#Blood For Gold Chapter 21

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 23

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 23

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: In the aftermath of the wedding chaos, you and the rest of the Shelby's take shelter. As the night drags on, you begin to learn more about Luca Changretta.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language

A/N: omg I haven't updated in way too long, sorry everyone. this is sort of a filler chapter, but more angst and action coming soon :)

--

For once, you woke before Tommy.

The room was still dim, the pale light of dawn just beginning to filter through the curtains in soft, silvery strands. Everything was quiet, the kind of hush that only existed in those early morning hours before the world stirred.

And beside you, Tommy slept. His face was turned slightly toward you, the muscles of his jaw slack, his breathing slow and even. The furrow that so often carved itself between his brows had softened, gone entirely, like the weight of everything he carried had, just for a moment, let him rest.

You didn’t move. Instead, you watched him, your cheek nestled against the pillow, heart aching with something you couldn’t quite name.

He looked younger like this. Softer. Like the boy he must’ve once been, long before the war, before the business, before everything.

You let your eyes trace the familiar lines of his face, the curve of his mouth, the faint shadow of stubble, the way his lashes rested gently against his cheekbones. He looked so peaceful it almost made your throat tighten.

How many nights had you fallen asleep to the sound of him pacing the floor below, cigarette glowing in the dark? How many mornings had you woken to find the space beside you already cold, already empty?

But not today.

Today, he was here. Safe. Breathing slow beside you.

For a while, you didn’t move. You just watched him, trying to memorize the way the morning painted him in gold. The soft rise and fall of his chest. The way his arm had draped across your waist sometime during the night, still resting there like even in sleep he needed to know you were close.

Your thumb brushed over his wedding band, worn for less than a day, and something inside you twisted. Not out of fear, exactly. But the kind of aching love that came with knowing peace like this never lasted long. Not in his world. And not in yours, anymore. 

Carefully, you let your fingers drift up, skimming the line of his jaw, the faint stubble there. You traced the scar just beneath his cheekbone, the soft dip above his brow, the lashes so dark against his skin. Your touch was featherlight, reverent. Like if you pressed too hard, he’d vanish.

He stirred. A quiet grunt escaped him, and his brow furrowed ever so slightly, the beginnings of a frown tugging at his mouth.

“‘S too early,” he mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

You smiled, the sound of him like honey in your chest. “Go back to sleep, then.”

He didn’t answer, just shifted, catching your wrist in his hand before you could pull away. Without opening his eyes, he brought your fingers to his lips and kissed them, soft and slow, then pulled you down into him.

You went willingly, melting into his chest, into the heat of him. His arm looped around your waist, strong and sure, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth.

Lazy and warm and just a little bit greedy.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were open, half-lidded but focused on you. 

A slow smile tugged at his lips, still heavy with sleep. “Think I’m going to spend the whole morning right here,” he murmured, voice rough. “In bed. With my wife.”

You raised a brow, teasing. “Didn't realize you were such a romantic.”

“I know better than to leave a warm bed and a beautiful woman without good reason.” he said simply, brushing his nose against yours. 

Before you could reply, he rolled you gently onto your back, his weight settling over you, not heavy, just enough to remind you of his strength, his presence.

His eyes searched yours, dark and hungry now, but still quiet and unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.

Your breath hitched as his lips found the hollow beneath your ear, as his hand slipped beneath the sheets, dragging slow over your waist, your hip.

“Tommy…” you warned, though it didn’t sound like a protest.

He hummed, the sound deep and satisfied, before pressing a kiss to your throat. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Because in that moment, wrapped in linen and morning light and him, there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

…

Tommy left later that day.

He pressed a kiss to your temple and made a promise to be back before dinner. A quiet apology hidden in the way his hand lingered at the small of your back before the door closed behind him, Arthur, and John.

Now, the house felt both too big and too full.

“You’d think,” Ada said from behind you, her tone brittle, “after his wedding ends in gunfire, maybe the groom would take a day off.”

Esme snorted from where she sat cross-legged on the edge of the hearth, flipping a playing card between her fingers. “Please. That man probably counts bullets the way most people count wedding gifts.”

“Enough, both of you,” Polly said sharply, though her voice was calmer than her eyes. She didn’t even look up, just cradled her teacup in both hands, her rings catching the firelight, gaze fixed on the flicker of flames like she was trying to read omens in the ash.

You turned, taking in the room fully for the first time. 

Ada was pacing along the length of the rug, arms folded tight across her chest, her jaw set. She’d already burned through half a cigarette without noticing, the ash curling dangerously close to her fingers. 

Polly sat in her usual chair, spine straight, elegance untouched by the weight pressing on the house. Her tea sat cooling in her lap, untouched. 

Esme, ever the wildcard, looked like she could either laugh or start a fire, depending on who spoke next. Her foot bounced idly, knee jostling as she flicked the card again—King of Hearts this time. 

You leaned a shoulder against the wall, your gaze drifting. “At least he slept,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Didn’t think he would. Not after everything that’s happened.”

Ada flopped onto the arm of the couch. “Must’ve been exhausted.”

“That or getting married really wore him out,” Esme said. 

You snorted. “Probably both.”

“How’s Finn?” Ada asked, glancing toward Polly.

Polly leaned back in her chair with a quiet sigh, her hands resting over her cup like she was weighing the question. “Also exhausted,” she said. “I checked on him earlier. He was still dead to the world. Didn’t so much as twitch when I called his name.”

Your stomach fluttered, equal parts concern and relief.

“He looked better than yesterday,” Polly added after a moment. “Color’s back in his face.”

You let out a slow breath through your nose and nodded. “Good.”

Ada tucked her legs up underneath her on the couch and gave you a look. “So, how’s married life treating you? One full day in. Any regrets yet?”

You smirked. “Ask me after my next near-death experience.”

Esme chuckled into her tea. “That’s the true Shelby spirit.”

“Do you remember your wedding?” you asked Polly, more curious than anything.

Polly raised a brow, as if deciding whether to share. “I do.”

Esme snorted. “John told me there was a fistfight at the reception.”

“Two, actually,” Polly said primly, taking a sip of tea. “Only one was justified, though.”

You laughed, and Ada leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “You know, I half-expected Arthur to give some drunken, weepy speech about the meaning of love last night.”

“He tried,” Polly said dryly. “I stopped him.”

Before you could respond, the sharp buzz of the doorbell cut through the laughter.

The four of you froze, eyes flicking toward the hallway.

Ada was the first to move, slowly setting her cigarette in the ashtray. “Who’d be coming around at this hour?”

Polly stood, setting her teacup down with practiced care. “Stay here,” she said.

You were already rising. “Polly—”

“I said stay.”

Her tone left no room for argument. She moved swiftly, her footsteps quiet as she disappeared down the hall. You, Ada, and Esme all exchanged a glance, the ease from moments before replaced by a slow, creeping tension.

Esme exhaled through her nose. “Fucking hell,” she muttered. “Nothing good ever happens in this house, does it?”

You tried to smile, but your pulse had picked up. You strained to hear—anything. Voices. Footsteps. But all you caught was the soft patter of rain and the faint groan of the floorboards.

A minute passed. Then another.

Finally, Polly returned, her expression unreadable.

She didn’t speak right away, just walked into the room and placed something on the coffee table between you. A box wrapped neatly in cream-colored paper. It was tied with a red ribbon with a card tucked beneath the bow.

Your name written across it in looping black ink.

You stared at it, unease prickling beneath your skin. “What is that?”

Polly didn’t look away from you. “There was no one at the door. It was just sitting there.”

Ada reached over slowly and plucked the card from the top. She flipped it open, eyes scanning the message inside. Her brow furrowed.

“What does it say?” Esme asked.

Ada hesitated. “It says, ‘For the bride. May your days be long and your nights quiet—while they last.’”

No one moved. Silence fell between you all, slow and suffocating.

Ada stared at the card for a second longer, then set it down beside the box like it might burn her fingers. Her jaw tightened. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You hadn’t touched the box, hadn’t even moved. It sat there on the table like it was waiting.

“Ada,” Polly said quietly and firmly. “Call Tommy.”

Ada looked up. “Is that really necessary Pol?”

“Now.”

Ada looked at Polly for only a moment before pushing off the sofa. She strode toward the hall, already pulling a cigarette from behind her ear with one hand and reaching for the phone with the other. You stayed rooted where you were, your eyes fixed on the neat red bow, now seeming almost cruel in its precision.

Polly stepped between you and the box. “Don’t touch it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you murmured, though your voice sounded far away. “Do you think it’s—”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But until we do, no one goes near it.”

In the hallway, you could hear Ada’s voice rising slightly, sharp and clipped. “I don’t care where he is—get him. Tell him it’s important— Christ, just put him on the bloody line—”

Your mouth went dry as you turned to Polly. “Is it… from him?”

Polly nodded once. “Luca Changretta.”

…

The box hadn’t moved.

Neither had you.

Polly sat across from it, arms folded tight, her expression carved from stone. She hadn’t touched her tea in over an hour. Her eyes stayed fixed on the neat red ribbon as if sheer will could keep it from doing something unspeakable.

Ada paced the hallway like a caged animal, smoke curling from the cigarette clenched between her fingers, her boots echoing softly on the floorboards. Every few minutes, she’d glance toward the front door—sharp, impatient, waiting for the sound of Tommy’s return.

Esme sat sprawled on the rug near the hearth, legs stretched out in front of her. She was rolling a cigarette with practiced ease, her fingers quick and precise even as her eyes flicked up, again and again, to the box. She hadn’t said much since it arrived, just muttered a few things under her breath in Romani now and then, like she was warding something off.

