of national security, and I cannot mention much about it beyond base.|"

I suppose Croissant hasnt heard...or at least, isnt into much of the so-called Hero of Inkadia thats plastered everywhere in Inkopolis? If he was, hed at least start thinking of all that being like... "wait all that media was based on something real???"

(3 mentioning national security and a base may also inspire thoughts of "wow this squid's a fucking nerd...")

"|You are free to reject my request if you feel unfit for the task at hand. But where are my manners? I have yet to formally introduce myself.

Topside, I am known as FOR3VRFRSH. Here, I am the Captain of the New Squidbeak Splatoon.

I suppose youve heard of such a force...? No?|

Mm.

|Just know that we keep Inkadia more or less safe from nation-destroying threats.|"

He accepts the offer... but he also wasn't thinking too hard on it cause he saw an opportunity to step away from Scara and took it immediately.

3 nods, beckoning him towards the sewer line. As they walked backwards into base, they signed to him. "|From this point onwards, you will be referred to as Agent...Four.|"

Theres a very slight waver of their hand as they signed the number.

"|You show much promise, from what Ive observed in turf. Dont disappoint me.|"

"The only person I disappoint is that guy, but he's just very critical-"*

Theres a glint in 3s eye, a look of amusement... "|...Overly critical is putting it lightly.|"

"I promise to do my best still."

-----------------------

3 introduces him as the new Agent 4 and I feel Marie just scrunches her nose a bit. Then sees the look in 3s eye...

To the folks from the regions around 3s home (Callie, Marie, Cuttlefish), theyre not subtle about missing her.

#splatoon #splatoon fanart #agent 3 #captain 3 #splatoon oc #opal owl’s nest

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penvisions · 5 months

Text

of beskar and kyber {chapter 19}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader) ; brief Force Sensitive! Reader and M!OC

Summary: As the wedding to Prince Cala looms closer, you find yourself feeling more and more out of place within the palace walls. You find an unexpected friend in your new bodyguard and handmaiden.

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, we meet readers betrothed and he needs his own warning, reader's mother also gets her own warning, kidnapping, reader is being kept against her will, hostage situation, use of narcotics, use of drugs, sedatives, self-depreciating thoughts, ptsd symptoms, medical trauma, past medical trauma, feelings of inadequacy, sexual themes, sexual content (not detailed), non con touching, unwanted advances, emotional manipulation, unnecessary display of possession, memory loss, controlling family dynamics, marriage set up, sold into marriage, there are a few more but they will spoil the chapter!

A/N: whew okay, sorry y'all. a looooot has been going on in my personal life, detailed in this post and this one. my only source of internet is the local library at the moment, which will make posting actual fic a little tricky for a moment. but i'm so excited to dwell further into this original arc with y'all ♡♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

Ringing. Ringing, ringing. It completely consumed you, from the very center of your ears, muffling every other sound that tried to get through.

It didn’t hurt, but it did make it hard to concentrate, it felt like an immense pressure behind your eyes as well. Making your forehead and temples sensitive to touch, making it hard to take in the bright light from the desert landscape beyond your windows.

There was a soft knock at your door, signaling the start of the day. But you didn’t rise, feeling too lethargic even as the form of your mother and two handmaidens entered the room in a flurry of motions and quick words. But everything ceased when you called out from beneath your covers as the curtains were drawn back.

“Oh honey, what’s wrong?” Her words were sweet, cloyingly so, setting off an unease deep in your gut, nausea roiling at the combination.

“I-I don’t feel too good. My head, it hurts.” You roll over to your side, unable to move much beyond that as the throbbing in your head intensifies. She goes to sit beside your covered form on the edge of the bed, but you protest before she does. You didn’t want her anywhere near you, the very thought of her touching you making your body tense up and ready to fight her off. Frowning, she retracts her hands from where she had begun to reach out, something glinting in her eyes.

“I’ll go see if the med droid is available.” And then she was off, allowing you to see her exchange a few words with the guards outside your door. You catch a glimpse of brown eyes, making contact with the man who possessed them for a breath, and you feel like the air catches in your chest. That simple, momentary contact with a man you don’t know eases the ailments that have you still in bed despite the late morning of the hour. But the door is shut tightly behind everyone as they exit the room. Leaving you in isolation, the curtains fastened shut once again.

Hours later, as the sun begins its descent from the highest point in the sky, you slowly open your bedroom door. There’s only one guard at your door, posted there to ensure your safety as you keep to your quarters for the day. He’s dressed in flowing black layers, brown leather harness and belt allowing for his sheathed rapier style sword to dangle from his hips. His head snaps to attention as you emerge slightly, and you feel your heart skip a beat as his eyes bore into yours.

Any thoughts of what you were about to ask are pushed from your aching head when you connect the man standing before you with the polite one from the market a few days ago. The one who had held you so tenderly and made sure you were okay when your body had convulsed as a weird energy had suddenly flooded your senses. The ones whose eyes you had glimpsed through the door earlier.

“Excuse me, but-oh Maker, I’m so sorry, this is so inappropriate to ask- but you look so familiar,” A breathy laugh gave away your nervousness. “Your eyes are just so beautiful, and I think we met in the market the other day, if I’m not mistaken?”

“We did.” His voice was like velvet rich, a caressing softness in your ringing ears. Easing the ache still lingering in your head even if his words were short, his tone almost emotionless.

“Oh, goodness, okay. I don’t feel so out of line. I just…I thought it was you but I didn’t want to risk offending you or making you uncomfortable since you’re new to the palace.” The hallway was silent, as if he was thinking over his next words, as if he was unsure of how to speak with you. But you didn’t mind, sensing he was a man of few words.

“What made you feel like it was okay to ask?” He’s watching you closely, and you feel as if you’re being dissected. Being read in a way you weren’t quite comfortable with but…it also stirred warmth low in your middle. It was so different a look to those you encountered from the rest of the staff, from your mother, from Prince Cala and his family.

“Oh, um. Did I-I speak too intimately with you, I apologize. I really didn’t mean anything by it-“ You flustered, unsure why the man was pinning you with such focus. As if he was reading things in your body language and inflections differently than those you dealt with on a daily basis around the palace, as if he was privy to what they meant. You took a deep breath, trying to ignore the ringing still pressing down on your ears. Closing your eyes in a focusing blink before bowing to the man in front of you, stood dutifully at his post outside your bedroom door. Opening them back up, you avoided his eyes, not wanting to see the disdain he was surely pinning you with. “My apologies, sir, I meant no disrespect. I’ll leave you to your post.”

“No, don’t go. It’s okay, I promise. You can ask me anything you want.” He inclined his head toward you, one hand moving to grasp the hilt of his weapon. But it didn’t feel like a threat, it felt more like he was trying to ground himself. “I will do my best to answer. Though there are some things I may not be able to.”

“Why, because I’m the princess and you have to answer to me?” You tried not to scoff, the notion so ridiculous even if all signs pointed to this being your life. The title is something you had earned by falling in the good graces of the prince, of being promised to the prince of this planet. You never recalled wanting to be of such a standing and yet it had happened, it was your life. The insistence of so being repeated to you nearly daily over breakfast with your mother and at night over tea, almost as if it was a false truth being pushed on you until you believed it to be so. It was the reality in which you were roused from your accident, the one so bad you couldn’t recall any specifics.

“Because I don’t mind, you were kind to me and my…child in the market. He really enjoyed those berries.”

“Is he here with you?” You felt a swoop of admiration in your middle, the image of the small green boy lifting up the edges of your lips. You didn’t have the best experience with children, or any really, but you enjoyed the small sounds of happiness he had made as he munched and interacted with you. It filled a void you hadn’t realized, interacting with him, with his son. You never recalled wanting children either, though you mother and the parents of Prince Cala often cited two would be an appropriate number once the marriage was carried out. The discussion something you hadn’t even been a part of, making you feel some type of way about the whole ordeal that concerned your body and your livelihood.

“Yes, he’s back in the guards’ quarters, Asleep in my room.”

“He isn’t with your wife…his mother?”

“No, she’s…she’s, something happened to her.” His eyes averted, staring at the toes of his boots. They were worn, so unlike the rest of his pristine ensemble. It piqued your interest, but you didn’t want to push the friendly boundary barely established with the man.

“Is she okay?” It was quiet, your inquiry. Worry unsettling your stomach for the phantom woman who belonged to the man beside you.

“I hope she will be. It’s a…sensitive thing, that ails her.” His eyes don’t leave yours, gaze strong and glinting with emotion.

“I wish her a full recovery, I’m sure she misses you two by her side.” Breathing out the words, you suspected the man had been about to tell you she had perished. Unsure of why the prospect of him having a person, a partner… a wife seemed to settle heavy in your stomach. But it made sense, he was a handsome man as far as you could tell, his eyes beautiful enough to capture anyone’s attention. His obvious admiration for his son and the care with which he spoke…of course he had someone by his side.

The flare of jealously at the thought made you feel a little foolish as it unnerved you, you only just met this man. You didn’t even know his name. Frowning slightly, you bowed your head, hoping to convey your true condolences for his ailing wife.

“I…can only hope for the same thing.” Something in his forlorn tone didn’t sit well, sticking to the inside of your stomach. It was heavy, his feelings for the woman he spoke of, there was no doubt about it. And while it was endearing, it also felt…wrong. Like he shouldn’t be talking about someone else that way, that it was an odd thing for his focus to be on someone else.

Heat overtook your chest as you tried to push down the ill feelings toward this ailing, phantom woman Because this man was a stranger. A stranger with a cute, little, green child. He was nothing to you, new to the planet perhaps, definitely new to the palace and this line of work. You were sure you would remember such a sparkling set of eyes, accident or not.

Glancing back into your room, you wished they hadn’t brought you so much for lunch. Wanting to share in the abundance of it with someone who could use a little help. Being a guard couldn’t pay well and the man had a child and a sick wife to take care of. The fruit and skewers of marinated meat far too plentiful for just yourself. You didn’t want it to go to waste but you also didn’t want to force any more appetite than you had. Offering it to him would be a good attempt to make sure it didn’t go to waste.

“They brought me a lot of food, would-would you like me to make you a plate?”

“I can’t leave my post.”

“What if you came inside and we sat on the balcony? Furthest place from the door and you would be close enough to me should any threats arise.”

“That sounds very tempting. But it would be a violation for me to leave my post.”

“Oh, okay. That’s okay, I know it’s a lot to ask of you. It’s just…” You couldn’t look up at his face, his eyes that were no doubt still watching you closely. You felt embarrassed for being so forward, for asking this stranger for his time when he was working. Of course he didn’t want to come into your room and share a meal. “No, I understand. Thank you for your service.”

Turning to go back into the room, the door was stopped from closing by a large hand, thick fingers curling around the edge of it.

“I want to, mesh’la. Please don’t mistake that.”

“Can- can I ask for your name?” He paused, eyes looking you up and down as he thought over the positives and negatives of providing you with such information.

“It’s Aliit.”

“Aliit…and?”

“Oh, ad’ika.”

Aliit, Ad’ika, and…”

“Cyar’ika.” Your heartbeat hard in in your chest, so much so that you brought a hand to rest over your chest. The foreign language rolling off your tongue with ease despite never encountering it before meeting this man. They were not in Basic, nor any other language you were aware of knowing or being able to speak.

“Aliit, Ad’ika, and Cyar’ika.” You nodded your head at him, small smile gracing your lips despite the ringing still plaguing you. He bids you a good day, the sound of another guard’s footsteps coming down the hall.

The ringing lasts well into the night.

When it doesn’t abate by the next morning, your mother orders the handmaidens to prepare you for a trip to the medical wing, across the palace grounds. Your door was being guarded by a different guard and you worried you made the man from the market uncomfortable. Your heart sunk as you walked alongside a new woman who was in your services.

She was pretty, her hair dark and long, pulled back away from her face by a thin headscarf of dark blue. Her dress was a light sky blue, accents of the darker shade allowing for her to look beautiful in the ensemble of fabric. Though it didn’t seem like her normal attire, her arms toned and muscled from what had to be years of training and work. Her thighs stocky and thick as they moved underneath the fabric and guided you down the halls and out of the main building. You wondered what turned her to this line of work, if she had been a slave and sold to the palace to work off or cover her debt. You made sure to file the thought away and treat her to lunch each day should she have not much in the other aspects of her life.

The sun shone on her pale skin, and you wondered if she had on some kind of gloss over her plush lips for the glint to them.

She was pretty and you wanted to let her know. Though after yesterday, you were afraid of being seen as some frivolous princess who didn’t have any friends and needed to turn her attention to those in her service for conversation. Because it was true, you realized with a particularly painful throb of your head, that you didn’t have any friends who had called on you since your accident. Unable to recall if you were a social person before, you resigned yourself to the solitary routine of your life, only meals shared with others in your life.

She was kind, stopping every so often around the grounds as you stopped when the ringing made it hard to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

“I apologize – oh Maker, I don’t even know your name.” You leaned heavily against a stone pillar, head pounding with the incessant ringing. It sounded- at brief moments – like you were surrounding by strong wind, the hush of sand all around so intense or as if you were aboard a ship and flying through the air.

“My name is Cynth, princess.” She was close, close enough to catch you should your balance falter. “It’s okay, though, I’m new, no need to apologize.”

“She doesn’t care what your name is, she’s depending on you to get her to the medical wing, not make small talk.” The other handmaiden interrupted.

“Janae, you know I make a point to know everyone’s names. There’s no need to be so curt.” You lightly reprimanded, wanting everyone to know that you see them as they truly are. Your mother was so short and demanding with the help around the palace, stirring distaste and unease in you that you didn’t want to imitate her. “Please be kind to each other, sometimes that all we have in this universe, is the kindness of those around us. It can be lifesaving, so let’s try a little better, okay?”