The silence was thick, the kind that hummed behind your ears. No one had touched the box. No one wanted to.

Then, soft footsteps from the stairs.

You turned just as Finn appeared, blinking against the low light. He wore a crumpled shirt and a dazed expression, his hair sticking up on one side like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Why’s everyone so quiet?” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep. 

Ada turned toward him, visibly relaxing for the first time in hours. “You’re up. We thought you might be hibernating for a minute, there.”

Finn rubbed a hand over his face and yawned. He glanced around, eyes landing on the box on the table. “What’s that?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Polly said gently.

You moved toward him instinctively, scanning him from head to toe. He looked pale, but alright. 

“How do you feel?” you asked.

Finn shrugged one shoulder, his eyes still flicking uneasily toward the box. “Okay. Kind of weird. My ears won’t stop ringing.”

You knelt beside the sofa, your hand resting lightly on his knee. “That’s normal. After something like that… your body is just trying to catch up.”

He glanced at you then, properly, and for just a moment, the little boy slipped through the cracks.

Then, the front door slammed open, hinges groaning in protest.

You heard footsteps. Fast. Heavy.

“Where is it?” Tommy’s voice cut through the house like a blade.

You turned just as he appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, rain clinging to his coat, eyes already scanning the space until they landed on the box. On you.

“Where is it?” he repeated, more to Polly now, breath ragged like he hadn’t stopped moving since Ada called.

Polly nodded toward the table. "There."

Tommy didn’t hesitate. He stalked forward, coat dripping, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping beneath his cheek.

“Did anyone touch it?” he barked.

“Just me,” Polly said. “But only the box. We haven’t opened it.”

You rose slowly, the back of your knees aching from how long you’d sat. “It had my name on it.”

“I know,” he said without looking at you, eyes fixed on the neat red ribbon like it personally insulted him.

He crouched low, inspecting it—silent for a moment that stretched like wire. You could see his mind working, grinding through possibilities, calculating every angle.

No one moved. The only sound was the quiet tick of the clock on the mantel. Then Tommy exhaled through his nose and reached into his coat, pulling out a pocketknife. He flicked it open, then crouched beside the table.

You watched as he slid the blade under the red ribbon and sliced it cleanly in one motion.

No giant explosion. No trick. Just silence.

He lifted the lid carefully.

Tommy’s jaw ticked once, then twice, before he reached inside and drew out a delicate silver necklace. The chain glinted faintly in the low light, and at the end of it hung a single small charm: a teardrop pearl set in filigree.

Polly peered over his shoulder, frowning. “Why would he send a piece of jewelry?”

“It’s not just jewelry,” Tommy said, rising to his feet. 

He held it out, the necklace dangling from his fist like a noose. “It’s him saying he knows who you are. And what would suit your neck.”

Your stomach turned. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold.

Tommy’s gaze found yours then, sharp and dark and protective. “Someone was close enough to leave this at our door without being seen.”

Polly’s face was pale, hardening. “You think he’s threatening with proximity?”

Tommy’s grip tightened on the chain. “This is him saying he knows where to find us.”

Tommy stared at the necklace for another beat before turning to Polly. “Stay with her,” he said, low and firm. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Polly gave a single nod, already understanding.

“Tommy.” You stepped forward, eyes searching his face. “Where are you going? You just got here—”

His jaw shifted. “I need to make sure he doesn’t get closer.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He looked at you then, and for a brief moment, the fury faded, replaced by something rawer. Something tired. “I need to go figure out if anyone knew about this.” 

Ada blinked. “What if no one talks?” 

“I can be persuasive,” Tommy said, jaw ticking. His tone was cold now. “John and Arthur are already on their way to the Black Lion to lean on a few men we’ve had eyes on. I sent Johnny Dogs up to Digbeth to ask around the betting shops—see who’s been talking. Charlie went with him.”

You felt a chill run through you, not from the words, but the way he said them. Flat. Certain. Like violence was already a given.

“Tommy—” you pleaded. 

He crossed the space between you and pressed his hands gently to your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “You’re safe here with Polly. Just don’t open the door. Don’t leave the house.”

You blinked at him. “I don’t want you to go.”

His hands stayed on your face, steady despite everything. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I have to.”

Your throat tightened. “You don’t. Not right now. We could wait. We could—”

“We can’t wait,” he cut in, voice low but firm. “He sent this today. Tomorrow it could be something worse.”

You shook your head, pressing your palms against his chest like you could anchor him there. “I don’t care about necklances or cards or fucking threats—I care about you coming back.”

He didn’t speak right away. He just covered your hands with his own, holding them in place over his heart.

“I married you to protect you,” he said. “Not let you be threatened in your own home. Not to bring a war to your doorstep.”

You stared up at him, heart aching. “Here I was thinking you married me because you loved me.”

His eyes softened. “That too.”

You wanted to kiss him. To beg him to stay. But you knew better. Tommy Shelby didn’t run. Not from anything. 

So instead, you said the only thing you could. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your cheek. “I will. I always do.”

Then he kissed you—deep and certain, like it might have to last you both for a while.

When he pulled away, he turned without looking back.

And this time, when the door closed behind him, it felt like the whole house exhaled with it.

…

The hours passed slowly, stretched thin by the waiting.

Tommy didn’t call—not like you had really expected him to this soon. The quiet had its own kind of weight. Every creak in the house felt louder. Every car engine from the street set your nerves on edge.

Still, you did what you could to fill the silence.

Polly brewed another pot of tea, stronger this time. She moved with the same grace she always did, but her eyes were sharper, constantly flicking toward the window. Watching.

Ada had taken up residence on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her as she flipped through the paper, occasionally snorting at headlines and offering running commentary whether anyone responded or not.

“They described it as eventful,” she muttered, puffing on a cigarette. “Birmingham’s bloody standards, I suppose.” 

You offered a small, dry smile, but the silence that followed felt like it had weight—like the walls themselves were listening.

Still, you did what you could to fill it.

Across the room, Esme sat cross-legged on the floor, her skirt bunched around her and her dark braid swinging over one shoulder. She was carving something small from a scrap of wood, the shavings collecting in a soft pile beside her like snow. The little figure looked like it might become a horse, or maybe a wolf—it was hard to tell.

Every few minutes, she’d glance up at the fireplace or the box still sitting tucked beneath the sideboard, her eyes narrowing.

Finn was curled up in the armchair near the window, a heavy knit blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He wasn’t reading the book open in his lap so much as staring through it, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the door.

You weren’t sure he even realized he was chewing on his thumbnail until Polly gently reached over and tugged his hand away, replacing it with a warm teacup.

“Drink,” she murmured. 

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once, quiet as ever, and took a sip.

You watched him for a moment—how small he looked in that big chair, how tightly he gripped the cup in both hands like it might keep him grounded.

Later, Ada convinced everyone to help her bake something—though "bake" might’ve been generous. It was more her ordering Finn around the kitchen while you tried not to burn your fingers on the dishcloth.

“Better learn how to run the house if you’re going to be Mrs. Shelby,” Ada teased, hip-bumping you aside as she took over your attempt at sifting flour. 

Polly made a noise in her throat. “Like any man in this family could run anything without us.”

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head as the oven clanked and groaned to life.

There was a moment where things almost felt normal. Like you were just five people in a house with too much time on your hands, not waiting for word from a man in the midst of waging war in the streets.

As dusk settled outside, casting long shadows over the floorboards, Polly poured a glass of sherry for each of you and lit the lamps one by one.

“I used to hate nights like this,” she said suddenly. “All the waiting. Reminded me too much of the war. Sitting and staring at walls.”

You glanced at her, something aching in your chest. Your fingers curled around the stem of the glass, the sherry untouched. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, throwing flickering light across the sitting room, and for a moment, you weren't in Small Heath anymore.

You were standing in a narrow hallway that smelled of iodine and burning wool. Your apron stiff with blood. The quiet in between waves louder than the screaming ever was.

"I used to wait, too," you murmured, eyes unfocused. "Back at the aid station. We'd hear the shelling in the distance, and we'd wait. For trucks. For stretchers. For whoever came through the door next.”

No one said anything. 

You took a slow breath. “Sometimes… It was hours. Just silence. And the longer it went on, the more unbearable it got. Because I knew it meant something worse was coming. Something big.”

The image came back too easily—white bandages stained red, the tin cup of tea someone had tried to offer you with shaking hands, the endless shuffle of boots in corridors.

“And then,” you continued, voice low, “someone would come in missing half their face. Or screaming. Or already dead. And I’d move. I’d do my job. I’d stitch and clean and calm and talk and hope they made it until morning. But in those hours before?”

You looked down at your hands, flexing them like you could still feel the sting of alcohol and the way gloves would stick to your skin.

“In those hours, I felt so useless. Like a ghost in my own body.”

Ada reached out, wordlessly placing her hand over yours.

You didn’t look up, but you gripped her fingers tightly. “I’ve never heard you talk much about the war,” she said quietly. 

You let out a huff. “It’s not something I like to remember.”

Polly, quiet as ever, just nodded. 

You sat back in your chair, the warmth of the fire barely reaching your skin.

And as the clock ticked on, you waited again. Only this time, it wasn’t for the wounded to come through the door. It was for the man you loved to walk back through it in one piece.

…

The windows had gone dark.

Outside, the streetlamps buzzed to life one by one, casting long, fractured streaks of light across the living room floor. The day had slipped quietly into night, unnoticed until the shadows began to stretch.

Someone had drawn the curtains halfway earlier, but the wind kept nudging them open, making them flutter like restless ghosts. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm, but the silence made it feel colder than it was.

You sat curled in one of the armchairs, mug in hand, long gone cold. The others had grown quiet, too. Even Ada, who’d been talking just minutes before, was now staring blankly at the wall, a cigarette burning low between her fingers.

And then, finally, the phone rang.

Everyone froze.

No one moved to answer it at first. Polly was the one who finally rose from her chair, smooth and composed as ever, though you could see the tension in the set of her shoulders. She disappeared into the hall, footsteps light but brisk, the ringing still echoing in your ears.

No one spoke while she was gone.

Finn lay beside you on the couch, his head nearly resting in your lap and his blanket bunched up at his waist. He’d drifted in and out of sleep for the last hour, the tension finally wearing down into exhaustion. Now, his eyes were open again, watching the dancing glow of the firelight with a distant, heavy-lidded stare.

Your hand rested lightly against his shoulder, thumb brushing absently back and forth. He didn’t say anything, but he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“He’s gonna find the man who's doing all of this, right?” Finn murmured, barely louder than a whisper.

You glanced down at him. “Of course. Tommy always does.”

Finn nodded, but it was a quiet, solemn sort of nod. Not a child’s blind faith—something closer to a weary kind of knowing. Like he understood, even at twelve, that when Tommy Shelby went looking for someone, he found them.

“I wish I could help,” he murmured, voice barely above the fire’s crackle. “I’m a Shelby, too.”

You looked at the flicker of frustration in his young face, and the way his fists curled beneath the blanket. He was so young. Too young to be carrying that name like a burden instead of a legacy.

He stared into the flames, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Everyone else is doing something. Aunt Polly, Arthur, John… even Ada sometimes. I just get told to stay out of the way.”

Your fingers smoothed down the back of his hair, gentle, slow. “That’s not a punishment, you know. That’s protection. Because you’re important to all of them.”

He stayed quiet after that, eyes locked on the fire, jaw set in that stubborn Shelby way.

Polly’s voice rose faintly in the hall, sharper now. You couldn’t make out the words, but the tension in them cut clear through the wall.

Finn blinked slowly. “He’s mad.”

You didn’t answer.

Because yes—yes, he was.

But more than that, he was afraid. And that was always worse.

The call ended a minute later, and Polly returned to the room, her face composed but pale. You felt Finn tense as he shifted, pretending to still be asleep as Polly’s eyes swept the room.

“He’s alright,” she said, voice carefully measured. “Following a lead. John and Arthur are with him. Says he’ll be back late.”

Esme made a sound in the back of her throat and rose to her feet, brushing shavings from her skirt. “That calls for a drink.”

Without waiting for agreement, she crossed to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle—deep amber, expensive enough to be reserved for more than casual sipping. She popped the cork with a practiced twist and set a handful of glasses down on the table.

“No arguments,” she added, already pouring. “I’m not sitting here sober while we all wait for another ghost to knock.”

Ada stretched her legs out on the couch, accepting a glass with a shrug. 

Polly raised a brow as she took hers. 

You hesitated for half a second before accepting the drink Esme handed you. The liquid warmed your palm instantly, and you welcomed the sting of it when you took a sip.

Finn still lay beside you on the couch, quiet, still bundled under his blanket. His eyes were closed now, lashes brushing pale cheeks, his face slack with something close to real sleep. You watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his small fingers curled slightly around the edge of the cushion.

The hours slipped by slowly, thick with silence and flickering firelight.

No one said much anymore. The whisky had mostly been forgotten. Polly kept her seat near the front window, arms folded tightly, eyes fixed on the darkened street like she could will headlights to appear. Ada sat curled up in the armchair, chin resting on her fist, her cigarette burned down to the filter without her noticing. Esme stretched out on the rug, head tilted back, fingers tapping idly on the floor in a steady rhythm.

You were still on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, staring into the fire but seeing very little.

Finn had fallen asleep again, his breathing slow and even. You brushed hair from his forehead, pulling the blanket higher. He never stirred.

The house felt like it was holding its breath.

Finally—sometime past one—a car pulled up out front.

Everyone jolted upright.

The front door opened a moment later, and in stepped John, then Arthur. Both looked exhausted. Rumpled. John’s knuckles were scraped raw, and Arthur’s coat was soaked through at the shoulders.

But neither of them were bleeding. And neither of them were Tommy.

“What happened?” Polly stood immediately. “Where’s Tommy?”

Arthur let out a long breath as he peeled off his coat. “Still out.”

“He sent us back,” John added, voice low. “Said he needed to follow something up on his own.”

Polly’s jaw tightened. “Of course he did.”

Ada stood now too, eyes narrowed. “And he didn’t say where?”

“Said he’d be back before sunrise,” Arthur muttered, running a hand through his wet hair. “Said not to wait up.”

“Like hell,” Polly snapped. “What did he find out?”

John glanced toward Finn’s sleeping form, then back at you. “Someone who helped the Italians get close. Name came up in a backroom at The Barrel. Tommy wants to make sure it was real before he tells anyone.”

Arthur, still drying rain from his face with his sleeve, shrugged like it was out of his hands. “He said it had to be quiet. If word gets out that we know, this bastard’ll disappear.”

Your gaze drifted to the window. The rain had picked up again, tapping against the glass in a steady rhythm. You could just make out the reflection of the firelight behind you, but the street beyond was a blur of shadows.

Polly stood by the door for another minute before finally locking it with a quiet click, her jaw still tight. The echo of it seemed to settle something, if only on the surface.

She stayed there for a moment longer, her hand resting on the doorknob, eyes scanning the dark street beyond the frosted glass. The house behind her had fallen into a heavy, worn kind of silence—the kind that clings after too many hours of bad news and not enough rest.

John rubbed a hand over his face, rolling his shoulders with a grunt as he turned back toward the room. “I’m calling it,” he said, voice low but firm. “If he’s not back yet, he’s not coming until morning.”

No one argued.

It was the kind of resignation that didn’t need discussion anymore.

Arthur gave a small nod, already slipping off his coat, and Esme pulled the curtains tighter as she passed, muttering something under her breath about the cold seeping in through the floorboards.

No one made a move to leave the house. Not tonight.

Without a word, John and Esme drifted toward the back room they’d shared the night before, boots scuffing quietly against the floorboards.

Arthur bent down at the couch, brushing Finn’s hair back before lifting him carefully into his arms. The boy barely stirred, his head falling against Arthur’s shoulder, small fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“Little bugger’s a deadweight,” Arthur muttered softly, but there was affection in it, deep and worn.

He carried Finn up the stairs, his footsteps slow and deliberate, while Ada trailed behind. 

And just like that, one by one, the rest of the house began to dim. Floorboards creaked overhead. A door clicked shut. A blanket rustled into place.

Only the fire remained—low and steady, casting warm shadows against the walls.

Polly returned to her chair. And you stayed beside her, both of you facing the quiet like it was something alive.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

The fire popped gently, and somewhere above, the faintest creak of someone turning in their sleep.

You didn’t say anything. Just stared into the fire until the shapes in the flames started to blur.

After a while, you asked, “Was it always like this? Before me?”

Polly huffed a quiet laugh. “You think this is new?”

You smiled faintly. “No. I guess I just thought… maybe it wasn’t this constant.”

Polly leaned back, closing her eyes for a moment. “The only thing constant in this family is that someone always thinks they can end it. And they always underestimate how far we’ll go to keep it standing.”

The fire crackled again, louder this time. You watched the embers pulse and fade, over and over.

The room fell quiet after that. 

Your body grew heavier with each passing minute. The weight of the night, the fear, the warmth of the fire—it all tugged at your limbs.

You meant to stay awake, meant to be there when the door finally opened, and when Tommy returned.

But your eyes fluttered shut sometime after two, and the last thing you felt was the soft dip of the cushion beside you, the fire painting the backs of your eyelids in flickering gold.

And then there was nothing but sleep.

…

You stirred at the sensation of fingers brushing lightly across your forehead, the touch feather-light, careful. Gentle fingertips swept a loose strand of hair back behind your ear, then lingered for a breath too long, like the hand didn’t want to leave.

A voice followed, low and warm, barely above a whisper. It reached you through the haze of sleep like something half-dreamed:

“Sweetheart.”

Your brows knit slightly as your body slowly remembered where you were—the couch, the fire, the weight of exhaustion still clinging to your bones. But it was the voice that pulled you further awake. Familiar. Rough around the edges. His.

Your eyes fluttered open, lashes heavy, the dim glow of the dying fire casting him in soft shadow.

Tommy was crouched beside you, still in his coat, the collar damp from rain. His eyes looked darker in the low light, tired, rimmed with something too raw to name, but they softened the moment they met yours.

His hand stayed on your cheek now, thumb sweeping slowly across your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were real. Still here. Still safe.

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding trembled out of you.

And without a word, you reached for him.

Your fingers barely curled around the lapel of his coat before he moved, leaning in and slipping one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. You let out a small, unsteady breath as he lifted you from the couch, holding you close like something precious.

Your head dropped against his shoulder, your face nestling instinctively into the curve of his neck. He was warm beneath the damp chill of his coat, smelling of rain, smoke, and the faint trace of whiskey. His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your cheek.

He said nothing, and just held you tighter.

The house was silent as he carried you upstairs, every step slow, careful, deliberate. His boots creaked against the old wood floor, the faint sound of the fire still crackling somewhere below.

At the top of the stairs, he hesitated only long enough to shoulder open the bedroom door, the familiar scent of the space you’d shared the night before welcoming you like an exhale.

He crossed to the bed and lowered you gently onto the mattress, his hands never leaving you, not even as he pulled the blankets over your legs and brushed a final kiss to your forehead.