“Yes, princess.” Janae bows to you, the fabric of her dress catching the breeze coming through the open corridor.

Moments later, all three of you were entering the medical wing. There was a droid who had to record the time and date of your visit before guiding you to the room you had been in far too much for your liking. Your mother’s perfume was faint, giving away her presence in the examination room. She was vigilant over your recovery, present at any small visit or worry. And you wanted to feel loved and grateful for her worry but it didn’t feel quite so…genuine even if she preached about getting you back to your old self on the daily.

“I-They tell me I had a bad fall, that’s why I don’t really remember anything from before.” You say as the two women helps moves to help you disrobe. But you startle, not liking the sensation of them pulling on your clothing.

“Please, both of you go and enjoy an early dinner. I can manage here by myself.” Cynth quietly ordered, hoping that less people in the room would help to calm you. It was a good judgement call, because as soon as the two nurses left you felt the anxiety skittering over your skin abate. You felt comfortable with her, and she helped you remove the layers of your flowing dress to change into the smock they needed you in to perform their exam and testing.

She was tense, uncomfortable in this setting, nestled in the medical wing alongside you. You could sense it in the cracking of her knuckles as she helped you to shrug on a robe over your undergarments. In the way she watched as a droid came out of the exam room alongside your mother and a man draped in a dark red tunic. Her jaw was clenched as she watched the way you let them guide you into the room they had just come from. The prick of a needle injecting something into your arm already taking effect.

“Cynth, please stay with me? We can get lunch after.”

“Of course, Princess San.”

“Servants are to only use last names when addressing the royal line. Show’s the respect they have for the rulers of the city.” You mothers voice was sharp, a warning simmering low in her words.

“It’s okay.” You slurred as your vision began to fade, edges of everything fuzzy, colors bleeding into each other. “We’re friends, mother.”

“Hush now, darling. You have to keep up the line between servants and your friends are not true if they haven’t come to visit you. We’ve talked about this.”

“Yes, mother. My…friend,” At an encouraging smile at the edge of her lips you turned back to your mother. “Cynth is my friend, and I would like for her to remain with me during the day.”

Pursing her lips, she looked like she wanted to contest the request. Refraining from doing so, her lips turned up in a saccharine smile before she ushered you through the doorway into the exam room.

It was expansive, a giant machine taking up one half of the room, a set of three beds lining the other. Cabinets of supplies and a small desk with an electronic bank set up before it.

But the machine, was a blur, the contents of whatever she had administered taking hold fast. The last thing you recall is glancing over your shoulder over at Cynth and seeing her features morph into a stone caste, eyes hard.

“It’s worse than we thought.” Cara announced as she entered the servants’ quarters. There was an entire wing for them on the second floor of the palace. Dining room, kitchen, ballrooms and throne room all on the first floor. Library and green house rooms, the seamstress and many other “service” rooms set up on the third. The fourth was the bath house and other rooms they had been forbade from approaching. The family bedrooms on the fifth floor, balconies in each one. The medical wing was across the courtyard, outdoor hallways lined with covers supported by thick stone pillars.

Her and Din being assigned to one room with twin cots on opposite walls. Hired at the same time and kept on close tabs during the ‘review process’ to determine where they were to be stationed for their contracts. It had been easy enough, the palace needing to fill holes in security at the behest of your mother. Din had offered his services as a close guard for you, citing that he had experience with protecting high standing individuals. Cara had been automatically assigned to be a handmaiden, you dismissing one earlier that week for some reason that went unexplained.

Din looked up from where he was tending to ad’ika, the small being agitated beyond comforting. As if he could sense you were close by but too far for him to see and interact with. He missed you, he craved your calming presence and easy going care for him, Din suspected. He knows he did, the you before the manipulation, before the kidnapping, before he had gone and fucked it all up and allowed for this to happen to you.

“Her mother’s found and employed an ex-Empire director, they’ve constructed a mind flayer in the medical wing. San undergoes ‘exams’ twice a month under the close supervision of two nurse droids and the director.” Cara took in the way Din stiffened, his mind going over everything he knew of such machines only rumored to be still in operation. Of the atrocities committed in the name of getting back to a peaceful time of before the Empire’s rule by using the very same technology they had invented.

“Did her mother stay in the room?” His distaste bordering on hatred marring his words, giving away his feelings of the woman who dared to call herself your guardian and caretaker these days. He never thought himself capable of unaltered hate, but here he was. He could only go far as to guess it had to do with the same feelings he never expected to feel towards another, of falling for someone as completely as he had done with you. But of course, he had gone and messed everything up. Tainted the happy memories he had allowed himself to create with you after suck a rocky and tentative start after finding you shackled in that compound.

It was only every supposed to be another job, another quarry to collect and deliver. Instead he had found the child, found you. Managing through lack of cognitive thinking and examination of his feelings causing him to return the child only to decimate his professional career and standing in order to right his wrongs. He thought he had learned his lesson, only to repeat it with you.

“No, she left. But she does administer the sedative. I’m sure we can somehow take over those ‘exams’.”

“We have to.” His voice was firm, emotions in check as he moved to sit atop his cot. “We have to stop the sessions, it’s the only way her mind can heal itself and she can remember.”

“I think she’s already beginning to, something about her abilities wearing down the effects of the flayer quicker than her mother can keep up with. She’s complained of a headache since we got here, since she interacted with the kid in the marketplace.”

“Then we need to find a way to have her interact with him more, shift her memory back into place.”

“…she’s so quiet, constantly on alert. Taking stock of everything going on around her. I swear her mind is working more than she’s letting on. She was watching me this morning, almost as if she was trying to figure out if she recognized me from somewhere.” Cara theorizes as she recalls the way you were when she had first met you, back on K’ath.

“She…she said I feel familiar to her.” Din admitted quietly, his heart skipping a beat as he recalled the way you had looked at him. The worry of offending him with your honesty, with your relief of realizing you knew him from the marketplace, of feeling like you were able to ask him things you couldn’t of others.

Stealing glances down each hallway, you make your way through the palace on quiet feet. The only sound to give you away is the hush of your dress layers brushing against your legs. In your hand is lighting agent you had snatched from Prince Cala’s office. The low thrumming of a headache still present after your visit to the medical wing and subsequent night of unconsciousness, though it wasn’t nearly as debilitating as it had been yesterday. With bated breath, you turn into the expansive and lush nursery.

Hiding in a corner, you push on the glass panel of the large windows and breath in the hot, humid air to calm yourself. Reaching into the pouch hidden beneath your layers, you retrieve one of the tabac rolls you had requested from a handmaiden. She had frowned at the way you had asked her to keep it from your mother, but the second you lit the end of it and inhaled, all of your colliding thoughts vanished. It was a guilty pleasure you were sure wouldn’t look good to the public eye. But one you weren’t willing to give up. One you were sure was something from the time before your accident.

Steps that were nearly silent caught your attention and you looked toward the arching doorway, the clear glass paneling of it nearly visible from your hidden spot. A figure was pushing them open, hinges squealing slightly as a familiar voice called out your name.

Sighing, you shifted slightly, giving away your spot hidden among the lush greenery. You dress allowing you to blend in. It was made of a transparent layer of tulle over smooth silk, lighter green than the leaves around you. But the flowers sewn into the fabric allowed you to blend in with those that were blooming among so many of the plants too sensitive to be out in the courtyard, out in the direct heat and sunlight of the unforgiving desert sun.

Allit came into view, his eyes taking in the sight of you looking slightly nervous as you were found out smoking in a room that you definitely should not be. But it was the only one your mother wouldn’t follow you into, the perfumes of the flowers too much for her sensitive nose.

“Apologies, I thought I heard someone in here but it’s an odd hour for me to be up an about. Instincts took over.” He motions to the sleeping form in his arms before setting ad’ika down atop a bench. You feel for him, how tired he must be from watching the child during the day and then standing guard all night.

“I could, I mean, if you don’t-“ You cut yourself off, knowing it was a breech of the already muddled professional line between you both. Instead, you take another drag of the tabac before putting out the inch remaining from the roll and depositing it into an empty planter under the window sill.

“What is it, mesh’la?” His eyes find yours, genuine curiosity swirling in them as he approached you.

“I could watch him for you, if you’re okay with that. I know how tiring the night shift must be. Gives you a chance to rest in the mornings and gives me a little company.” Embarrassment at the care your exhibiting prickles the hairs on the back of your neck on along your arms swathed in sheer fabric. If you were being completely honest, you needed a distraction from the routine of your life. Wanting to feel like you were doing something, helping someone. The company of the child something you had been thinking about after a few passing interactions.

“I think…he would like that.”

“Make sure he has a balanced breakfast and enough entertainment to sleep soundly in the evenings.”

“He’d like that too.”

“And you?”

His eyes bore into yours, something in them that trapped the breath in your throat and your fingers itch to reach out.

“I’d like that very much.”

You feel the urge to reach out and pull him to you, he’s already so close. His broad body angled towards you, his eyes locked on your form, as if he’s seeing the skin hidden beneath the layers. Anticipation titters through you as you see the faint movement of his jaw twitching beneath the fabric draped over his face. Without realizing it, you had reached out, fingers skimming the outline of his cheek hidden from view. His eyes fluttered shut, his own hand coming up to gently clasp over your wrist. Though he made no move to step away or remove your hand.

“Apologies,” You jerk your fingers away, aware that he was not yours to touch, his skin not yours to caress your fingers over, his lips not yours to kiss. He belonged to another and so did you.

“You don’t have to apologize, mesh’la.”

“I-I feel like I know you, but I…I don’t and you belong to another.” You step back from him, the leaves of the leaves all around hushing as you did so. But he follows, step for step until your back is against the wall. But you don’t feel caged in or uncomfortable. You feel desire swirl in your middle, heat thrum just under your skin. He’s closer than he had been before, his chest flush with yours and his hands holding yours down by your waist, fingers tangled together. His eyes are sparkling when they meet yours, the brown of them lit up from the sun shining in through the large windows.

Your breath catches in your throat, nerves alight and you feel like you were floating.

“I do and I do not.” He says cryptically. But you have no chance to decipher the meaning behind his words as the bright jingle of your handmaiden’s bracelets float into the room from the hall.

“Princess? Your bath has been drawn if you wish to get ready for bed.” Her voice calls into the room, unable to see you hidden among the plants. With a lingering look, you separate from Aliit and make your way towards the door.

“Princess Cala, your mother and fiancé have made it very clear that you are not to be left alone. Especially in a place as vulnerable as the bath house.” Janea was trying not to overstep her place, but she was doing her best to uphold the orders she had been given.

“I’ll be fine, I just need a moment to myself. Please understand.”

“I would feel better if there was a guard just inside the door, the tapestries will keep you hidden.” The visceral urge to demand she leave and drop the subject was strong and you choked down the harsh words before they burst from your lips. The thought of someone being in the same room with you as you disrobe and bathe not settling well with you at all. Instincts flaring and the urge to fight making your muscles tense.

“I can call on Sir Aliit? I know you feel comfortable with him, he would never hurt you or put you in harm’s way.” Something flared in your chest- nervousness, excitement, at the thought of Aliit being close by. Of the man keeping an eye out for you while you were at your most vulnerable.

“He’s the night guard, it’s still too early for his shift.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, Princess. He is dutiful and committed to keeping you safe.” Cynth spoke up, having been waiting at the entrance of the room for you.

“O-okay, call on him then. Please.”

Moments later, the quiet steps of the man can be heard in the hallway accompanied by the soft, incoherent babbling of his child.

“I’m sorry, he wasn’t quite ready for bed.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” You lilt, reaching for the wiggling figure in his grip. Cooing softly, the child began to giggle at the tresses of your loose hair, reaching to wrap his fingers in them. Small face buried in your neck his muffled sounds still lift into the air. “He’s just a lil fussy, nothing a warm bath won’t fix. Isn’t that right?”

“Oh, that’s not nece-“

“I don’t mind, I said I’d offer to help with him. It must be hard caring for him all on your own.” You smile at Aliit, taking note of the hands he had been stretching to collect his child back. Off to the side, Cynth is taking in the scene with a quirk of her lips. Having taken over watching you while Janae had gone to fetch the guard you were beginning to think of more than was appropriate.

Steam fills the expansive room, ornate stone walls covered in glittering and shimmering tapestries. The rich neutral tones highlighted by sapphire blues, bright turquoise, and deep oranges of tiles set in mesmerizing designs along the lips and edges of the large bath. It could easily fit four to five people, more of a sauna than a typical refresher. But it was peaceful in the room, even if you were hyper aware of the stoic form of Aliit on the other side of the cloth wall where a few tapestries had been drawn closed.

Ad’ika is gurgling away happily as you lower his small body into the water. It was a little too deep for him, but you had found a small floating cushion for him that was working as a makeshift raft for him to sit atop and be submerged up to his belly button. One of his little three fingered claws was wrapped around your arm and you felt the same energy from the marketplace flow into you. But instead of overwhelming you, it made you feel calm and collected. Centered.

You feel…comfortable around him despite not being too fond of children. And then there was his father.

Allit made you feel so much more like yourself, even despite being a little unaware of who that might be exactly. More so than anyone else in your constructed life, more so than Prince Cala. Something that sits in the forefront of your mind as the days drag on and your memory remains foggy. You were glad for him, even if he was a new addition to the routine and frankly, boring agenda your life was structured around. The man was tall, silent. Easy strength and skill obvious in his every move, in the velvet of his deep voice, the warmth of his eyes. But it didn’t unnerve you like the other guards, who seemed to be watching your every move. The hint of hidden directives underlying their attention and postings.

But Aliit…he was willing to converse with you. To allow you to speak with him as an equal without pointing out that it was unbecoming of royalty to do so. He answered your questions, and you could sense he had some of his own, sometimes letting them slip from the lips you wish you could see beneath the fabric covering his mouth. Masks weren’t part of the uniform, but he constantly had one in place. It was both comforting to know he was confident enough to feel like he could continue to bear it, and if you were honest…it was a little thrilling to find that he was willing to open up to you despite it.