You blinked up at him, only half-awake now. “You came back,” you whispered. 

He shed his coat, tossing it on the chair in the corner, before loosening his collar.

“I always come back,” he murmured. 

Your voice was quiet. Barely a whisper against the hush of the room. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just worked at the buttons of his shirt for a moment, each one slow, deliberate, like even that required more energy than he had left.

“I followed a name,” he said finally, voice rough with fatigue. “It was someone who’s been close to us for years.”

You watched him in the low lamplight, your cheek still pressed to the pillow. His hands moved with tired precision, sliding the shirt from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor without a second glance.

He had a bruise on his side—like a shadow blooming on his ribs. He ran a hand through his hair, then let out a long breath and turned toward the bed.

You shifted to make space, lifting the blanket as he eased in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. The chill of the room clung to his skin, but he was warm beneath it—his body radiating heat, his breathing still uneven.

Neither of you spoke as he pulled you gently into him, one arm wrapping around your waist, his other hand sliding beneath the pillow.

You curled instinctively against him, your forehead brushing his chest, your palm resting just over his heart.

“Did they talk?” you asked quietly. 

Tommy’s jaw ticked. “Eventually.”

The word settled heavy between you.

You studied him in the quiet—how tired he looked, how far away his eyes had gone. Like some part of him was still in that back room, still in the moment he’d gotten the truth he’d gone looking for.

You swallowed, hesitant. “Who was it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the ceiling, his fingers absently tracing a line across your hip beneath the blanket. The touch was thoughtless, gentle—something to keep his hands busy while his mind worked through the damage.

“His name is O’Dolan,” he said finally. “Used to run messages for us. He helps with small jobs. He sold some information,” Tommy continued, voice flat. “Didn’t even ask who it was going to. Said he needed the money. Said he didn’t think it would lead to blood.”

Tommy’s jaw worked as he stared at the ceiling, like he couldn’t quite unclench it.

“He told them everything. Which doors we’d use. What time the guests would arrive. Which men were watching the grounds. Even mentioned you—”

His arm tightened around you as if he’d said too much, like the words themselves made the danger real all over again.

You felt it in the way his body tensed, the way his breath hitched just slightly before he kissed your forehead, soft, lingering. Like a promise, or maybe an apology.

You stayed still for a moment, soaking in the warmth of him, the smell of rain and smoke clinging faintly to his skin. But the question had already lodged in your throat, and it burned too much to hold back.

“What does Luca Changretta even want, Tommy?”

He stilled beside you, his hand frozen against your hip. You felt him inhale through his nose, slow and sharp.

“Revenge,” he said finally. “For his father. His name was Vicente Changretta. For so long, we were bleeding territory. Changretta was playing both sides—taking money from us and from them. Passing messages. Selling lies. We warned him twice. There’s been a lot of bad blood.”

His eyes flicked toward the ceiling, gaze far away now.

“Not long ago, John shot Luca’s brother—and it started a chain reaction. They tried to retaliate. Nearly put a bullet in Arthur. It escalated fast.”

You felt your breath catch. 

“So I made the decision,” he said. “Vicente was handed over to us.”

There was no pride in his voice. No bravado. Just the blunt weight of a man who’d lived long enough with the choices he made.

“You killed him?”

Tommy shook his head. “Arthur pulled the trigger. But I tied him to a chair in a butcher’s shop. And now, Luca wants me to feel what he felt.”

You rested your head against him, heart pounding.

“He wants us to bleed,” he said quietly. “One by one. And he wants me last.”

You closed your eyes, your hand fisting in the fabric of the blanket.

“You weren’t supposed to be part of this,” he said, voice rough.

You looked up at him. “Too late for that.”

His jaw flexed. “I will protect you. I promise you.”

“I know.”

He met your eyes, and something shifted there—just for a second. The sharpness dulled. The weight settled.

You reached up and touched his face, your thumb brushing beneath his eye. 

He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm like a silent promise. Then he tucked you back against his chest, his chin resting against your hair.

And in the quiet, with the storm still circling outside, the two of you held on to each other, because there was nothing left to say, and nowhere else either of you wanted to be.

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[novaursa]

Valyrian Bride (Continuation)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon. 

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: Final Chapter

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

Cregan Stark walked with the dragon princess by his side, feeling the eyes of his men and household upon them. There was a sense of pride that welled up inside him as they entered Winterfell’s stone halls. Not pride in himself, but in the fact that this fierce, regal woman—this vision of Old Valyria—was now his betrothed. It was no small thing to command the presence of such a creature, both her and the dragon she rode. The weight of that responsibility settled on his shoulders, but rather than burden him, it gave him a sense of purpose.

As they crossed the threshold into the Great Hall, the murmurs of those gathered inside came to a halt. Servants, bannermen, and even the most hardened of his household retainers stared openly. They weren’t accustomed to such grandeur, and even in a land where strength was admired, there was something otherworldly about the princess. Her silver-gold hair, the grace of her movements, and the quiet power that seemed to radiate from her drew their eyes like moths to flame.

The warmth of the hearthfire flickered against the cold stone walls, but in the presence of the dragon princess, it felt as though the heat came from her. She walked beside Cregan with an ease that belied her strength, her violet eyes scanning the hall as if she were already its lady, its queen.

Cregan couldn’t help but glance at her from the corner of his eye, watching as she moved like liquid fire, confident and unyielding. He could see the tension in the shoulders of his bannermen, the uncertainty in the eyes of the women who served the household. They were all taken aback, and Cregan couldn’t blame them. He had lived his whole life without seeing anyone like her, and he knew, without doubt, that no one here had ever stood before the true blood of Old Valyria until now.

She was a flame in the middle of a winter storm, a vivid contrast to the world of stone and snow that surrounded her.

“I trust the halls of Winterfell meet your expectations, my lady?” Cregan asked, his voice low but carrying in the stillness of the hall. He wanted to draw her into conversation, not only to ease his own nerves but to learn more of this woman who would soon be his wife.

She turned her gaze to him, a small smile curling on her lips, though it was hard to read the full depth of her thoughts. “It is as grand as the tales say, Lord Stark. A stronghold of honor and tradition.”

Her voice was steady, yet it held an edge to it, as if there was always something more behind her words. It was as though she was measuring everything, assessing him, the people around her, and the place she would soon call home.

“I trust it will serve as more than just a stronghold for you, my lady,” Cregan replied, his eyes meeting hers directly, a subtle challenge of his own. “Winterfell is now your home, and you are its future lady.”

The princess didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, Winterfell will be my home, but I have a home in the sky as well. I belong to both land and air, Lord Stark. Do not forget that.” There was a softness to her words, but it was clear. She may belong to the North by marriage, but her heart would always be tied to the skies, to her dragon.

Cregan inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I doubt anyone will forget, least of all after the sight of Vaetrix in our skies," he said, and then added, more softly, "She is a magnificent creature."

The princess's expression shifted slightly, pride mingled with affection as she spoke of her dragon. “Vaetrix is the daughter of Meleys, the Red Queen herself. Her lineage is one of fire and might. She carries the blood of dragons who have seen empires rise and fall, just as I do.”

Cregan’s brows raised slightly at the mention of Meleys. He had heard of the Red Queen, the swift and powerful dragon that had once belonged to Princess Rhaenys. Her reputation was legendary. To think that Vaetrix was her offspring made the connection between the princess and her dragon even more profound. "The Red Queen," Cregan murmured, nodding thoughtfully. "Your bond with her must be strong, then. I imagine not just any rider could command such a lineage."

Her eyes gleamed in response, as if the conversation about Vaetrix sparked something deeper within her. "A dragon and their rider are bound by more than blood, Lord Stark. We share a soul, a heart. Vaetrix and I have flown together since I was a girl. She is my closest companion, my fiercest ally."

There was a tenderness in her tone now, something almost protective. It made Cregan understand, even more clearly, the depth of the bond between her and the dragon. In a way, it reminded him of the wolves of his house—loyal, fierce, and bound by an unspoken connection. But this bond was greater, stronger, and far more dangerous. He respected it, even admired it.

“Then she will be an ally to the North as well,” Cregan said, his voice filled with conviction. "As you will be."

The princess turned her eyes back to him, her gaze sharp and knowing. "The North has been promised my fire, my lord. And I keep my promises."

Her words were more than just a vow—they were a reminder of the power she wielded, the power she had been born with. Cregan nodded in response, feeling a strange comfort in that certainty. He knew, without question, that she was someone who would fight with all her strength, for her family, her dragon, and soon, for the North.

They continued walking, Cregan leading her deeper into Winterfell’s great halls, where more of his household waited in silent anticipation. Every eye was upon them as they passed, but the princess seemed unbothered by the attention, as if she had long since grown used to the weight of expectation. Cregan noticed the way people parted in her presence, not out of fear, but out of reverence. She was the embodiment of fire, and all knew they were in the presence of something greater than themselves.

As they reached the heart of Winterfell, Cregan paused, turning to face her fully. “There will be a feast tonight in your honor. A celebration of our alliance.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “It will be modest compared to what you may be accustomed to, but we take pride in what the North can offer.”

The princess’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of warmth in her eyes. “The North has already offered me more than I expected. I look forward to seeing its hospitality, Lord Stark.”

There was no mockery in her voice, no hint of the condescension he might have expected from someone raised in the splendor of court life. Instead, there was a genuine respect, a willingness to embrace the new life she was entering. Cregan nodded, feeling that strange mix of pride and anticipation once more.

As the evening drew near, Cregan knew the feast would be only the beginning. He had secured an alliance, but in the dragon princess, he had gained something far more—a partner of equal strength, whose fire would one day burn alongside his own.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the low hum of voices as the feast unfolded, the hearths were burning high to accommodate a dragon princess in it. Platters of roasted meats and winter greens filled the long tables, while horns of ale and wine passed freely from hand to hand. The air was thick with the scent of food and the crackle of the great fires, but despite the bustle of the hall, all eyes kept drifting toward the high table, where Lord Cregan Stark and his betrothed sat in full view of his bannermen, retainers, and household.

Cregan himself sat straighter than usual, though his posture seemed almost relaxed, as if he were entirely at ease in this moment. His eyes often flicked to the princess seated beside him, watching her as she navigated the curious gazes of the Northmen with the same grace she had displayed all day. There was something undeniably striking about her here, amidst the rustic grandeur of Winterfell’s Great Hall—her silver-gold hair gleaming in the firelight, her violet eyes calm yet ever watchful.

When the time came for toasts, the hall fell into a deep silence as Cregan stood, his horn of ale in hand. The attention of every man, woman, and servant shifted to him, their lord. His voice, strong and sure, carried through the hall.

“Tonight,” he began, “we honor more than just a union between two houses. We honor the blood of dragons and the fire that has joined with the winter.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on the princess beside him. “The daughter of Princess Rhaenyra, the only daughter of House Targaryen, has come to the North. She is now our guest, and soon, she will be my wife.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd, but it was tempered by the awe that still hung in the air. Many had never seen a woman like her, let alone one of royal Valyrian descent. To them, she was more legend than flesh and blood.

Cregan raised his horn higher, his eyes never leaving hers. “To the Lady of Fire,” he said, his voice full of pride. “To the daughter of Rhaenyra!”

The hall erupted in cheers, the echo of voices bouncing off the ancient stone walls. Horns were raised, clashing together in raucous celebration as the Northmen embraced their lord’s words. And yet, even amidst the noise, Cregan saw the way his men stole glances at the princess, admiration clear in their eyes.

The princess raised her own horn in response, a subtle smile playing on her lips as she inclined her head toward Cregan. "To the North," she said, her voice soft but carrying through the hall with a clarity that commanded attention. "And to the strength of its people."

The words were simple, but they carried weight. The hall seemed to settle after that, the conversations resuming with renewed vigor as the feast carried on. Yet Cregan’s focus remained fixed on her.

As the noise of the hall filled the space around them, Cregan leaned slightly toward her, his voice low so that their conversation would remain private. “You’ve impressed them already,” he remarked, his eyes glinting with a rare hint of amusement. “It takes much to win the respect of Northmen, but I see it in their eyes.”

The princess turned to him, her violet gaze meeting his with a certain calm, but there was a flicker of curiosity there too. “I hadn’t expected to win their respect so soon,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “But I do not think it is me they respect so much as the idea of the alliance—of what we represent.”

Cregan considered her words, his brow furrowing slightly as he mulled them over. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but it’s more than just an alliance. They see you, a dragon’s daughter, and they understand the power that you carry. You’re no simple marriage prize.”

Her lips curved upward, just a fraction. “Is that how you see me, Cregan Stark? A symbol of power?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low in his throat. “I see you as many things, princess. Power is just one of them.”

Her smile grew more visible now, and there was something lighter in her expression, as if she were pleased by his words, even if she did not show it openly. “And what else do you see, my lord?”

Cregan leaned in just a fraction more, his voice dropping. “I see a woman with a mind as sharp as the blade she wears. I see a rider whose bond with her dragon makes her stronger than any queen. And,” his eyes softened, the faintest glimmer of admiration in them, “I see someone who will stand beside me, not behind me.”

She studied him for a moment, as if weighing the truth of his words, and then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good,” she said, her tone firm but carrying an edge of warmth. “Because I have no intention of standing behind anyone.”

Cregan allowed himself a smile then, something rare and unguarded. It felt easy, natural in her presence, something he hadn’t anticipated. She wasn’t just a symbol of fire and dragons—she was alive, filled with strength and grace in equal measure, and with each passing moment, Cregan found himself looking forward to what the future might bring with her at his side.

For the rest of the evening, Cregan’s mood remained light, his smiles more frequent than anyone could remember seeing before. The hall, filled with food, laughter, and music, felt brighter somehow, as if the fire she had brought with her from the skies had seeped into Winterfell itself. There was a warmth there that was new, a change carried on dragon’s wings.

Years later, when scholars and storytellers recalled that night, they would write about how Lord Cregan Stark, known for his stoic nature, had smiled more during that feast than any had seen before, save for two other occasions—on his wedding day, and when the first child of the Dragon Princess was born in the cold halls of Winterfell. But for now, the legend was only beginning.

As the feast wore on, Cregan turned to her again, unable to resist asking, “Do you think Vaetrix feels at ease here in the cold North? It’s far from the warmth of Dragonstone.”

She tilted her head, her silver-gold hair catching the firelight once more. “Vaetrix is not concerned with warmth or cold,” she replied. “She is her mother’s daughter, bred for strength and flight, and the North’s cold will not trouble her. Besides,” her smile grew, more playful this time, “she knows I will not be far from her.”

Cregan nodded. “She is a creature of legend, like her rider,” he said softly.

The princess turned her eyes to him, the faintest flush of warmth in her cheeks. For a moment, the fire of her Valyrian blood met the unyielding strength of the North in Cregan’s gaze, and in that shared moment, both knew their bond would be one of legend.

The fire had come to Winterfell, and it would burn for generations to come.

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Twenty - Jon finally is allowed to taste the forbidden fruit.

NSFW content below the cut CH 21

Jon’s feet hurt, he has been given far too many toasts and wishes for a son by men he has never before met. And though he tried desperately to avoid drinking, Robb was still able to force two or three glasses of wine down his throat. He wished to be clear-headed when he took you to the marriage bed, wished for nothing to rob him of his memories or his senses.

When you grab his arm, a controlled look of apprehension and annoyance on your face, he bristles, all the wine and revelry draining from him. Who has upset you? Who has dared to wipe the smile from his bride’s face? Then Tyrion appears, looking as insistent as you, and Jon simply pauses, waiting for you and your father to silently decide who should speak first.

He should not have paused; he was a fool to pause. The call for the bedding ceremony rings out, and you are pulled from him, from Tyrion, swallowed up by a crowd of hungry noblemen. He has no sword, why would he, it is his wedding day, but he is still Ser Jon Dayne, still your sworn protector, he should not have let his guard down.

“Fucking savages. Jon, get y/n out of here.” Tyrion yells over the noise of the crowd, scrambling out of the way as Jon pushes away from the noblewomen who have flocked to him, eager to tear the clothing from his body. His tunic rips as he wrenches himself free, his sleeves being torn from his shoulders, and he lets the fabric flutter to the ground, his arms and half his abdomen exposed to the cheering onlookers.

It is chaos, and he remembers how Lady Catelyn used to fawn over his uncle’s words even a decade later. His proclamation that there would be no bedding, for he did not think it right to break a man’s jaw on his wedding day. But Jon has no such qualms, and you are not Lady Catelyn. He shoves men aside, elbows, trips, punches, throws them away from you, his knuckles bloody when he breaks through the circle of lechers and grabs you. You, who fights like a lioness, your claws bloodied as well.

You startle, ready to claw his eyes out, then recognize and cling to him, yelping when he throws you over his shoulder and continues on. The two of you leaving the noblemen to fight amongst themselves, unsure of who hit who, blaming old rivals and new enemies.

Jon has done this twice before, glad of his strength that allows him to swiftly take you away from danger. Though he laments the fact that his blood will stain your gown and skin, his busted knuckles dripping red onto the marble floors. He makes it to the nearest opening, a balcony overlooking Lannisport, and sets you down gently, in the corner, the climbing ivy shielding you and him from the doors. It is quiet now, the roar of the crowd muffled, the bright candlelight dimmed, the wind cool as it tumbles down the Rock and onto the city below. “Are you hurt?”

You look down at your gown, pure white painstakingly embroidered by Sansa and Myrcella with threads of gold and precious gems. It is torn, dirtied, stained with drops of his blood and the blood of others, and your hair has fallen from its intricate updo, gathering about your shoulders. “No, but my gown is ruined.” You say in a small voice, clutching your skirts tearfully.

Jon gathers you in his arms, resting his forehead against yours. “You still look beautiful. The most beautiful bride in the Seven Kingdoms.”

You release a shaky breath and smooth your hands down his arms, leaving small streaks of red. You must have gotten a few good scratches in as you defended yourself. “My father invited the fucking dragon queen to our wedding.”

His mind stalls, akin to a wheelhouse stuck in mud, then it lurches forward free of the muck. “Has he gone mad?”

You shrug, still dragging your hands up and down his arms, a soothing gesture he believes is more for you than him. “Perhaps.”

“He cannot think to overthrow the king here, The Rock is all but impenetrable, and will not fall to dragonflame.” Jon’s fingers splay across your back, and he shakes his head. “We swore an oath to the king.”

He feels your head raise, your lips brushing against his own as you speak. “You swore an oath to me, a stronger one, as I did to you. That is the only one that matters.”

There is an ache in his gut, an unease crawling up into his chest and making a home. “I have already broken my oath to the crown two times over…”

You nod, your hands on his back now, one moving up to tangle in his hair, resting at the nape of his neck. “They were not fit to rule, you did what was necessary for the realm.” Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

“You would ask me to break my oath again?” He asks, his nose bumping against yours, your eyes a dark forest green in the shadows of the night.

“I…” The word is tinged with uncertainty, and he silences you with a kiss.