The front of the room had cushioned benches, even a table filled with sweets and dips partnered with flat breads. Almost as if it were a living room or lounge room to idle in. But you had ignored it to delve further into the room. The bath was set up along the back wall, the right lined with shower heads resembling ferocious animal heads, mouths open in roars to allow for the water to flow from them.

Busing yourself with lathering up a loofa, you smiled down at the giggling child. He was so happy, so easy to please. Unbridled joy easy to draw from him as you had offered him to smell each of the bathing oil and soap options until he had liked one. He picked a lightly floral scent, one that reminded you of blooming trees from the time of before your accident. A rich, woodsy scent with the underlying current of it.

Once you were sure he was scrubbed clean, his laughter at the tickling sensation making warmth bloom in your chest, you wished for this to be your life. To spend your days with the child and his father, as if this was a normal occurrence for the trio you made. Taking pleasure in the small things, in the calm of a daily routine.

Rinsing him off in the bath, you wrapped him in a towel. Sending him to sit atop a stone bench a few feet from the baths edge, you began to lather up a second loofa with the same soap. Once you were covered in suds, you stood from the water. Stepping over the edge, a jolt of pain made you lose your balance, and you knocked over the bottle of soap as you tried to catch yourself.

“San?” Allit was suddenly pulling back the colorful tapestries that divided the room. You stilled as you were hunched over and reaching for the bottle where it had sunk to the bottom of the bath. His eyes widened just a fraction at the sight of your skin on display, bubbles covering very little from view. Arousal throbbed deep in your middle, tingling across your heated skin at the brief feeling of his eyes roving over your skin.

Your stomach jolted at the idea of him seeing you, his eyes taking in the scene before him.

“Apologies!” He choked out before receding back a little and facing away from you, though he didn’t disappear from view. “I thought, I was just checking to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m-yes, of course. Just- yes.” You stuttered, unsure where the sudden feeling of arousal had come from, of why him seeing you in nothing hadn’t ignited the same sense of fear and instinct to fight as the mere intention of your handmaiden’s helping you to disrobe. “We’re both okay, just knocked something over.”

“Copy that, yeah.” His voice so smooth as it washed over you. “I’ll…leave you to it, then.”

And he was gone, leaving you in that same hunched over position. Your heart was beating quickly, blood rushing in your ears, body alight with tingling arousal. With a sigh, you berated yourself for the sudden feelings as your hand wrapped around the bottle and put it back in the little basket with the rest of the soaps and oils.

“I demand to see my fiancé!” A booming voice could be heard in the back of the bath. The hush of conversation following the shout drowned out by the running of water as you washed off in one of the stalls. Ad’ika was wrapped in a towel, sitting half asleep and waiting for you to redress him. Wrapping your own towel around your damp body, you drew back the fabric enclosing the stall only to come face to face with both Aliit and Prince Cala. Both had crossed the threshold into the marbled portion of the bath.

“Oh!”

“My dear princess, your guard needs to be informed he is to break your requests in favor of mine. If I wish to see you, I am able to despite you saying you wish to not be disturbed.” He didn’t offer apologies for intruding on your privacy, bouldering his way further into the room despite the glare being aimed at him from beneath thick brows.

“Y-yes, my heart. I-I apologize.” Tightening the hold of the towel around your body, you were hyperaware of this being the most exposed you had been in front of the man who was to be your husband. It didn’t stir any feelings of excitement or arousal in you, instead you felt nausea rise to prickle your skin in an uncomfortable chill.

“You are not to be left alone under any circumstances, do you hear me?” The man stepped forward, his hand reaching for your bare shoulder. You ignored the urge to back away from him, aware of Aliit watching the scene unfold just a few steps behind him, of the energy flowing from him as he obviouslt disagreed with the way things were unfolding. Cala didn’t seem to mind the gaze of the other man as he stepped up to you, hand snaking around your shoulders while his other slipped underneath your towel to grasp at your bare waist. Eyes downcast, you let him touch you. He hadn’t raised a hand to you or given you reason to think he would harm you.

“Even if you are bathing, a guard or handmaiden is to be within viewing range. I don’t care if he’s to see you, you are far too fragile to be left to your own devices.” Humiliation floods you, heating you too much to bear as the steam of the room and the hot water of the bath begins to stifle you. You choke on a response, eyes downcast as you can’t bring yourself to look up from the stone floor. But he didn’t like that, the way you were stuck and unresponsive. “You look at me when I speak to you.”

“Y-yes, sir.” You brought your gaze up to his face, glancing behind his shoulder at the other man before focusing on your intended’s eyes. “I apologize for-“

“You are to dress and go to my quarters.” His hand slid down your damp skin, fingers brushing against the thatch of hair over your most intimate area. You gasped out, he had never even so much as kissed you unprompted. And even then, it was always chaste. But this side of him…it was bound to come to light, he was a man after all and you were to be his. His eyes dilated at the feel of your silken folds as his fingers skimmed over your skin.

“Yes, s-sir.”

“Ensure she dresses appropriately, guard. Maker, I don’t care if you have to force the clothing onto her, she should look fitting for the night ahead of her.” He cocked his head to the side at the resounding silence of the room, tension so thick it was only adding to the overwhelming heat. Dark eyes narrowing, Cala’s grip tightened, bordering on almost painful as he demanded an answer. “Guard, do you understand?”

“Yes.” Came the quick reply from the man behind him. Voice devoid of all emotion, velvet given way to gravel.

Smirking in satisfaction, Cala moved in a rather harsh swipe of his fingers up through your folds, catching on the hood of your cunt. You couldn’t tamp down the startled cry as the tips of them brushed over your clit, more painful than scintillating. Before you could even register the move, he was turning away from you and stomping out the door.

He delivered one last command over his shoulder.

“There are wrapped presents that have been delivered to your closet. Dress her from one of those, I expect to see you in less than an hour.”

The second the door shut at the front of the room, your knees gave out and you found yourself crumbling to the ground. Strong arms softened the blow, cradling you close to a sturdy body, keeping your towel wrapped around your trembling body. Humiliation overwhelmed you, anxiety rising something awful in you as you sunk into the warmth of the body holding you close. He didn’t stir anything in you, his touch comforting and tight around you.

“I’ve got you, mesh’la.” Allit’s deep voice soothed as he pulled you to him, body so close and encasing you. But you didn’t feel trapped or caged, you felt comforted by his closeness. You opened your mouth to assure him you were okay, but a wet hiccup was what fell from your lips.

Time passes and your memory still does not return. You’ve resigned yourself to this choreographed dance of your life. Breakfast with your mother, who tends to watch you so closely you feel like a creature on display. She bids you a good day before going about her business, something she claims is left over from your lives before you got entangled with the prince of the planet’s sole city. She had yet to allow you to share in her work, her craftmanship of forging armor pieces of chainmail. You often felt restless, thinking the act of participating would help to sooth you, help you to focus.

You dream of making pieces of armor, of donning others. The smooth metal cool underneath your fingertips eliciting both mundane things and…rather debauched thoughts of a large body pulling pleasure from you as easy as breathing.

You occupy yourself with walks through the gardens, of watching over Aliit’s child during the day before handing off the tiny creature who could barely keep his eyes open to the man before joining your intended for dinner. A nightcap with your mother, often tea since she insisted caf before sleeping was bad for your condition. But it was the stolen moments with Cynth and Aliit that you looked forward to the most.

The handmaiden often accompanying you during your walks, soft conversations of her time before being employed by the palace. Of the things she’s lived and endured. You feel very close with her, almost friendly with her as you often share lunch.

Aliit often gave in to your requests for him to sit in the lounge area of your room or out on the balcony in the late hours of the night. Sleep evading you as surreal and vivid dreams plagued you, making it hard to lay back down once you were waking from them with gasping breath and confusing thoughts.

You don’t dwell on the happenings of the night Cala demanded of you. He hadn’t touched you, not beyond his harsh and brash show of possession in the bath house. But the things he had said to you and the way he demanded you touch him had been something you hadn’t wanted. His once chaste kisses turning into his tongue breaking the seal of your lips as he bid you goodnight at the end of each dinner as he dropped you off at your bedroom door. It all felt like a show, a way to display his possession of you to the man who was your night guard. But despite his now harsh kisses that stole your breath in the worst way, you worried for Aliit having to witness the behavior. It had been…something you didn’t like to think about.

It was definitely something you didn’t talk about. With anyone.

The only consolation was that your headaches seemed to abate, the ringing in your ears no longer springing up at random moments. Despite being your night guard, Aliit was now a prominent figure that accompanied you to each visit to the medical wing. They were still as foggy as the memories of your time before the accident, but you felt something shift inside. Mind no longer seeming to work in overdrive to recall things, errant memories of traveling to unknown places alongside faintly familiar figures becoming something you felt throughout the days.

You were consumed by the mere thought of Aliit on the other side of your bedroom door. He often started the night off inside the room, heeding the orders of Prince Cala. Though he often stepped outside once you fell asleep, the door right behind him should he need to retreat at the sound of footsteps to keep up appearances. He was always so serious, so still. Never moving at the errant sounds of the palace. Of the other guards doing their rounds within the many halls. Always on alert, though his eyes hardly moved to give it away.

“I know it’s late,” You started to say as you opened the bedroom door. Aliit was immediately turning to face you, his hands clasped behind his back. “But do you want to come in for some tea?”

“Of course, mesh’la.”

He busied himself readying the tea in the small nook that housed a hotplate and a kettle, giving you a moment of peace to gather yourself from your most recent almost waking dream. You had been in a different desert, at a different time. Alone. It hadn’t been anything spectacular, you had simply been living out a day with a routine that felt like it had once been your reality.

“Can I be honest with you, since we’ve…bonded over our shared time?”

“You can share anything with me and I’ll listen, mesh’la.” His voice, his words always so sincere with you, it caused warmth to flare in your chest. You chewed on your bottom lip, contemplating voicing the thoughts that had been consuming you lately. The twice a month check ups having been unsupervised by your mother, Aliit and Cynth taking over those duties. Ever since they had entered the palace you felt…like something was off kilter. But you also felt like… some things were beginning to shift into focus.

You recalled the feeling of heat from a different desert, from a different time in your life. The same from so many of your dreams. Countered by the plush landscape ripe with trees and temperate air. Dreams that felt all too real consumed your sleeping hours, a blurry figure swathed in shining metal beginning to appear beside you in each one.

And while you didn’t know why or how, you began to associate the same sense of calm and comfortability the figure stirred in you with that of Aliit beside you more and more. You let your eyes wander over his seated form now, beside you in the small longue area across from your bed. The room was still far too expansive, making you feel like a bird trapped in a gilded cage as your mother prohibited you from leaving the palace grounds more and more as the wedding loomed near.

“I…I don’t feel like this is my life. I feel like I belong somewhere else, with someone else.”

His eyes soften, the brown of them comforting as they watch you struggle to find the right words. You don’t feel as if he is waiting for something, like so many others you interact with. He seems to hold genuine interest in what you have to say, never glossing over anything even if it seems childish or meaningless.

“I can’t explain it, it just feels like…there’s something more for me. And I know I should be happy here, it’s a beautiful planet, the stars are so bright at night, the ocean is so clear. Anything I need is just a request away, my intended is very attentive and wants for me to have nothing. Even if he’s…altered the way we spend some of our time together. My mother, she cares for me despite my memory of her being foggy. But…Maker, I feel like this is all wrong. Like I belong somewhere else that I can’t recall. That the person meant to be beside me…is someone else. And I feel homesick for the things I can’t remember. For the lands and planets I see in my dreams. For the figure beside me in each and every one.”

You can sense that he has something to say, but he remains quiet. His eyes the only thing speaking in the comfortable silence of your bedroom. Too many words and thoughts swirling behind the chocolate depths as they regard you. He only offers them and a hand for you to reach out to, sliding your fingers between his and reveling in the warmth of his skin against yours. After a long while, his soothing voice comforts you in a way that takes your breath away.

“We’ll get you back to feeling like yourself, where you belong. I swear it to you, mesh’la.” He shifted from his own chair to sit atop the low table, heights almost matched now. He leaned forward, but you didn’t shy away from him, giving into the moment when he pressed his clothed forehead to yours. Breath hitching, your eyes fluttered shut, unable to take in the emotions swirling behind his beautiful eyes as they caught the lanterns light. He felt…he felt familiar. More like the shape of the man you had been feeling when you first woke up, though you knew it to be a trick of your imagination. How could you possible feel such a connection with a stranger you had only met after your accident when your memory was something hidden deep inside of you or gone altogether?

“Th-thank you, ner kar’ta.” The foreign words falling from your lips surprise you as much as they seem to do him. You repeat them in a questioning tone, his hand tightening around yours. Your eyes flew open, gentle sentiment behind the words not lost on you in that moment. Hope was shining in the man’s eyes, so close…even as he leans back to look you over.

“Do you know what that means?” You could tell that he holds back other questions, other concerns as he regards you with a hardness behind his eyes. But it isn’t aimed at you, the ire you see flare up in their depths. It’s never for you, the things you see flicker in them. He only ever offers you the softest version of himself. Enough so that Cynth has begun to tease you of it during your time together during the day.

“I-I think it means ‘my heart’.” You hesitate, feeling like it’s far too intimate a sentiment for someone who is not your intended. But you feel it, in the very depths of your soul, that it is okay to call the man sitting beside you so.

“It does.” He almost sounds proud and you rather like the tone coming from him. It stirs something low in your stomach, almost as strong as that once occurrence of arousal before everything shifted between you Prince Cala.