You lean into his touch, tightening your grip on him, nails scraping against his scalp as you pull him closer. Your body melds to his, soft and yielding, the taste of honey and cinnamon on your lips—from the cake made specifically for the wedding—your breath warm against his, mingling, the feel of you, the taste of you intoxicating beyond all measure.

“How many kings must I fight against to have you?” Jon breathes, trailing his hands down your sides, fingertips finding where parts of the fabric has been ripped away, exposing your skin to the night air.

“You already have me.” You say, shivering when his hands ghost over your hips, your breath catching in your throat when he slowly lowers himself to the ground kneeling before you.

Jon looks up at you, and swears he can feel his pupils expanding, desperate to take in as much of the sight before him as he can. Bathed in moonlight you are a goddess, and when he rucks up your skirts and presses his lips to your core, his tongue desperate and eager, the sound you make is truly divine. Jon wants to hear it again, needs to hear it again, so he pulls your small clothes to the side, and feasts, your skirts draped around him, hiding him from the world. His hands grip your thighs, easing them apart, and when your hips shift, he realizes you have leaned back and gripped the stone railing, opening yourself further to him.

“How many kings must I fight to keep you, then?” He asks, cock beginning to stir as he rolls his tongue over your bud, parting with you only momentarily to nip at your thigh, marking you as his own.

“Jon, oh gods, please.” You beg quietly, the skirts on his right side bunching up from where you have gripped them.

He lazily laps at your core, nose pressed against your bud, smirking when your breathing picks up. “I do not know that number.”

You let out a flustered, strangled sound, but rock your hips against him. “You have me, you may keep me, even if you do not fight another king.”

“Is that so?” He hums, watching as your thighs clench in response to the vibrations.

“Do not tease, Husband.” You whine, sounding so desperate that he debates giving up his line of playful questioning.

“How can I deny My Lady Wife anything she desires?” Jon eases a digit in careful as he knows you are still a maiden, and he never wishes to hurt you.

You tense for a moment, and he freezes. Then light floods in, and he finds himself looking up at you. You hold out your free hand to him, and he takes it, intertwining your fingers, chuckling softly when you throw your skirts back over him.

Jon curls his finger experimentally, biting back a groan when a small moan slips past your lips. He adds another, his thumb circling your bud slowly, waiting to hear or see any signs of discomfort.

“Jon…” You gasp, and he hears the diamonds on your sleeves clatter against the railing, your core pulsing around him. “More.”

He curls his fingers, searching for that sensitive spot within you, his lips attaching to your bud, tracing nonsensical shapes as his fingers coax you closer and closer to the edge.

Moans spill from your lips like music, and he cannot help but echo them, tongue joining his fingers in their devouring of you, mouthing at you like a man starved. Finally, he rips your small clothes free, slipping them in his pocket, to allow himself the use of both hands.

Jon shoves your thighs apart, offering a silent apology as his beard scratches against the sensitive flesh of them, too enraptured by the taste of you, divine and delightful, just as you are. His cock aches, straining against his breeches, desire driving him mad.

Your high comes abruptly, and his eyes nearly roll back into his head at the way you drip around him. Your arousal running down his hand, mixing with the blood still sluggishly flowing from his broken skin.

You pull him up and grab at his breeches, freeing his cock from the restricting fabric, as you whine, “now, Jon, I need you now.”

He leans forward, gripping the railing, forcing his lust back, attempting to regain any semblance of control. “Y/N, we should go to our chambers, anyone could come upon us.”

“I cannot wait any longer.” You grip him tightly, thumb grazing the head of his cock as you pout up at him, lightning shooting through his body, your touch burning to the point of pleasure pain. “Please, Jon?”

He backs you up against the railing, swearing under his breath, and pushes in, head falling forward as he is engulfed in your walls.

You make a stifled pained sound, and he curses himself, raising his head to press chaste kisses to the plains of your face. His hand moves between your bodies to your bud, stroking you softly as he waits for you to adjust.

“Breathe y/n, breathe.” He urges, his free hand leaving the railing to brush the hair back from your face, his thumb smoothing along the apples of your cheek.

You take a deep breath, then another, and he feels your muscles relax, but your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, and your eyes will not meet his.

Jon presses a kiss to your temple and pulls out slowly before tucking himself back into his breeches.

You blink at him, a frown marring your perfect face. “Jon?”

He cannot do it, he will not take you here, in the open air where he cannot calm you properly. “I will not risk us being caught.” He takes your hand in his and presses it to his lips. “We have a fine bedchamber awaiting us, let us make use of it.”

Jon should feel bad, he knows he should, sneaking you past all the guests, your family, his family, the servants. All while he salivates like a hound over the thought of you bare before him on the silk sheets of your shared bed.

It is not right to take you like this, spread out, his body above yours, your gown, his clothing discarded, the windows open so that all can hear. You are a lady, his lady, his Lady Wife, he should act with decorum and honor, but it is so very difficult when you beg and praise so perfectly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, how—gods, how are you so good at this?” Your breasts are heaving with each breath, your words broken up by moans.

Jon chuckles, tweaking your nipples, ravishing your throat with his teeth and tongue, his cock driving you higher and higher, his hand in your hair, keeping you from turning you head and hiding from his gaze. “I dreamt of this, of you, I practiced many times in my dreams.”

Your back arches and your core pulses around him, liquid fire filling his veins.

“My starlight.” He coos, his free hand groping your perfect breasts, groaning at the feel of your soft skin. “My wife, how beautiful you are.”

“Jon, oh gods, I do not underst—” Your words are cut off by a desperate moan, your emerald eyes glazed over with lust, your pretty lips parted as you frantically take in air.

“Trust me, I have got you. You need only enjoy, can you do that for me?” Jon asks, caressing the curve of your cheek, admiring the way the candlelight plays across your skin. He has claimed many of your firsts, and he intends to be the last to do so.

“Yes, yes, I can, I can.” You say, and he bites back a groan at the way you look up at him, so trusting and eager.

“Good girl.” He praises, brushing a kiss to the corner of your lips as he thrusts into you, harder, faster, finding that spot within you that makes you sing and focusing there.

You whimper in response, squirming in his hold, hips rolling to meet his incoming thrusts, warm walls clenched around him, making him lightheaded.

“Jon, Jon, Jon, please, please do not stop.” You beg, nails digging into his shoulders, your eyes screwed shut.

“Never.” He promises, releasing his grip on your hair to trail his fingers down your bare body until he comes upon your bud, setting a cruel rhythm that makes your body tremble, cries of his name growing louder and louder.

He wants the whole of The Rock to hear you, to know you are his, to keep their filthy hands off you.

“Swear it to me, swear you will never let anyone separate us.” You say desperately, your eyes open now, pupils blown wide, but there is a clarity within them.

This has been your fear since King Stannis took the throne, one he has not been able to banish from your mind. “I would fight the gods old and new to stay by your side, none shall tear us asunder, I swear to you.”

“So would I, Jon, I love you, I love you.” You say, pulling him closer to you, smashing your lips to his hungrily as if you cannot get enough of him.

“And I love you.” He whispers, nipping at your earlobe, liquid lust and pure unfiltered adoration raging in his veins.

Jon TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film, @wifiatthetrainstation, @duskypinki, @tartine-de-pain, @rebeccawinters, @taylorsfemalerage, @rax-raxus, @certainwonderlandperfection, @nymeriiiia, @burkgolden, @drewsivy

[journeytothewestresearch]

An influence on Sun Wukong's medical knowledge

As I write in this article, Sun Wukong showcases his medical knowledge in chapter 69 when he analyzes an ailing king’s pulse from afar using three magic hairs-turned-golden threads. This is no doubt based on the story of the “Grand Emperor of Protecting Life” (Baosheng dadi, 保生大帝), the Daoist and folk religion god of medicine, curing an empress using the same method:

During the reign of Chengzu (1403-21), the Empress Wen suffered from an inflamed breast. A Taoist priest offered his skills, but the Emperor tested him by having him take her pulse with a string held on the other side of her bedroom wall. First the Emperor attached it to a cat. The Taoist said, “Not a bear, no not bear, it’s a cat.” Then the Emperor tied the string to a doorknob. The Taoist said that it was something of metal and wood, and not a human pulse. Finally, the Emperor tied the string to the woman’s breast and the Taoist said that the liver pulse was inflamed and the blood clotted, and that this indicated a breast infection which had to be treated by moxibustion. He offered to perform the operation by dangling a cord over the wall. He cured the ailment and vanished, refusing a reward of gold and office. In He Qiaoyuan’s version, the Emperor inquired about his name and discovered that he was the long-deceased Divine Doctor Wu Tao. In gratitude, the Emperor enfeoffed the god as Wanshou wuji baosheng dadi (Emperor Who Protects Life of Limitless Longevity) (Dean, 2014, p. 74).

What’s interesting is that this legend carried over into religious practices. A reader who contacted me in 2022 explains:

I observed a practice at [Sidian Xingji Temple (祀典興濟宮)] in Tainan where an individual would let the god Baosheng dadi check their pulse by resting three sticks of incense on their forearm. The temple brochure also mentions this procedure.

A detail from the aforementioned temple brochure showing the three incense sticks resting on a member’s wrist. Photo by Richard Malabarista.

[qinche-cvmslvt]

Metafiction

Pt 8

Content Warning: 21+, murder, drugging, fluff, smut, nsfw. Love making.

A/N: had to listen to the Bridgerton ost to get the vibes going for the end of this chapter...

“Mhmm, that’s right. A girl and a hunter.”