“I don’t know why I said that, I don’t…even know what language that is. How-“

“Ner kar’ta, ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.” His eyes don’t leave yours, filling you up with something you don’t think you’ve ever felt, fragmented memory seeming to stitch together at the flash of emotion. Suddenly, you feel the gentle breeze and cresting sunlight and you’re standing in the midst of an open field. A figure is standing before you, decked head to toe in beautiful, shining armor with their hands held out in front of them in a placating manner. The silver swathed figure from your dreams in full focus now as you hold Aliit’s hand in yours. Fingers feeling the warmth of him as they caress his skin, the energy from him that is so soothing. Behind him is the shadow of a large ship and you long to be back there in that moment even as it feels both hauntingly foreign and familiar to you.

“What is going on here? You’re supposed to be at your post protecting my daughter.” The harsh voice of your mother surges into the room from the now open doorway. You spring from the man beside you, heart beating harshly in your chest, a barrage of emotions flaring in you. The rattling of the fine porcelain on the low table separating you startling you. Your eyes move from the vibrating cups and plates to the man beside you, and then to the glaring and obviously upset form of your mother.

“He’s following the orders of Prince Cala, who explicitly stated that I am to be supervised at all times, mother.”

“I highly doubt the prince instructed this man to dote such attention on you to the point of holding your hand in the middle of the night!”

Anger and distaste for the woman across from you flares hot over your entire body, energy igniting inside of you that feels both far too familiar and far too foreign. The very same energy you had been feeling more and more in the things and people around you, almost as if it was a secondary thing to breathing, to existing. The glare marring her features twists in your mind and you feel the weight of heavy metal around your wrists, your ankles, your neck. You feel the phantom dredge of something chemical buzzing in your veins and you know- you know that she’s the cause for such sensations.

“I want to know exact details of my accident.” You demand, aware of Aliit standing at attention behind you, his muscles tense just as yours are. Though you do not fear him, you fear the woman who calls herself your mother. Pushing through, you meet her eyes with your own and something in your own expression surprises her. Feeding off of that genuine reaction, not something that seems so calculated, you demand of her, “I want to know what happened to me.”

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decafdoodlez · 3 months

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Fic Submission from @skuppenish 🖤

Note from @skuppenish: HEY SO I AM HOUSE SITTING, and the last time I was house sitting I wrote you a thing, so here, have another thing! Wooo! Warning: it's just straight PWP, whoops. 🫠 Also, it has minimal editing! DOUBLE WHOOPS 💀

word count: 2.9k

warnings/tags: NSFW | Dubcon, PWP, 100% Smut, written with AFAB OC x Canon in mind, captive/captor themes, power imbalance, age difference (all adults are 25+), nipple play, degradation, breeding themes, rough fucking, drawing blood/marking, overall Fox being a dirty old man with his sweet little babydoll, Rina~

“This is meant as a punishment, you know.” The words pour out of him through sharp, gritted teeth, through a moan, through a snarl. Despite the violence building up behind them – despite the need, and the hunger – he speaks slowly, each and every one delivered at a punishing, even cadence that matches the rhythm of his hips as buries his cock inside of her. “A pun-ish-ment,” he reiterates, drawing that particular one out as he slams his hips forward into her soft, plush ass, his steadily thickening cock filling her weeping cunt.

Marina doesn’t say anything. Marina buries her face in the soft, tangled sheets and cries, and cries, and cries, and it doesn’t matter how all those layers of fabric muffles the noise. Fox’s ears prickle, quirking at the sound, a wide and leering smile splitting his face. She can try to hide it as much as she wants, but he can hear it clear as day. There, now: there’s the music of her sobs, working through her body in waves. And there, there in a moan of her own is her voice pitched high and sweet like the peal of a church bell.

He hears it as clear as any sinner would on a sunbright, Sunday morning. There’s no escaping it. Not that he’d want to –

Not that he’d ever want to.

It fills the room, no matter how she tries to smother it. It fills his ears, and his head, swelling up and building in his chest until he’s laughing, until his laughter joins her precious, mewling chorus. The way she cries, it’s a psalm, a hymn – a promise of heaven he’s far too rotten to ever deserve. Fox has a place waiting for him in hell, he’s sure of it. Once, he might have regretted that. Now, he acknowledges it gladly, and with all the eager selfishness of any of God’s own damned.

Until the fires come to claim his black-rot soul, he will live this life on earth to its fullest.

He will take what is his to take.

“I’m sorry!” Her cheek is pressed into the bedding, now. He can see her face through the spill of her hair, fair skin flushed red through a spill of her pale gold hair. “I’m sorry – I’m sorry!” Now it's her turn, crying out her repentance in a sin-soaked rhythm. Now those words break off in pieces, shattered apart by each unrelenting thrust as he bottoms out in her tight pussy. I’m - so - rry! I’m - so - rry! The syllables are fragmented, choked and halting between sobs and hiccups. Cheeks gleaming in the low light, her face is wet and sweet with tears. Fox can imagine how they taste. Salt, salt, and more salt, so sweet, somehow, on his insatiable tongue.

He holds her hands behind her back, his fingers biting and vice-like around her wrists. With her pinned down and bent over the edge of the bed, he can look down at her and survey what’s his. Against his own legs, he can feel her own tremble, watch them, savor the sight of her thick, beautiful thighs as they quiver with each thrust. They’re white too, so pale, like snow, like cream, and a shudder works its way through his whole body as he reaches out with one clawed hand and buries it into the perfect curve of her hip.

White skin, pink scars – and now red, red, wet and red.

Like knives, his claws sink into her. Around them, Marina’s flesh gives way, soft and easy like her battered cunt does around his cock. He isn’t looking at that, though. He isn’t looking at her thigh. Rather his eyes are fixed on her face, savoring the way her head tilts back, the way her eyes, already closed, squeeze tighter. Transfixed and frozen like an addict before his favorite vice, he cannot look away from the way her sweet mouth parts around a broken shriek of pleasure-strangled pain. Whether it’s because she’s come to like the way his nails run ragged down her already-scarred flesh or because the way he’s angled his hips to drive the head of his drooling cock against a particularly sensitive spot within her is anyone’s guess – and Fox doesn’t particularly care. All that matters to him is that she’s unutterably lovely. All that matters is the hot, wet sensation of blood against his palm, and the even hotter, wetter sensation of her cunt fluttering around his cock.

“Oh, babydoll,” he says, shaking his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth. It’s an effort to maintain this veneer of calm; watching her is tearing him apart at the seams with each and every passing second. “You know sorry isn’t enough, don’t you? Don’t you?” Against her thigh, his fingers tighten, his nails digging ever deeper. That desperate scream in her throat has given way to another moan, another messy, pleading mewl, more tears, more hiccuped cries. He wishes he could bottle them up. He wishes he could bend down and take her beautiful face in his blood-wet hands and milk those cries out of her, tease and torment them out of her, filling her up again and again with his cock and with his cum –

Until she is emptied out of all of that pain and full of nothing else but him, and him, and him.

This is meant to be punishment. It is. And Fox wants it to be, he does, he really does. Wants it to hurt. Wants her to cry. Wants to rake his nails across every inch of Marina’s trembling form until every part of her perfect body is made even more perfect by his perverse adoration for her. Red wounds gone pink, pink scars gone white – and god, he thinks, fucking Christ. Her body is a masterpiece all on its own that he wants for himself. He wants to make it his in a way everyone can see, make every delicate and feminine curve of hers a roadmap of where he’s been and where he’s going –

Until everything is taken, conquered, claimed.

But she’s just so beautiful. Everything about her is. Beautiful and innocent somehow, no matter how he ruins her, no matter how many scars he gifts her, no matter how much she bleeds, or cries out, or cums like a whore on his cock. He calls her terrible things. He marks her, with wounds and his own cum, again and again, morning and day and night. Her pretty cunt is always so swollen. It’s always red, always puffy, always so tender, because he’s just so hungry, because he can’t stop fucking her, because his hunger for her is a terrible, brutal thing in him that can never be satisfied. Just one more time, he tells himself, every time. Just this one last time. Just this last taste.

The spell will break, and it will be over, and he will be free.

But Fox is an addict, and as an addict, it only ever gets worse. He only ever wants her more, and more, and more. And when Marina looks up at him with her wide, glazed eyes, lovely as lavender, cut-gem amethyst made luminous with tears – when he feels her cunt fluttering around his cock as he fucks her for the third or fourth time of the day – it’s like the first time again. It’s like the first time with her, every time.

Furiously, he grips her shoulder. He should fuck her like this, he tells himself, angry at his own lack of self-control. Keep fucking her like this, bent over the bed, like an animal would. Savage her. Break her. He’s broken her so many times before, broken her, put her back together, broken her again. She deserves it. She deserves it.

But god – god, he wants her. He wants her.

With his hand on her shoulder, his fingers wet and slick with blood, he wrenches her over and around until she’s on her back. There’s red on her thigh, and on her shoulder now, too. Red on his hand, copper scent heavy on the air, pennies on the tongue. That’s sweet, too. The sweetest perfume, the smell of her blood, the smell of her needy, wet cunt as he pushes himself back into her again, driving himself down until his balls slap at her ass.

Marina cries out. Maybe it’s the way his nails snag in her shoulder. Maybe it’s because of the frenzied way he’s humping into her, his cock swelling, his lips pulled back from his sharp, sharp teeth in an expectant, awful grin. Again, it doesn’t matter. What matters now is how badly he wants this. How badly he needs it.

How badly he wants her. How badly he needs her.

He wants her like a starving man wants for meat. Like a man suffocated needs air. He wants to fuck her. Needs to breed her. It’s a screaming, desperate sensation inside of him, millennia upon millennia of evolution, pins and needles in his extremities, a howl in his chest that claws its way up the length of his throat and snarls behind his teeth. It demands to be let out.

It demands to be sated.

Fox looks down at her and watches her as he bullies his cock inside of her. With each and every thrust, there, there, there: her perfect tits bounce, nipples swollen, budded tight and no doubt aching for him. His mouth waters as he watches them, and inside of her, his cock twitches, drooling the same way he does.

“It’s your fault,” he hears himself saying, his voice ragged, gone even more savage. “It’s your fucking fault, looking like this. God, you’re like a whore straight out of a hentai. Big tits, thick hips made to breed. God, Rina, you’re a perfect little fuckdoll – an onahole, the best little onahole, made perfect, made just to be fucked, made to be bred, made to take cock, again, again – fuck! – again!"

Again, Fox keeps saying, snarling. Again, again, over and over, in time to each devastating thrust. The hand at her shoulder lets go, moves down, catching her under her knee so he can pull her leg up and away. The other takes hold of one fat tit, his fingers spread out wide so he can savor the way her flesh pushes up between each of them. He cups it, cradles it, pushing it up even as it spills around his hand, her skin so soft, flesh so warm.

It’s meant to be punishment. It is. It’s meant to be about his pleasure, and not hers, meant to make her feel bad because she’s been bad – because she’d had goddamn audacity to talk to someone when they’d been out shopping. Fox is too selfish to allow that.

Fox isn’t willing to share.

And Marina likes it like this, he knows. On her back, with him looking down at her, with his eyes bright and hungry, fixed on her own. She likes it when he touches her this way, his fingers full of her tits, his fingers inching up, taking hold of her swollen nipple, pinching it, rolling it between his fingers until she’s writhing for more reasons than the way his cock fills and stretches her.

But he can’t help himself. God help him, he can’t help himself.

Dipping his head, his hand moves just enough to give ground to his mouth as he takes her abused nipple between his lips. Hot and starving, his tongue laves over it like the feral animal he is, sucking the tight little bud into his mouth with an undisguised moan. Around her leg, his grip tightens reflexively. Against her cunt, his hips stutter, driven by that instinct, his thrusts shallow and frantic for all the way he’s already buried deep inside of her.

Because at the base of his cock, there it is: his knot, grown heavy, thick and engorged and every bit as demanding as he is.

It’s always like this. Always. He cannot resist her tits. The way they feel in his hands, and in his mouth – the way she whimpers when he works his teeth and tongue over her nipples, so sensitive, so tender – the way she cries when his hot breath ghosts over her savaged flesh, made wet with his saliva, wet with her blood.

“Always so sensitive, Rina,” he coos, saccharine and slick as too-sweet syrup, his mouth moving against the flesh of her breast. At the shudder that takes her, Fox laughs, grinding his hips forward, always forward. “You’re like a fucking perma-virgin, every time. Little virgin slut. Pretty little onahole.”

And god, she is like a perma-virgin. Even with her cunt as wet and needy as it is – even as her own arousal coats her thighs and his invading cock both – it takes no small amount of effort to work that thick knot into her. With every new centimeter he manages to claim, she’s thrashing under him, burying her whimpered cries behind the knuckles of her hand, her fingers a convulsive tangle in the sheets of the now very unmade bed. “Take it,” he says, low and raspy, cruel with his own vicious need. His teeth latch onto her nipple, and he bites down, earning another beautiful cry. “Take it, take it,” and now it’s a hiss in his blood-filled mouth.

And there: finally. Not a second too soon, his knot is inside of her. Fox shudders above her, sucking in air through his red-wet teeth at that delicious, wonderful tightness. Beneath him, Marina trembles through her own shudder, petal-pink lips parted around a panting gasp. His knot isn’t done, they both know that. Any later and he wouldn’t have been able to fit it inside of her. Any later, and it would have been too big to manage.

Now it’s still too big, but inside of her. Now it’s too big, and there’s no getting free until he’s done.

With his hand pushed up and under her knee to give himself more room, leans over her, sinking as much as he can into her. There’s no pulling out, not even if he wanted to. Held fast inside of her by his still swelling knot, there��s no real space for leverage, and so he can only thrust forward. Quick. Needy.

Desperate.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have to do much. He’s already so close.

Still, he takes her nipple into his mouth again, coaxing it up between his lips with his hot, wet tongue. And with his face buried in her soft tit, growling against her, suckling, teasing at it with his teeth, he feels that incessant and demanding pressure that never leaves him when he’s with her finally, finally give.

And god, it pours out of him. He feels it, every twitch, every throb, every convulsive pulse of his cock as it empties out all of his lust and his need for her. It fills her like his cock does, like his knot does, hot and potent, backed up and trapped there behind the too-big seal of his knot. His hips jerk and stutter like he’s a nineteen year old boy and not a forty-seven year old man – like she’s his first ever girlfriend, like she’s the first girl he’s ever touched, ever lusted over, too pretty and too perfect for him to have ever hoped to score on his own. He moans around the flesh of her tit, drool coating her skin until it’s slick like her face is with tears, like her thighs are with pre-cum and her own arousal. He moans against her, and he humps into her, all instinct again, the way his hips move – trying so hard to drive his cock deeper into her despite him already being as deep as he could ever really hope to be already.

There’s no real thoughts anymore. Nothing coherent. That’s instinct, too. Breed her. Fill her. Fuck his cum into her. The way she cries and the noises she’s making, it’s a siren song in ears. Even if she were telling him no – which she doesn’t, not anymore, not since he’d made her his good little pet – he’d know by the noises she’s making that what he’s doing is right. That what he’s doing is meant to be. That she is made for this, made for his cock, made to be fucked, again, again, again.

“Rina, Rina, little fuckdoll, little onahole.” The words are slurring, now. His tongue feels thick in his mouth like his cock feels thick between her legs, filling up her puffy, over-stretched cunt, that tight, perma-virgin cunt he can’t ever get enough of. “Rina, Rina.” Crooning her name, his hips push and push, trying to fuck his cum into her, deeper, deeper. “You deserve it. You ask for it, looking like you do. You were made for it. God – Rina. Rina.”

Half-lidded and heavy, he lifts his gaze and then his head, staring down at her through red and silver lashes. His hand slides up her thigh, up, up, trailing over the soft curve of her stomach. As if he might be able to feel the hot cum he’s pumping into her beneath it, he lays his palm there with all the reverence of someone touching something holy – –

Of some unrepentant sinner savoring the prize he has stolen out from heaven itself.

“Mine,” he says. He says it lazy, almost, lazy and tired and drunk, but no less menacing for it. There is blood on his teeth, after all.

“All mine.”

#submission #OK IM INSANE #THANK YOU SO MUCH SKUPPY I LOVED THIS I WILL BE THINKING OF IT FOR WEEKS TO COME #allie’s fic collection 🤍#tpof #tpof fox

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xalygatorx · 7 months

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Unbound | Chapter 19, "Last Light"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: The party teams up with a group of Harpers and it takes all of their efforts to make it to safety. Áine convinces Jaheira to let them stay with the aid of an unexpected familiar face. While Karlach gets a second upgrade, Áine and Astarion run into the devil they know in Last Light and Astarion suggests grounds for a deal. Jaheira explains their plight concerning the shadow curse, what may lie ahead at Moonrise, and their most formidable enemy yet: Ketheric Thorm.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Graphic canon-appropriate fantasy violence; angst; descriptions of trauma-related anxiety; a little bit of Karlach x Dammon; lightly proofread

Word Count: 8.1k

Listening to: Artificial Nocturne - Metric

“YONAS, NO!”

“MEYGAN, DON’T, HE’S BEWITCHED!”

The earth itself hissed at their feet, writhing like snakes of pure shadow. The trees themselves seemed to bend low, their roots clawing upward, enticed by towering, spindly wraiths that emerged from the most innocuous darkness cast to the dirt. Great crackling screeches surged past maws that weren’t quite mouths, fingers as long as a forearm swiping at flesh and fire, desperate to swallow the light that weakened them for the prey that was wielding it.

This was, doubtless, the home Áine remembered.

“HARPERS, STAY TO THE LIGHT,” Lassandra cried, but there was only so much she could do with a simple torch and she knew it.

“Quickly, to me!” Shadowheart shouted at their party, radiant energy surging from her fingertips. The light formed a swirling circle of tiny shining guardians around her. An obscured wraith lurking near her burned in its glow with a disjointed wail.

Instinctively, Áine looked for Astarion. She found him backing toward the circle, unloading arrows into an especially large encroaching wraith, its form and its eyes outlined red. Her eyes flickered to a movement near the rocky outcropping they passed, the muscle memory of old survival instincts taking over as she caught on the faint outline of another wraith reforming. With a flourish, she dashed in with her lost scimitars’ replacements at the ready.

Astarion was wary of wasting each of the few arrows he had left on this wretched thing as he exchanged them for knives. Not thirty paces into these cursed lands and they were already in a desperate fight for their lives. When Shadowheart had first beckoned them all into her circle, his most hated parts of himself had snarled despite knowing by this point that the tadpole would protect his undead body from her magic. Just another upside to the illithid worm in his skull.

Finally, the wraith before him began to falter, but he realized almost too late that it was because he had nearly backed into another of its kind. As he began to pivot to try to keep himself from being corralled between the two, he saw Áine dart in from the side, her shortsword imbued with radiant magic already dragging up the torso of the wraith behind him. It shuddered and disintegrated in a puff of smoke, leaving a spherical husk in its wake.

“Much obliged,” Astarion gritted as he swiped up through the red-tinted wraith still before him with his dagger, back-to-back with Áine as she swiped her sword at another advancing but much weaker wraith.

“Switch with me!” Áine ordered and they spun in formation. She brought the flat of her blade up to block a downward swipe from the reddened wraith and her shortsword glowed with a radiance that threw the shadow just off-kilter enough for Astarion to duck under her arm and stealthily kill it while Áine distracted it.

“Shadowheart!” they heard Gale shout, both turning to see the guardian circle flicker and then extinguished as the cleric failed to recover from a particularly hard hit to her head that sent her to her knees. The remaining wraiths grew impossibly taller as they descended on the group. Karlach began to reach down for Shadowheart but remembered herself and growled pure frustration at her infernal engine as she took her anxious rage out on their enemies instead. Wyll and Gale bent to try and hoist her up, repeatedly having to fend off the creeping shadows as they reached for them and their fallen.

“Chk, out of my way!” Lae’zel hissed as she shoved past the men and hauled Shadowheart over her shoulder, lunging into a sprint after the retreating Harpers, who were calling for them to follow while Halsin ran in bear form with them up ahead, carrying two of their collapsed warriors on his back. “Keep them off us!”

Karlach cut down what she could after Lae’zel ran past her with Shadowheart and Wyll held at the tiefling’s flank, the Blade in full form as he swirled his rapier and loosed bolts of eldritch power from his fingertips.

“We need to go!” Áine cried and Astarion followed her gaze to the top of the outcropping, where more shadow-cursed creatures were beginning to unravel from the death-dried brush and twist free of the dark. The two turned tail and Astarion gripped Áine’s hand as they ran to ensure they weren’t separated.

“Come on, come on!” Gale urged them, his eyes rounded with horror as they flickered past the pair. A conjuration of dancing lights hovered around him, just barely throwing a glow against the intensifying darkness, and when Astarion and Áine caught up with him, he extended his hand as well. Áine caught it in hers and the conjuration extended along their line, encircling Astarion and burning away the hooked hand of a wraith hovering just inches from his silver head.

The three sprinted to join Wyll and Karlach, who ran alongside them as soon as they saw their full party accounted for. Wyll shot another red blast from his hands at a wraith attempting to attack Lae’zel and Shadowheart just ahead of them, successfully burning a hole through the creature’s essence.

“Almost there!” Wyll cried.

An enormous globe of moon magic parsed the dark like a beacon and it was where the Harpers were leading them all. In quick succession, the party bowled through the barrier, stumbling into and over each other as soon as the light was breached. Áine, Gale, and Astarion were the last ones through and only realized just how close behind them their enemies were when Harper Yonas, gnarled and rotting alive in streaks of black and sickly green, neared the barrier in his pursuit and screamed unholy murder when it burned his undead flesh.

Áine’s chest heaved with exertion, letting go of Gale’s hand but keeping Astarion’s as she breathed thanks to the wizard. That had brought back memories. She supposed that she should get used to things doing that in this place. A cool hand on her cheek brought her eyes upward to meet her lover’s. He was just as winded but looked more concerned about her.

Astarion parted his lips to speak when his gaze suddenly shot up to look over Áine’s head. She followed suit and saw a formidable woman in High Harper garb advancing on them and looking none too friendly.

Áine let go of Astarion’s hand, feeling him try to snatch her back, but she deftly wove between his hands and hurried toward the front of the group. She barely had time to say a thing before she nearly doubled over, her feet held in place by a restrictive tangle of vines wrapping around her ankles and up her calves.

Behind her in a hushed voice, Áine heard Karlach gasp, “Oh Gods, that’s Jaheira!”

At least Karlach seemed to think that was a positive thing, she supposed. The apparently well-known Jaheira stopped in front of Áine, a green glow emitting from her palm that mirrored the aura of the vines. It was an improvement only in that this green resembled the lushness of a healthy forest rather than the sickly hue of necrotic magic they’d just evaded.

Jaheira gave her a narrow, speculative look after taking in her companions, who all looked disarmed at their welcome and further on edge after Áine was ensnared. Áine grumbled as she tried to free herself, leveling a glower at the druid.

“Just once I wish people would just say ‘hello’,” she muttered.

Almost pleasantly, Jaheira smirked at the bard and said, “Hello.”

Áine snorted and ceased her struggling, just aiming to stand up straight as she and Jaheira took each other in. Behind her, Gale quipped, “We save your Harpers and this is our thanks?”

“Kindness is too often a decoy,” Jaheira snapped.

“It’s okay, Gale, I’ll handle this,” Áine said over her shoulder, raising one placating hand. He inclined his head and fell silent, kneeling to check on Shadowheart instead as Lae’zel set her down.

“You most certainly will,” Jaheira agreed, her eyes back on Áine as she produced a glass bottle from her robes. Áine’s eyes fell to the bottle and her jaw tensed. There was an illithid tadpole inside. “This is why we’re here, you see. It is a curious creature that hides all manner of secrets. But if there’s one thing that we know…”

Áine stiffened as Jaheira walked closer to her, extending her hand holding the bottled parasite. “...it’s that it knows its own kind.” As if on cue, the parasite’s attention shifted to Áine and it swirled in its prison, thin razorlike teeth snapping at the glass. Her own tadpole pulsed with recognition. Bastards.

Satisfied, Jaheira stowed the tadpole again and glared at Áine as she slowly drew one of her blades. “You should never have come here, True Soul.”

Áine heard steel begin scraping free of its sheathes behind her as her companions readied to defend her and she held out both her hands between her party and Jaheira. “Just hold on, this isn’t what you think, I’m—”

“STOP!”

A shrill, familiar cry rose to Áine’s aid. She searched for the source, only to draw up empty until she lowered her gaze. A tiefling child with a bandaged eye scampered to the forefront, tail swishing agitatedly. Áine’s eyes widened. “Mol?”

“What are you doing?” Mol demanded of Jaheira, her audacity seeming perfectly intact. “She’s the one who saved us!”

Jaheira regarded the child with shock and disbelief. “She’s the one who protected the Emerald Grove?” she asked. The doubt was palpable in her tone.

“Yup!” Mol chirped. “Didn’t leave a goblin standing! Not so bad to hang around with either.” She tossed a cheeky grin Áine’s way. “Saved two of my friends, too! One from a harpy and one from a mad druid with a snake.” She shrugged at Jaheira as if it were just that simple and the druid was the fool for thinking otherwise. “I’d pretty much trust her with my life.”

Áine was surprised and impressed that Jaheira believed her. “A True Soul with a mind of her own… How is that possible?” she wondered, looking back to Áine.

The bard’s lips pursed as she measured Jaheira’s expression, what she knew of the High Harper so far. Opting for a calculated risk, Áine reached into her pack, in a hidden pocket where the artefact rested.

“This is unwise,” the golden paladin’s voice droned in her head.

Fuck off, she thought back at the voice, still very much on the offensive when it came to the untrustworthy being in the polyhedric prism.

The persistent “guardian” was helping her and her comrades, but the motives were still unknown and untrustworthy. She’d only for a moment considered trusting the guardian she met in the Astral and that had been when she’d considered the possibility that it could be the Oathbreaker Knight in another form. Now that she knew that wasn’t the case, she bristled every time she was reminded that the stranger existed.

Áine’s fingertips found purchase on the artefact and she slid it from her pack. She held it out for Jaheira’s inspection, only wary of it being snatched from her although it did seem to have a penchant for finding its way back to her hands.

Jaheira eyed the strange object with the glowing seams and symbols and produced the bottled parasite again, experimentally holding the bottle near the prism. The tadpole inside shuddered and beat itself against the glass a few times before falling into a state of inertness. Jaheira’s eyes widened. “What in the Hells is that thing?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Áine admitted the half-truth. “So far though it’s been a lifesaver.”

“Hmph,” Jaheira hummed, satisfied enough to stow the static parasite and sheathe her drawn blade. “Well, congratulations. You’ve earned yourself the benefit of the doubt.” She turned to address her crew. “Hear me, Harpers! All clear. At ease.”

The vines dissipated from Áine’s legs and the Harpers around them put away their weapons and returned to their tasks. Lassandra shot Áine a relieved look and a nod as she passed them to lead her wounded troop to the inn.

“Are you alright?” Astarion whispered near Áine’s ear, startling her a little as she hadn’t heard him approach. Then again, when did she ever?

Áine looked up at him and smiled, nodding. “I’m fine,” she affirmed, her hand finding his again like a magnetic pull. He threaded their fingers together in much the same way.