The motel owner was talking on the phone, mindlessly flipping a gold coin between her fingers and chewing on her gum.

Her face twists, “ not my fault you sent men incapable of catching them. I did my part.”

A black feather falls in front of the motel owner.

“Fuc-!” She’s flung back against the wall behind her, black and red mist pinning her.

“Sylus!” She strains.

A black tendril picks up her phone from the ground and put its in Sylus’ hand. The caller has hung up already.

His red eyes are like lasers on the motel owner, watching her struggle.

“Where’s the girl?” His deep voiced boomed.

The motel owner starts writhing in pain, as the black and red mist starts to constrict her.

“I-I don’t know! They left without checking out!” She cries in pain.

“Who did you sell her out to?” He snarled.

“I didn’t!” She protested.

A black tendril wraps around her head and starts constricting. Her eyes going wide, looking like they’re about to burst from her skull.

“You all still think you can lie to me.”

The motel owner lets out a strained laugh.

“For the first time in years we have hope. You’ve been so distracted by this girl that you haven’t noticed what’s going on here anymore.”

Blood starts leaking out from her eyes and ears.

“The Woman is playing chess while you’re still stuck on checkers.” She laughs hysterically.

Her laugh turns into a scream as her head suddenly implodes. Fragments of skull, brain matter and blood spray on the wall.

“Boss, we’ve searched the surrounding area. You should come see this.” Kieran’s voice comes through on the earpiece.

“Checking out love.” He says to the decapitated motel owner’s body.

He catches up with Luke and Kieran who are standing just off the road in the dirt. Signs of a wanderer attack littered the ground and dead trees.

“Two sets of footprints in that direction but then they disappear once they’re back on the road.” Luke informs Sylus.

“Mephisto.”

Mephisto just caws and takes off into the sky, already knowing Sylus’ request.

You were within reach, he could feel it.

~

The sound of footsteps drag along the ground. Yours.

Xavier had one arm wrapped around you as you walk through the N109 Zone. You don’t know how long you two have been walking for.

Your mind was blank, broken from the mind games the wanderer tortured you with.

He didn’t say anything after your kiss. He just hugged you for a moment, letting you cry out the remainder of your emotions. Now you’ve got nothing left in you.

No fight. No will. Nothing.

Xavier’s tenderness to you over the last 48 hours has shown you just how messed up your life has been for the last few months with Sylus. And you detest yourself as one part of your heart still wants to go back. To run out of Xavier’s arms and find Sylus.

Xavier’s hand rubs up and down your shoulder. He could feel you tensing up.

“It’s okay.” He whispers.

Your body starts to tremble even more.

“I can’t go to Linkon with you..”

Xavier stops walking, his blue eyes searching your face. Trying to understand why you’re still so resistant.

“How many more things have to happen before you realise Linkon City is the safest place for you?”

You shake your head. “I need to find Sylus. He’s trying to help me get home.”

Xavier grazes the back of his fingers down your cheek.

“He’s manipulated you so much that you can’t see what he’s actually doing…” he frowns a little. “Sylus is a monster who does things for his own personal gain.”

You try to pull away but Xavier’s grip on you is too strong.

“No, it’s not like that. He’s not like that with me.” You keep trying to wriggle yourself free.

“Please Xavier, don’t take me to Linkon.” A dry sob escapes you.

Xavier looks at you with glassy eyes. “Forgive me.” He whispers.

“No. No, Xavier ?”

You feel a slight sting in the side of your neck. Your eyes glued to Xavier’s in shock before everything starts getting blurry. Your mind begins to turn off.

You slump in Xavier’s arms as the tranquilliser fully takes root. He pats the back of your head.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers to your unconscious body.

~ we’re getting knocked out a lot aren’t we y/n?

When you start to come to, something feels different. It’s as if your surroundings are bright while your eyes are still closed and you screw your eyes for a moment to go back to the familiar darkness.

Your head and body are laying on something soft and warm and it’s a struggle to want to open yours eyes but that damn light is forcing you to.

You still feel a bit woozy but you open your eyes taking in your surroundings, another bedroom. But it was so light and airy. A window which led to the balcony was open to let in a cool draft and natural light. You can hear the soft sounds of the city.

Once your head starts to feel like it isn’t spinning again you sit up in the bed. You can hear the sounds of someone rummaging around.

“Xavier?”

You hear footsteps from down the hall get louder.

Xavier appears with a glass of water in hand. He’s wearing jeans and a white hoodie.

He sits down next to you on the edge of the bed and holds the water out to you.

“Why?” Your voice hitched in your throat and you try to stop yourself from crying again.

“It was the only way.. I’m sorry.”

You bring your knees up to your chest and hug them. You look away from Xavier. Refusing his glass of water.

Xavier sighs and places the glass of water on the bed side table.

“Please try to drink it. It’ll make you feel better.” He stands up and starts making his way down the hall again, disappearing around the corner.

You stare out the open window, watching the curtains gracefully flap in the breeze. A little yellow and white bird perches itself on the balcony rail, tweeting a little song before flying off again.

What were you going to do now? How were you going to get word to Sylus that you’re in Linkon? Did you still want to let Sylus know? Was this truly the best place for you?

You feel a pain in your chest. If Xavier was going to help you he needs to know everything Sylus knows. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, a little wobbly on your feet but once you start walking you find your balance.

Xavier is sitting on his couch reading a comic book. An open packet of mini cookies in his lap. He’s so engrossed in the comic he doesn’t notice you standing in the living room.

You clear your throat. Xavier finally looks up. He gives you a soft smile and holds the packet of mini cookies up to you.

“Want some?”

You feel a small smile tug at your lips but you shake your head. “No I’m okay.”

“Okay.” He puts the packet on the coffee table and moves over to one side of the couch.

“Do you want to sit down with me?”

You nod and sit down next to Xavier on his couch. Trying not to encroach too much into his personal space. Xavier puts the comic down and looks at you.

“I want to tell you everything.” You whisper.

Xavier doesn’t say anything he just nods.

“I think you know I’m not from here. I’m from a world where none of this is real.” You shift a little.

“I mean all of this. Linkon, the N109 Zone, you, Sylus… in my world it’s all fiction. You’re mobile video game characters..” your cheeks turn a slight shade of pink. “For a dating game…”

You avoid Xavier’s gaze feeling too embarrassed to look at him but you continue talking.

“One day I found an injured baby crow outside my house. I patched him up and nursed him. When I was changing his bandages his eyes.. they started glowing.”

You bite your lip.

“Next thing I know a wormhole appears above me and I get sucked in. When I fell out of it I appeared inside of Sylus’ base.”

You finally get the courage to look at Xavier.

“So, the unknown protocores at this other wormhole site, I honestly have no idea. I don’t know why they’re there or what they have to do with me. Please believe me Xavier.”

Xavier looks away from your gaze his hand rubbing the back of his neck. Face flushed.

“So that’s how you know my name…”

“I.. it’s not as weird as it sounds I promise.”

Xavier glances back at you.

“I didn’t say that..”

A silence falls between you two as you stare each other red faced.

Xavier finally looks away.

“Is it okay, if I report this to my Captain?”

Honestly you’re shocked he’s even asking you. You assumed he’d tell her anyways but him asking for your consent.. it was actually kind of sexy.

Xavier served as a pretty good distraction to your mind over the next couple of weeks. You two had a nice routine going at his apartment. You cooked dinner and kept the apartment clean when he was at work.

He tried to add your fingerprint to his door lock but your finger print couldn’t be recognised. So, He went out of his way to change the locks and gave you a key.

Xavier let you sleep in his bed and he would sleep on the couch. You told him he shouldn’t have to do that but he insisted that he could sleep anywhere and get a good rest.

He even bought you a whole range of clothes and other personal hygiene necessities.

You could feel you two were getting closer, emotionally. Through gentle touches, if he was home early while you were making dinner he’d come up behind you and give you a back hug, resting his chin on your shoulder.

Sometimes you’d snuggle up to each other on the couch while watching a movie.

It was amazing. It really was.

But your heart still ached for Sylus.

Every day you’d go to that field with the cherry blossom trees. The one Sylus, despite it weakening him, laid down with you soaking up the sunlight.

You sit down in the field. Praying to yourself that Sylus will just know to come here and take you away with him.

But every day you’re there he doesn’t show up and the ache in your heart deepens. Did he forget about you? Were you no longer his problem?

You wipe a singular tear from your cheek and head to the shops to buy some snacks for Xavier.

When you get back to the apartment the smell of smoke tickles your nose, you rush to unlock the door worried you left something on.

You rush to the kitchen to see Xavier frantically moving around.

“Xavier? What are you doing?”

He put a pan that was smoking in his sink and ran cold water over it.

“I got home early and wanted to cook you something..” he looked at you embarrassed “but I fell asleep.”

You can’t help but burst out laughing. You walk up to Xavier and hold his face in your hands.

“You really don’t have to do anything like that, I’m your guest here, I need to earn my keep.” Your smile was wide.

He placed a hand on your hip as he held your gaze, that familiar pink glow across his cheeks. The small touch making your heart beat faster.

“Um..we better open the windows to let the smoke out..” you whisper.

Xavier nods and you go to all the windows and open them. Letting the cool breeze drift through out the house and clear out the burnt smell.

“Well lucky I bought some snacks.” You joked. “Do you wanna watch a movie while we’re eating them?”

“I’d love that.”

You move some pillows around on the couch, Xavier peeps into the shopping bags.

“These are my favourite..” he barely whispered.

“What was that Xav- huh?”

Xavier came up behind you and wrapped his arms around you, he nestled his face against the nape of your neck.

“Uh… Xavier?”