“I’ll not pretend to understand what that artefact is,” Jaheira said, addressing them again. “But I’m old and wise enough to recognize a sliver of hope when it crawls out of the dark.” She cocked her head a little as she took in their party again, with curiosity this time rather than caution. “Tell me, why have you come here?”

Áine smirked. “Would you believe me if I told you I was on holiday?”

Jaheira smirked back and Áine had a feeling she may have found a kindred spirit. “Well, lucky for you, you’d be just in time for happy hour,” Jaheira quipped, confirming Áine’s hope. She gestured behind her toward the buildings teeming with Harpers and tieflings. “Welcome to Last Light. There’s food in the inn over there. Beds too if you require rest. And aloe oil on the shelf in case the vines gave you a rash.” Jaheira’s gaze fastened anew on Áine. “Settle in. Then come join me for a drink. You just might be the godsend we’ve been praying for.”

She left them to their own devices at that and Áine finally let some of the tension fall from her shoulders. Áine glanced at Shadowheart, now upright and looking a little better. At her inquisitive glance, the cleric simply nodded her reassurance.

“Do you think Dammon’s here too?” Karlach asked suddenly as she, too, noticed several familiar faces in the crowd.

“It looks like a lot of the refugees ended up here,” Áine murmured, recognizing face after face the more she looked. They should’ve been to the city by now. “Gods above, what happened?”

The party divided—some finding a space to set up their tents to afford the other inn residents the beds inside and some accompanying Karlach to go look for Dammon. It left Áine, Astarion, Halsin, and Wyll to investigate the inn itself.

It didn’t take long to lose Halsin to a side room, in which he apparently saw or heard something of interest. The remaining three found Alfira at the inn’s center and managed to catch up on the refugees’ troubles from her and another tiefling nearby, a paladin who had much to say about Zevlor and his abandonment of his people.

Initially, Áine had been shocked to see so many of them here, but now that she really looked around her, she realized how few of them were left. Her insides twisted.

“If you are bound for Moonrise Towers,” Alfira murmured, her laugh lines lax in her terrified expression. She winced at her own words. “If you must go, please see if you can find the others. If they are still alive, they’ll be there.”

The name, as ever, sent a chill through Áine’s bones. “We will look for them and, if they’re there, we’ll get them out,” she promised. She half-expected to hear a scoff from Astarion behind her but was surprised when that wasn’t the case.

“Thank you,” Alfira whispered, her voice cracking. “But please, please be careful. I can’t lose anyone else. I don’t think I could bear it.”

Áine smiled, gently squeezing Alfira’s hands before she turned to face her companions, only to find them both gone. A cursory glance around the inn revealed that Wyll had strayed to the bar and appeared to be chastising a very inebriated Rolan over his treatment of the nearby children. And Astarion…

Her eyes widened and she immediately started walking to the far side of the building. Her steps brought her closer to Astarion, who had his back to her, and yet another familiar face past his shoulder. This familiarity, however, was no friend.

“A proposal?” Raphael was musing as she walked over, seeming to raise his voice just so she could hear while on her way. “If you’re hoping to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than Wyvern Whiskey.”

“This is serious business, devil,” Astarion snipped. His tone wavered as he explained, “My old—well, a long time ago, someone carved some runes into my back. I’d rather like to know what they say.”

“Astarion, what are you doing?” Áine asked, managing to startle him. She suspected he was more startled at being caught than at her presence. She looked to Raphael, who just smiled at her coyly as always. “And you. Are you following us?”

“Good to see you again, Áine dear,” Raphael addressed her silkenly, ignoring her question. “I’d ask if you’d made any progress with your little problem, but the telltale twitching of your eye is answer enough.”

“The last thing we need is your meddling, Raphael,” she warned him.

The fire of her words just seemed to encourage him. “You wound me. I’ve only tried to be a friend to you—just as to the poor souls here, where hope hangs by a single thread. I can mend it or cut it…depending on what they ask for.”

“I suppose that answers my question as to why you’re here,” Áine murmured. “You get off on this.”

“Not quite, pet,” Raphael scoffed with a wave of his hand. “It’s simply sumptuous. My last contract here fed me for decades.” A faint sneer tweaked his lips. “Something you may know quite intimately.” Áine parted her lips to fire back, but he interrupted her, “Alas if you want to know more, I could work in the exchange of such precious knowledge into the terms of your future deal. But the time for quibbling over clauses and contracts hasn’t quite arrived. You’ll be limping back to me soon enough.” He smiled, relishing the image.

“Your business tonight lies with me, devil,” Astarion growled. “Not with her.”

Áine’s heart twinged at Astarion’s protectiveness and she leveled a look at Raphael. She didn’t like that Astarion was entertaining a deal with a devil, but she’d at least ensure he got more details.

“I don’t think he knows,” she implied loftily of Raphael’s knowledge regarding Astarion’s scars, challenging the Infernal’s ego.

“Really?” Raphael drawled, the look he turned to her now devoid of amusement. He glanced back to Astarion and Áine almost shuddered at the look of hunger in the devil’s eyes as he addressed her partner. “It’s something very important to your master. But is it a love letter? A warning? A deed of ownership? I could give you all the gory details.” He sneered. “But, of course, you’ll have to do something for me first. Let me think about it and get back to you.”

Astarion scoffed. “You’ll ‘get back to me’?! This is important, devil!” He grappled with the situation for a moment before finally relinquishing and asking, “...When?”

“Don’t worry, I’m motivated to help you. Scars often tell such wonderful stories… I think yours might be truly exquisite.” Raphael smiled sinisterly at them both. “I’ll see you soon.”

The devil disappeared in a quick flash of light, leaving the couple on their own. Áine looked up at him imploringly and he avoided her eyes. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… Are you mad?” she asked, worry plain on her face.

Astarion sighed. This was precisely why he’d seized his opportunity to talk to Raphael alone while Áine was discussing the refugees with Alfira. “I’m desperate, darling. There’s a slight difference,” he snipped back.

“But why?” Áine asked. “I mean, of course you’d want to understand them, but so much that you’d contract with a devil? Why not ask anyone else first? Why not ask Karlach even?”

“I did,” Astarion said, turning to face Áine. The way he was looking down his nose at her made her want to flick him in it. “The dialect is too ancient. Even knowing some Infernal from her time in Avernus, she couldn’t make horned heads or forked tails of it.”

Áine sighed, giving him a doubtful look. “Why didn’t you mention it before? That you wanted to ask for Raphael’s help?”

Astarion felt cornered and acted accordingly. Beneath the irritation was the source of truth—he was anxious that he’d done something wrong or that, even if he hadn’t, he’d still managed to upset her. That truth was buried under layers of masking. “I was under the impression from you that I didn’t need your permission to go about my business,” he said with a sharp tone.

Áine flushed with chagrin and he felt the part of a true villain. It wasn’t nearly as fun as he’d always thought it would be. “You don’t,” she said coolly, her mouth drawing a thin line after she spoke.

Astarion huffed and waved a dismissive hand toward where Raphael had stood. “Right, well… What’s done is done. Now why don’t we stop talking about it and just get on with things?” he griped.

“Fine,” Áine sighed, not particularly liking the way this was wrapping up, but knowing she’d not make it any better by prolonging it.

I wish you wouldn’t push me away, she posited silently instead, knowing what old learned survival instincts of his had brought those tones and accusations to the surface and still finding they stung.

Astarion frowned, watching Áine lead them from the inn, presumably to go find Karlach and the others before they sat down with Jaheira. He knew they weren’t perfect—far from it. They bickered regularly, but fairly, and usually over her taking up odd jobs for little to no cost out of the goodness of her golden heart. He’d not been fair with what he’d thrown her way just now and he’d known that from the second he’d wound back to pitch. He’d still thrown the blow. And Áine was very good at holding herself back from fighting with him when that happened. He wanted to vent his frustration, he wanted to not be questioned, and she complied in the one way he couldn’t spar with. It was her checkmate and it worked every time.

For an instant, he mused over how long it had been since she’d last had to use it. He felt apologetic, but unwilling to apologize and potentially invite further pushback. He had to know what these runes meant. He had to seal that aspect of his past if he was damned to carry it with him physically for the remainder of his existence. Even if it necessitated a deal with a devil.

A loud hiss nearby snapped him from his reverie and he looked over just in time to see an offended-looking sphynx cat loping away from where Áine stood, stock-still and looking guilty. She straightened from her crouch and awkwardly rested her hands against the back of her neck, her expression disheartened but understanding.

When she turned and met Astarion’s eyes, she looked sheepish. His sour mood melted some. “What on earth did you do to it?” he teased her.

“I just offered my hand!” Áine insisted, genuinely looking aggrieved that she’d been so viciously rejected. “I couldn’t help but try. It was a cat! I can’t remember the last time I saw a cat…”

Astarion couldn’t help the soft smile that eased his expression. He hesitated to move closer to her, but couldn’t help that either, and crossed the short distance to place a doting hand against her hair. The span of his hand nearly covered her crown. “I should have known you’d have a soft spot for cats as you’ve had for everything else mildly domesticated that we’ve run across,” he mused.

“I kept you, didn’t I?”

“Funny,” Astarion remarked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. His eyes flickered after the little bald beast that had fled their vicinity. “I would hardly call that a cat though.”

Áine peeked up at him from under his hand. “Don’t be rude,” she chastised him gently.

He chuckled and shifted his hand down to her shoulder, tucking her into his side as he resumed their path out of the inn. “It was rude to you,” Astarion reasoned and, as a sidelong apology, noted, “and I won’t have my little love’s feelings be wounded by some common mole rat.”

That got through to her. Áine smirked as she held back a laugh, dropping her head forward to hide her blush as she playfully knocked her shoulder against his side. Astarion chuckled and squeezed her close enough to drop a kiss on her head, stabilizing her through the little stumble he caused her in doing so.

The couple located the rest of their group, save for Halsin and Wyll, gathered near the stables, watching with bated breath as Dammon worked the infernal iron they’d gathered into a usable part and turned to hand it to Karlach.

Áine noted the little sparkle in Dammon’s eyes when he looked at their beloved barbarian again—it wasn’t even close to the first time she’d seen it either. Every time they’d come to see him since Karlach joined their ranks, he had an extra glow about him that wasn’t just the light thrown off Karlach’s engine. It was very sweet.

A mechanical clank met their ears as they stopped near the others, the sound of the new part finding its home in Karlach’s chest. She paused heavily, seeming almost scared to ask, “Well… Did it work?”

Dammon smiled and the expression was nothing short of affectionate. “Only one way to find out,” he suggested. As Karlach hesitated and cast him a shy, questioning glance, Dammon chuckled and opened his arms.

Áine felt the faint sting of tears at the corners of her eyes as Karlach moved closer, hesitantly at first and then more confidently when Dammon didn’t immediately catch on fire. Well, in the literal sense, at least. Karlach’s watery laugh of disbelief as she embraced Dammon—embraced anyone for the first time in years—was the bard’s undoing.

“You little sap,” Astarion accused her low in her ear when he caught her getting emotional.

Áine just shrugged. She couldn’t disagree with his statement. She just leaned her head against his shoulder and was humbled yet again by the plights of her dear friends that, as much as she’d suffered in this world, there were still a great many things she’d never suffered that she’d always taken for granted. Despite his teasing, Astarion tightened his arm around her, his thumb tracing soothing paths against the curve of her shoulder.

Karlach had immediately started doling out hugs to anyone who would let her, babbling through heavy streaks of tears that rolled unevaporated down her beaming features. “My second family and I can finally hug you, I can’t believe it!” she half-sobbed as she held a very content Shadowheart and a confused but willing Lae’zel in each arm.

By the time she turned her gaze to Áine and Astarion, Áine was practically vibrating with anticipation. All the times she’d wanted to give Karlach a reassuring pat, hug, or squeeze up to this point (at times just barely remembering the peril before she laid hands on the red-hot tiefling) were accumulating into the voracity of the hug she was about to bestow on the woman. Astarion was a little less sure but unleashed Áine from his arm like a wolfhound to buy himself some time.

Áine and Karlach both squealed like schoolgirls as the bard ran and leapt into her waiting arms. Astarion chuckled at the display, thinking he might give Áine a tidbit of hell later for never being that excited to hug him. The thought alone surprised him—he’d come quite far from where he’d started in her company. Once artfully dodging every reason to have physical contact with anyone now that he was no longer forced to, he craved her touch in the simplest sense.

He smirked to himself. How utterly strange.

“Astarion…?” Karlach inquired carefully, getting his attention away from his musings. She was practically bursting with affection and it unnerved him, but she was waiting on his decision. Giving him the reins.

A pang of dread lanced through him despite not being able to assign any rational reason to it. It was Karlach after all. She respected his boundaries. She was asking his permission with that puppy-dog look she always got in her bright emotive eyes. And yet still there was that fear deep down that would probably exist until he at least tried. That had been the case with Áine after all, he’d just had more of a drive to bridge that gap with her for both selfish and unselfish reasons.

His anxious gaze met Áine’s, who had since been set back down on the ground. She was observing them both and Astarion tried not to acknowledge that the others were watching them as well. Astarion cleared his throat, trying to pin down his feelings. He…wanted to hug her, he realized. He wanted to try anyway. And yet he was rooted to the spot.

Karlach was about to brush it off with more kindness than he believed was due, but Áine spoke first. “I think I have an idea,” she said with a gentle smile to the nervous vampire nearby. She could feel it rolling off him in waves, but she could also see the ache in his eyes.

Astarion regarded her curiously and, as soon as he seemed open to whatever that idea was, Áine nodded for him to go up to Karlach and her still-open arms. He drew in a shaky breath out of pure habit and ventured in like a frightened animal, skeptical of there being any plan until he felt Áine step in behind him. Were it anyone but Áine, he would have felt boxed in, but he trusted her. Even so, Astarion wasn’t entirely sure what difference having her behind him would make until they were both folded into Karlach’s embrace and the tiefling’s hands rested against Áine’s back instead of his.

A lump formed in his throat. She was shielding his scars.

As if to confirm it, Áine dropped a featherlight kiss to the leather of his armor, right over where they both knew one of the runes lay. Through that reassurance, Astarion found it in him to lift his arms and very lightly place them against Karlach’s sides, patting her back for good measure. It wasn’t his first hug in recent days, but it was his first time hugging anyone other than Áine in over two centuries. Still, Karlach was being very cautious not to crowd him, he noticed. Her arms were secure but didn’t feel like anything he couldn’t maneuver out of if he wanted to.

Oddly, he found he didn’t want to. As it turned out, a friend’s embrace wasn’t so bad either. And even though her engine had been cooled considerably, she was still unbelievably warm. It was…pleasant.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” he groused after a moment, softening it with a small smirk as he stepped back and the girls let him go without a fuss. He glanced between Karlach, who was somehow even more wet with tears, and Áine’s features positively radiating love and pride. “Both of you stop what you’re doing this instant. Avert your eyes if you must.”

“Oh, FANGS!” Karlach squealed with a little choked sob. “Thank you!”

“Yes, yes, you’re welcome,” Astarion muttered back bashfully, refusing to acknowledge all the soft looks he was getting from the rest of their party. Bleeding Hells, he’d have to murder one of them to maintain his reputation at this point.

The high spirits dampened with unease when the group, gathered in full once again and approached Jaheira as requested. She was poised over a small desk, the surface of which was spread with maps and what looked like an unfinished battle plan. She carefully tucked the documents aside as she placed two goblets and a bottle of wine on the surface instead.

“Please. Be welcome. Have a drink,” Jaheira suggested, her sharp eyes on Áine as she filled both goblets. She raised hers in a toast. “To your very good health.”

Áine smiled back at her and raised her glass toward her lips. However, instead of sipping it immediately, she inhaled the bouquet, earning a mix of strange and approving looks from her gathered companions. As anticipated, something was in hers. It smelled herby and, as she sifted through the potent aroma of the wine, familiar even. It was klauthgrass. A natural truth serum. One of many smells she’d been introduced to young and taught to avoid.

In truth, she probably still held some measure of tolerance to the stuff. She briefly considered drinking the spiked wine to let Jaheira think that she was under the herb’s influence while her body easily overrode its effects, but she didn’t want to start on that foot with this woman. If Jaheira wouldn’t be honest, Áine decided she would be.

“It doesn’t spoil the taste if that’s what you’re wondering,” Jaheira remarked with a knowing look, watching Áine all the while.

“Mm, it does spoil the trust though,” Áine said, setting the full goblet back on the table. By now any strange looks that had arisen behind her had faded, catching that there was something extra in the drink. While Áine was turned away from them, unable to see their faces, she could sense their tension ease away and she perhaps unfairly wondered what she’d done to still earn so much skepticism from certain members of her party.

You’re really going to judge them for questioning their leadership? You? she chastised herself, almost snickering at the irony.

“Humor me,” Jaheira pressed, her tone implying no room for leeway.

“Add some to yours as well and I’ll be happy to,” Áine suggested. “I seek a level ground and I’ll settle for nothing less.”

“Suit yourself,” Jaheira said, sipping long from her own wine. Áine took a mental note that Jaheira hadn’t paused to entertain her suggestion of a compromise. Interesting. “Well over a century old and yet it still hasn’t lost a bit of flavor. Still not quite so sure about you though.”

Áine tilted her head. “In what sense?”

“Well, people tend to lose more than flavor when illithids get their hands on them. I speak from experience,” the druid explained, surprising Áine with her admission. She must’ve been a thrall in another time and had somehow survived it. Newborn respect settled in Áine’s gaze and Jaheira was pleased to see it although it didn’t curb her nerves. “There’s an air about you. Something…alien.” Jaheira’s brow furrowed and turned almost pleading despite her tone remaining firm and commanding. “Answer me true and do not lie: the parasite is changing you, isn’t it?”

Áine considered her question with no intent to lie but with intent to give a fair answer. “From what we know, our parasites exist in a stasis right now. The artefact is keeping them that way when others would have transformed by this point,” Áine tried to explain. “There’s a tadpole in my brain. There’s no refuting that and there’s no refuting that it must be changing me somehow. However, past a handful of abilities I’ve seldom used, I feel that I’m the same person as when we began.”

Jaheira seemed satisfied with Áine’s answer. She wouldn’t have believed a firm “no,” but she did wish for it for the sake of those she protected. Jaheira gestured with her free hand toward the inn surrounding them. “Look around you—good men, good women. Stranded here with two feet in the grave. If we’re to survive, I have no choice but to trust you,” Jaheira stated. Her eyes narrowed. “Can I?”

“You can,” Áine said, “but will you?”

“I have every reason to be cautious. It is far from anything mirroring personal. I’ve traced people like you, people with parasites in their brains, all the way from here to Baldur’s Gate,” Jaheira explained. “The cult of the Absolute is spreading throughout the city—quietly, quickly, and with unsettling deliberation. We tracked them to this ancient village only to be faced with a man we killed and buried over a century ago.”

Áine’s blood ran cold and she was glad someone else took that moment to insert a clever quip because she had none to spare.

“If he’s back, maybe you should’ve hit him harder in the first place,” Wyll implied, earning looks from Halsin and Karlach both. He quieted—that was an intimidating combination of scoldings to earn.

Jaheira was unoffended. “Believe me, he was well and truly dead. I locked his corpse in the Thorm mausoleum myself,” she said.

The surname alone made Áine’s heart start to pick up its tempo. Yet again, only Astarion noticed her distress because he could hear it. He had questions, but he made mental notes of them all, reserving them for later away from Jaheira and the rest of their party.

“He was a Sharran once,” Jaheira was saying. “Took to building an army of Dark Justiciars beneath this very village. Alongside the local druids, we made it our business to see him deposed. Dead and buried. But he has returned.” Jaheira’s expression became something nearing distressed. “Not only does General Ketheric Thorm live again, but it seems he’s no longer mortal. He has become, in fact, invincible.”

Ice in her veins. Thunder in her heart. Still, Áine found her voice. “Come again?” she asked. The trouble was that she already knew, as much as she could know, the answer to her own question. But she needed to ask it. Perhaps something had shifted with the arrival of the cult.

“We met him on the road here. Commanding an army of the Absolute, intent on destroying Baldur’s Gate. I put an arrow through his eye, myself, only to watch him pluck it out like a splinter,” Jaheira explained, pantomiming her memory of his movements. “He healed right in front of me. Chased us into the shadows. Things looked hopeless, but experience has taught me that no matter how bleak things look, there is always hope.” She sighed, looking almost sorry as she said, “You are that hope.”

“We’ve been hearing that quite a bit lately,” Shadowheart sighed. Áine wondered if her interest had been piqued at the mention of the Dark Justiciars.

“Protected by your artefact, you can infiltrate his forces at Moonrise Towers posing as a True Soul. Find out what it is that makes him invincible so we can strip him of his advantage,” Jaheira implored them. “Once Ketheric is without his shield, together we will assault his tower and put an end to this blight.”

Áine nodded slowly, sighing through her nose. What choice did she have? “Alright,” she agreed.

Jaheira was surprised by her response or at least her lack of pushback, that much was clear. “Without a cure for your infection, your days are numbered, too. Yet you selflessly offer to spend them fighting alongside us…,” she murmured. A crooked smile crossed her lips. “I like you.”

Áine smiled back. “What have we got to lose, you know?” she asked. The question was rhetorical but somber, too, and that wasn’t lost on Jaheira.

The druid nodded. “I promise I will do everything I can to make sure you survive this. But any cure starts with understanding the disease. Whatever magic Ketheric’s using to control these tadpoles, it has to be at Moonrise.”

“What about the shadow curse?” Gale asked. “We need more than torches if we’re meant to be out in those shadows for any length of time.”

“You are not our only secret weapon,” Jaheira said. She nodded her head toward the upper floor of the inn. “Isobel—a faithful cleric of Selûne and a light in the darkness. She cast the moon shield around the inn. It’s the only reason we’re still alive. She’s upstairs in her chambers—tell her I sent you and she’ll see you through the shadows safely.”

Isobel? Áine wondered. Surely that couldn’t be a coincidence? Her gaze slanted toward the room Jaheira had indicated. It was heartening to her that, if this was the same Isobel, she’d chosen to resist the sins of her father.

At least if her assumptions were correct, they already had something in common.

“Well, you’ve finally made it back to these godsforsaken lands, Halsin,” Wyll mused later, the bubbling of Gale’s stewpot and the grind of Lae’zel’s whetstone providing familiar background noise in their little setup beneath the dome of the moon shield. “How does it feel?”

Halsin smiled sadly toward the fire, running a hand over his scarred but handsome features. “It feels bitterly familiar,” he said. “What Jaheira said about the first time Ketheric Thorm was lain in the ground? I was there. I was among the druids who fought him back, who killed him only for him to come back unkillable. And he took the vitality of this land with him.”

“Do you think there’s any way to break the curse?” Gale wondered as he stirred their dinner.

“There must be. And I will find it,” Halsin said, not an ounce of his tone to be disbelieved. “Earlier before we spoke with Jaheira, I discovered something in the inn. A man. Near-comatose but somehow still very much alive despite, I believe, existing within the Shadowfell for quite some time.”

“Impossible,” Shadowheart said, her brow creasing. “No one could—”

“Just what I thought as well,” Halsin agreed. “He spoke of Thaniel repeatedly in his sleep. The spirit of this land, long lost to the dark. If there is a way to get Thaniel back, to trace where he may be in the Shadowfell, where I can only imagine Ketheric or his justiciars imprisoned him…then perhaps we can free this land of its malignance as well.” Halsin shook his head. “I need more information though. I must see this through.”

Gale had just taken up a ladle to serve dinner when his glance around the camp came up short. “Say, where’s Karlach? And Áine?”

“Karlach is off flirting with Dammon, I believe,” Shadowheart said cheekily. “And Áine… Well, I don’t know where she snuck off to. Astarion?”

The vampire’s vermillion gaze flickered toward the cleric at the mention of his name. He was lost in his thoughts, still parsing their conversation with Jaheira and also mulling over his exchange with Raphael, wondering when he’d be “graced” with the devil’s presence again. Not knowing what would be expected of him in their potential deal for a translation of his scars was putting him firmly on edge.

To Shadowheart, Astarion said, “Resting by the water, last I knew. I intend to bring her some dinner.”

Gale nodded, setting up a bowl of stew packed full of fresh ingredients from the inn and fresh bread as well. Astarion took the food when offered it, feeling a little strange at handling actual food for the first time in who knew how long. He supposed since he’d sliced up that apple for Áine the morning after she’d let him drink from her for the first time.

“Bit odd for her to wander off,” Wyll noted, leaning back a little to try and see down to the dark lakeshore. “She’s been acting peculiar since we got here, has anyone else noticed?”

“Difficult to say,” Shadowheart said, her tone a bit pointed in defense of her friend. “Since we immediately ended up in a fight for our lives and were then threatened and interrogated and we’ve just been granted some respite. I don’t blame her for taking a moment to herself.”

Their debate faded behind Astarion as he took his spoils away from the firelit circle of tents. He glanced toward Scratch lying nearby and gave a quick whistle that captured the dog’s attention and brought him in step with the vampire as he sought out his lover. It didn’t take him too long to find her—she sat under a tree on a small ledge overlooking the water, her eyes fastened skyward on the moon.

Scratch pranced ahead of Astarion and snapped Áine out of her trance with a lick to her cheek, startling her. She smiled as she petted the dog affectionately but her expression didn’t touch her eyes.

When she saw Astarion bringing her dinner, her features softened. “What have I done to earn such service?” she wondered, adding a thank-you when he bent to deliver the food into her hands.

Before he answered her, Astarion gave a scolding click of his tongue toward Scratch when the dog started to beg. “Not a whine out of you, you’ve had yours,” Astarion informed the pup, who exhaled the dog equivalent of a sigh and settled down at Áine’s side, placing his head on his paws. “Don’t believe him, Gale fed him plenty while he was cooking.”

Áine laughed softly and nodded, settling the food on her lap and resting her head back against the trunk of the tree. “Can’t blame him for trying.”

Astarion reclined in the grass beside her, looking up at her with his head propped up by his elbow. She looked pale. She made no move to eat and her eyes simply looked dull and melancholy. “You should eat, darling,” he urged her, nodding toward her cooling stew. “You haven’t eaten since our last suppertime.”

Áine rolled her head against the tree to peer down at him, her smile at least holding a bit of playfulness this time. That was an improvement in his eyes. “Keeping tabs on me, love?”

“As if it’s anything new,” he mumbled, squinting a little at the fathomless look in her dark eyes. He slid his free hand to rest against her thigh. “What’s wrong?”

Áine’s features hardened the slightest bit, almost imperceptibly. “What do you mean?”

Astarion’s brows rose at her tone, almost offended until he reined himself in. What he was feeling now was how she’d felt earlier when he’d spoken to Raphael, he wagered. Two could play her game then. He exhaled his frustration at her dodge and instead of fighting back, reframed his approach. “Don’t push me away, sweet girl,” he murmured, a silent “please” threaded into his words.

Her eyes rounded a little and she looked immediately guilty, her throat tightening as she looked away from him, down at her food. He watched her jaw work as she warred with herself and waited for her to respond. Maybe he’d just upset her more and thwarted his chance to pick her brain. He was halfway to damning his efforts when she seemed to reach a resolution.

Finally, Áine sighed and it looked like that single breath had taken the wind fully from her sails. “I know Ketheric Thorm,” she admitted, refusing to meet his eyes. “Not personally, not exactly. But enough. What Jaheira’s saying about him, the healing he’s able to do from what should be fatal wounds, is true. He’s indeed undead, but as long as he’s been undead, he’s fed off of two things to become essentially deathless: a relic—and the extent of my knowledge is that it’s a relic and that it exists—and a covenant.”

“The cult of the Absolute?” Astarion inquired, trying to follow before he began asking his questions in full.

“Now, yes,” Áine said. He could hear her heart raging against its cage. “But not always. Not before… The covenant extends far past that. Generations of oathbound souls to feed his immortality through the gaps of what he’s siphoned from the relic and carry out his will. Slaughtering Selûnites, razing whole villages, silently slitting throats in the Gate’s upper city. Whatever he wanted.” She drew in a shaky breath. “And now that he has the cult as well, possibly supplementing him in both of those ways, he’s… He’ll be more resilient than ever.”

Astarion’s frown deepened. “How do you know all of this?” He had a feeling though that he already knew and was only just putting it together.

Áine’s throat worked and she closed her eyes, her features pinched with shame. When she looked at him, he could tell she was forcing herself to do so. “Because his covenant’s bloodline is mine,” she told him. “I grew up in these wretched, heartless lands. I was born to die in his service. My broken oath is the oath I took in service to Ketheric Thorm.”

Next chapter: Chapter 20, "Oathbreaker"

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obislittleone · 8 months

Text

The Winner Takes It All

Episode 1

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Tribute(OC)!Reader

Chapter Warnings: The Hunger Games reaping. Canon typical angst. Reader has a speech impediment.

Chapter Summary: Lukas Artanhour is your best friend since childhood who makes the worst decision of his life when he volunteers as tribute for the 71st annual hunger games... Luckily, he won't be going alone, and you didn't even have to volunteer.

Word Count: 2.8k

Don't be detered by the OC in this chapter, he is just someone I made up to make the hunger games more emotional of an event 🙃

The representative from the Capitol being the same every year was almost a comforting sort of repetition through the years, but compared to the annual tradition it surrounded, you were hardly relaxed at seeing him make his dazzling appearance. A new outfit every year, made from the finest fabrics and silks that eight had to offer… And you wore the same green top and skirt. At least this year there were seashells.

“Good afternoon, District Four!” His shout of happiness was hardly felt by any who stood here in this gathering. “There’s nothing like being here, amongst the beautiful waters and sandy beaches.”

It’s cold and windy down by the docks, with the sand getting kicked up from time to time. District Four is one of the most beautiful places in all of Panem, and it’s known, as all districts are, for its main production to the Capitol. Fish.

The people here are wealthier than most in the districts, a close third in rank to both one and two, who reign supremely amongst the favorites. The Hunger Games have obviously played a serious part in all of that. Four being a career district meant that the Capitol goers were far more likely to invest. Careers are the favorites, no matter which district they come from.

The reaping is today, and you don’t want to think about it. It is why you arrive at your work station an hour before you need to be there. You’ve spent years of your life down here by the docks, whether it was waiting for your father’s boat to return, or your friend to bring you the boxes that needed to be loaded onto Capitol trucks. You’re a mover, it’s your job. It doesn’t pay well, because the real money is in fishing, but you wouldn’t dare go out on a boat.

“You’re early,” Lukas nearly spooks you, smiling after watching you jump from surprise. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s r-reaping day. I couldn’t s-sleep.”

He was used to the skip and stutter of your words, un-phasing him as you spoke each one.

“I get it. My mom keeps hounding me about it. Every year I grow taller, stronger, she tells me I could win,” he sat down next to you in the sand, handing you a shell he found on his way here. “Another for the collection.”

“Thanks,” you took it gratefully, placing it in your pocket for safekeeping until later. You journeyed back to his previous words, what he meant by them. “Does your mother w-wish you’d gone through the career program?”

He shrugged, looking out into the sea, his mind just as full of indecent thoughts as yours.

“I’m not sure what she wants. Ever since dad died she’s just been… different.”

“My parents have s-said, if it ever gets t-too bad, you c-can always stay with us.”

He nods, his appreciation shown through a single sideways glance. He knows he has places to go, he knows that there are others that are willing to treat him as a son should be treated, but he wants his own mother to do it. He longs for the woman she once was, and hopes if he can make her proud enough, maybe she will be that way again.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, but he’d been saying that for the past year.

So far, you’d learned she’d been hitting him, been yelling and screaming about how he would never measure up to his father. You never saw these interactions of course, because if you had you may have broken down for him, your friend of eleven years. In school, he was the only one who would talk to you, the only person who ever gave a damn about the girl with the stutter. He defended you when they made fun of you left and right, for nearly everything they thought was wrong with you.

“You s-shouldn’t listen to her,” you shook your head, the waves crashing on the shoreline several yards down. It was the only thing that would remain peaceful about today, when later on two children would be hauled off and expected to fight or die. “She isn’t in her r-right mind anymore.”

“I know that.”

He agrees, he knows. He is well aware that her mind slipped maybe even before her husband died. She had been driving him to the long hours that he’d worked, and eventually made him work out on a ship during a storm. The boat sinking was just fan to the flame of her deteriorating mental state.

He picked up a rock from the sand a few feet over, standing up and tossing it to skip over the water before it began to wash on the shore. He gave you a hand to your feet, pulling you up until you were steady.

“Boat leaves in a few minutes, I’ll see you when we get back,” he said, turning on his heel in the sand. You nodded at him before he walked off, into the working hours of the day. You shouldn’t even be here for another hour. You know that they’ll be gone for two or more and you don’t need that long to prep the boxes. But you can’t sleep.

Lukas returned to the docks with a much better mindset. The water always made him feel serene. He came to land, lugging the giant nets tied together to keep the fish from falling out. Today’s catch was good as any other, and the songs the boys sang on board nearly made him forget everything else.

“Salmon are catching like crazy this time of year,” he muttered, meeting you halfway to help you untie the knots and start packing the boxes. “Thinking I might sneak one home if there’s extra. You probably can, too.”

“I’ll t-try. My pa could use s-something more to eat.”

He weeded through all the skimpy ones, pulling the biggest catches out first and laying them sideways in the boxes, filling the middles with ice before adding another layer. It was the same thing everyday, but he never tired of it. He was content to live the life of a district four fisherman, and he was good at it.

“How’s his arm doing?” He asked, since you’d brought up your father.

He’d broken it in a rigging accident about two months ago, and the slow healing process was not doing your family any favors. You’d been hungry several times, so obviously extreme measures had to be taken. You won’t think about that right now, though.

“Not any better, n-not any worse.” The fish box was nearly packed, but you paused to think for a moment. “Maybe I s-should try and catch. It pays a lot m-more, and we could use the money.”

He grabbed you by the shoulder and turned you to face him.

“You’d be scared to death. If your family needs some money, I can help out. It’s the least I can do when they offer me free lodging,” he half joked, completely serious in all aspects about the help with financial assistance.

“Lodging that y-you’ve never taken.”

“Listen, I’m happy to help if you need me to. Especially with your brother, now,” he mentioned, making you think about the sweet little sleeping face you’d passed by on the way out of your home. Your baby brother, born not a year ago. You hated the idea of him growing up hungry, or having to start work early in his life like you did.

“Well, t-thank you. I’ll think about it.”

He shook his head, seeing as how you quoted him from all the times your family offered him help before.

He waved you off when you finished stacking the prepared boxes onto your slab dolly, tilting it back and beginning to push it towards the truck that pulled in not too long ago. It was a steep climb, up the ramp from the docks and onto the street, but it made you quite strong over the years. That and all the heavy lifting, becoming easier with every twenty by thirty of fish.

Lukas would be taking off early today, as would most of the other boys of age. You would be heading home after loading this shipment as it were. You had to shower, had to clean up your hair and skin and make yourself presentable for the reaping.

You opened the back of the truck, tossing the boxes up one at a time, before climbing into it and stacking them neatly in one of the four corners. You always managed to obtain a single splinter from every shipment loaded, but luckily today’s wasn't too bad, you could probably dig it out with a small pin.

Later in the day, your mother gave you a solemn smile as you walked out the door, having just been readied and dressed in your best clothes. Even in a wealthier district, they still had mended holes in the bottom of your skirt. That’s the sad thing about every district. Even amongst the wealthier ones, there’s still poverty that simply cannot be helped. The Capitol's greed and thirst for luxury, needing every little thing that life has to offer at their beck and call. You can’t even imagine what it’s like in places like eight or twelve. Places where food is not the primary cultivation of the people.

It was light green, your outfit. It had white seashells on the waist of the top, and a few along the edge of the skirt as well. They hadn’t always been there, but you insisted they should be. You didn’t really have much else of a use for all the shells you stole from the sands of the shoreline. You hated wearing the same outfit to this single event every year. You hardly wore it any other time, which made a distaste for it grow every time it came out of your closet.

The way your mother did your hair was simple. A single french braid down the back of your head, tied off with a light green ribbon to match everything else. She watched how it fell a bit looser with every step you took, making your way across the streets and into the city’s center. It’s your last year, and having avoided every year before, you know you should feel a semblance of relief, but you don’t.

Your mother waits for the peacekeeper behind a stand to check your name off a list before she parts with you, hugging you tightly one last time and allowing you to kiss the head of the baby on her hip. He’s primarily the reason you remain so nervous. Even if your name doesn’t get called, his could be, someday.

You line up in an open space, next to the last girl that checked in. She wasn’t in your row last year, you would have remembered her. She was pretty, with blue eyes and dark raven hair. Her skin was tanned like most in four, but had a certain glow about it. She’s too pretty to be reaped, you thought. It didn’t make a difference, though. As you stared head on to the bowl on the stage, centered in front of the girl’s side, you got tense. Your name is in there six times this year. That’s three more than last year, and five more than the year before.

Someone could still volunteer. But the career program had not made mention of producing a female tribute this year. It all depended on the luck of today’s draw. For all you knew, your name would be surpassed by someone else. There were other poverty stricken areas in four besides yours, and it made sense that somebody else could have been hungry enough to outgo you.

You looked around to the boy's side. Lukas was there, and further up in the rows. He must have gotten here quickly after leaving the docks. His face was sullen, and something had changed, but you were unsure of what it was. When he looked around, you almost thought he’d been looking for somebody, but his expression told a far different story.

The last few children in the line were filing in, and the musical fanfare blasted through the speakers by the stage. You were grateful not to be so close to those this year.

His rabble was boring, and nearly the same as it was last time. The anticipation was killing just about every girl and boy in this crowd, knowing there were no careers at the ready this year. It was always easier to rest at night while knowing if your name was called, another courageous youngster would step in to take your place.

“I’m so excited to be back and reaping this year’s tributes for the 71st annual Hunger Games!”

There was a surge of excitement coming from the sidelines, and it was only now that you looked past the blockades to see that there were actual Capitol civilians standing there this year. How nice, some onlookers for when an innocent child gets sent away to their death. Absolutely wonderful. You looked on past them, towards the victors standing close by. They seemed anxious as well, the old woman holding one fist to her mouth while the other clutched her chest. She rocked back and forth on her heels, and had to take a step every few seconds to keep from becoming too restless. The young man was stiff, his arms behind his back and every muscle in his body tense as a board. His eyeline never left the bowls on the stage. They went through this once, too.

When you refocused on the man at the microphone, your heart beat rapidly. He was approaching the boy’s side of the stage.

After a small flourish of his hand, the Capitol rep stuck his hand into the glass, two papers in his hand before he dropped one. The dropped paper’s namesake got immensely lucky this year.

“Harley Miggsen,” he read the paper, but before the peacekeepers had a shot at cornering the poor fourteen year old kid, with his eyes wide in horror, another voice spoke up.

“I volunteer.”

Your head snapped to Lukas, his hand raised high in the air. Murmurs started almost immediately about how everyone thought there weren’t any careers prepared. They spoke softly and wondered if there would be a career for the girls, too. Lukas isn’t a career, why would he do this?

“I… guess we have a volunteer,” the man at the mic clapped his hand, watching the young man getting ushered up the stairs to stand beside him on the stage. “What’s your name, son?”

“Lukas Artanhour, sir.”

“Lukas Artanhour, everyone!” He raised his hand as to signal applause from the capitol guests, and they cheered, happy to see that there was now a potential victor as opposed to that poor boy from before. “Now for the ladies.”

You spared a glance at the victors once more, and they looked even more on edge for this pick than the last. Female victors were obviously more rare in every district, so getting a decent tribute that wouldn’t die right away was probably preferable. You couldn’t imagine all the people they’ve tried and failed to save over the years. The young man won only six years ago, but with no other victors since, that means he’s gone through twelve tributes. All dead, all gone.

Your mind had been momentarily distracted, or at least it had been until the next name came over the loudspeakers.

“Mercedes Blythe.”

It almost didn’t register.

It almost went in one ear and out the other.

It almost was paid no mind or attention…

But that is your name, and you’ve heard it said a million times since you were a baby. Not once did it ever sound like that, though.

You stood still until you realized there were peacekeepers on their way to grab you.

It was slow, the way you took steady steps from your row towards the stage. You couldn’t be rushed even if they tried to make you. You could only look at the ground. You didn’t want to chance looking up and seeing your mother past the blockades. God only knows what she’s thinking and feeling right now. After everything bad happens to a family, the mother of that family should not have to wonder whether her child will live or be killed in an arena.

You finally looked up when you got to the stairs, meeting Lukas’ eyes first, and seeing they were sad and full of pity. You stood beside the Capitol rep on the other side, allowing him to raise your hands together while the tears finally welled up in your eyes. The delay in your mind was the only one to blame for that.

“Ladies and gentlemen, district four’s tributes!”

Tags (open):

#finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x oc #finnick odair hunger games #finnick x reader #sam claflin #the hunger games

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