“You smell nice…”

You feel a knot in your stomach. What was with the sudden affection? Just when you think your cheeks couldn’t get any redder they do.

“Xavier… what are you..”

His grip loosens around you, “nothing.” He whispers, his breath against your neck sending tingles down your whole spine.

Xavier lets you go and flops himself onto the couch, holding an arm out.

“Gonna join me?”

You smile and cuddle up next to him. His arm around your shoulder holding you close to him.

He picks a movie but you don’t seem to be able to concentrate on it. In fact you’re more aware of how Xavier’s hand had slowly moved from your arm to your waist through out the movie.

How his fingers were drawing circles and lines going from your hip back to your waist.

How every time he chuckled whenever there was a funny part in the movie and eventually you found yourself looking away from the tv and just focusing on his beautiful face.

The way he licks his lips after eating a snack. You feel your own lips part slightly at the sight of it, a desire building in you to taste his lips.

You shake your head and force yourself to focus back on the movie.

The movie finishes and you untangle yourself from Xavier’s grip sitting up and stretching your arms.

“Did you not like the movie? You didn’t laugh once.”

You freeze, arms up in the air refusing to look back at him.

“Oh I guess I just had a few things on my mind.”

Xavier moves to the edge of the couch till his thighs are touching yours.

“Are you okay?” His palm rests on your lower back and the other hand rests on your thigh.

You pull your arms down and turn your head to look at him.

He has a look in his eyes, something you think you know but there’s no way right?

“I guess I’m just a bit tired..”

Your breath quickens as Xavier leans in closer to your face. His hand giving your thigh a gentle squeeze.

“Xavier…” you feel yourself leaning closer too, lips almost touching.

“I think I should go to bed..” you whisper.

Neither one of you move, Xavier swallows before gently nodding.

“Okay..” he whispers back. He stops touching you and sits back on the couch. “Thank you for the snacks.” He smiles at you but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“.. no problem.”

You quickly head to the bathroom, feeling like you need to have a nice cold shower.

You let the water fall down your body, head resting against the tiles. What are you doing? You can’t let yourself go there with Xavier, right? You two have a good thing going. Don’t ruin it! You tell yourself.

Once you’re dressed in your nightie you open the door and Xavier is standing outside the bathroom shirtless holding a towel.

“Oh sorry..”

“No, I’m sorry..” Xavier steps aside so you can pass.

You turn back to face him, holding your hands together in front you.

“Goodnight Xavier.”

He leans against the door to the bathroom and smiles. “Goodnight… darling.”

You blush at the pet name and hurriedly walk to the bedroom. Xavier’s eyes watching you the entire time.

You were lying in bed for hours, watching the shadows dance across the roof. Unable to sleep. Your mind only thinking about one thing. Xavier.

What’s the harm of giving into one kiss? You’ve shared one with him before and nothing happened.

You feel an ache that you can’t ignore growing inside…and in between your legs. Tossing and turning. You sit up in bed and stare down the hallway.

Okay, you’re going to do it.

You get out of bed and make your way to the living room. Just before you reach the end of the hall Xavier appears. His expression mirroring yours, his cheeks red.

You both close the distance between you and he wraps his arms around you lifting you up and kissing you. Your arms resting on his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair as you deepen the kiss.

His lips felt so soft against yours, your whole body felt warm from his touch. As if stars were bursting inside you.

You pull away, foreheads pressed together.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night.” Xavier admits, he playfully nudges his nose against yours.

“Xavier… I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

Xavier smiles and starts walking to the bedroom. He moves so effortlessly and gracefully while carrying you.

Once he gets to the bed he lays you down gently, a finger caressing your cheek for a moment. He looked beautiful in the soft glow of the moonlight.

He lays down next to you, on his side looking up and down your body. You turn over to face him.

Taking him in, his soft smile, his naked torso. His boxers sitting dangerously low on his hips.

You make eye contact with him again, your face flushed but so was he. You both having the same thoughts about each other.

“Xavier.” You whisper as you bring a hand to his face. Gently palming his cheek.

Xavier leans into your touch, his pink cheeks and nose making his eyes seem more blue somehow. He was gorgeous.

Xavier has already healed your mind… maybe he could heal your heart too?

He rests his hand on your hip giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I like having you here with me. You make me look forward to coming home." Xavier whispers.

"I like waiting for you." You admit.

Something flickers in Xavier's eyes, he leans over, gently forcing you to lay on your back again and presses himself on top of you now. You can feel his erection pressing up against your inner thigh and it makes your mouth go dry.

He kisses you again, a bit more aggressively than before. Both of your desires rising to the surface. Wanting to be set free.

You slip your tongue out and prod at his lip, he opens his mouth and accepts your tongue. Both of you fighting for dominance. His hands start exploring your body, wanting to feel every inch of you and commit it to his memory. Xavier starts leaving a trail of kisses along your jaw and down your neck. Nibbling and sucking in various spots, leaving his mark on you.

Tiny moans escape your mouth. His lips feel so good against your skin. Xavier pulls his head up for a moment to look at you.

"Are you sure?"

You nod your head. "Yes, so sure."

Xavier smiles as he sits back, pulling you up with him. His hands pull at the hem of your nightie and start lifting it up. You lift your arms up so it can slide easily off you. Xavier leans down and starts kissing your chest, working his way to take the fullness of your breasts in his mouth. His hand playing with the other breast, massaging, gently squeezing. His lips lock around your nipple, sucking, nibbling, swirling his tongue around to taste as much as possible.

Your hands tangle themselves in his hair, his soft blonde locks sending extra sensations through your fingers.

"Mm that feels good Xav..."

Your moan and compliment seems to spur him on as he starts to get more aggressive. His desire burning for you. He pushes you back down onto your back. The sudden movement sending a wave of excitement through you. His fingers hooks the waist band of your panties and he starts to shimmy them off you. You lift your hips off the bed to make it easier for him.

"You're so beautiful darling." He says as he starts kissing your hip.

You can feel the anticipation building in your stomach as he slowly inches closer to your center. Where its aching and just begging to be touched. You bite your lower lip, supressing your sounds of pleasure.

Xavier is hovering over your cunt, you can feel his breath on your mounds. "Don't hide that beautiful voice. I want to hear everything."

He drags his tongue in between your folds, getting the taste of you for the first time. It was intoxicating for him. You let out a moan as he goes back again, getting his tongue as deep as he can go inside your cunt. Wanting to feel your heat on his tongue, to taste your arousal. “Nng. Xavier..” you gasp out. He loves the way your body starts moving under him, wanting to grind up to his face, telling him that you want more. He starts to give your clit attention, which earns him more moans and more thrusting to his face. But he doesn’t give you more yet. No, he’s enjoying making you squirm, making you chase that friction that you’re so desperate for. Your legs start to tremble as you feel such an overwhelming stimulation on your clit and you haven’t even orgasmed yet.

“Xav.. please..” you beg.

You need to feel something inside you. To take the intensity away from your clit. His tongue was like magic. Xavier groans when he hears you begging and he almost wants to give in. He doubles down moving his whole face with his tongue. Adding a lot of pressure then taking it away.

You start to whimper, a pressure is building in your lower belly. Tears sting your eyes. You’re bucking your hips up a bit harder into his face now, so absolutely desperate to feel something other than the welcome assault of his tongue on your clit.

“Xavier.. please… fuck me.” Your whimper and moan.

God any resolve he had left was gone. He pulled away licking his lips. Xavier removed his boxers swiftly, his erection free at last. Precum leaking from the tip.

He lines himself up with your soaking wet pussy. Pressing the head in between your dripping folds. You bite your lip. Xavier lifts one of your legs to rest on his hip. His hand gripping just above your knee tightly. His blue eyes land on yours as he slowly inserts himself, his cheeks red. You don’t break eye contact with him as he slides in deeper, until he buries himself to the hilt.

“You feel incredible..” he gasps. Yours hands are on his shoulders, bringing him closer to you. Xavier rests his forehead against yours as he starts to slowly thrust. Getting used to the feeling of you around him.

Once he feels you relaxing he starts to go faster, bringing his cock almost all the way out and then slamming it back in. Your fingers nails are digging into his skin, but the pain just sends Xavier hungry for more. You’re moaning against his lips as he gets faster and harder, his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“M-more Xav..” you moan out. “Oh.. fuck darling…” Xavier responds.

He pauses to throw your legs over his shoulders and then resumes fucking into you. Your hands now gripping the bed sheets, knuckles turning white.

“Mm Xav… that feels good!” He brings a hand back to your clit, massaging it with his fingers while he jackhammers into you. You throw your head back in so much pleasure as you feel an orgasm approaching.

“Xavier.. I’m gonna..”

“Ah I know darling… you’re getting so.. tight..” His finds your sweet spot with his cock and drives into you. Until your moans are uncontrollable. Your hot, wet, plush walls squeeze around Xavier’s cock. And he struggles to hold on.

But then he feels you vibrate around him as you orgasm. The spasm driving him crazy and pushing him over the edge. You both cum together. Your combined groans and moans like music to his ears. Once he feels you relax he starts to pull out his spent cock. Shuddering as he does.

He puts your legs down and then collapses next to you. His chest rising and falling. Sweat glistens his face and body. His fringe stuck to his forehead. He turns his head to look at you and smiles seeing your satisfaction.

Xavier pulls you into his arms and kisses your forehead. “I could do this with you forever..”

within minutes he’s asleep. You chuckle to yourself as you get comfortable in his arms. Listening to the sound of his breathing. Letting it act as a lullaby to help you fall asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[sinner-sunflower]

P.2 HH Lucifer-centric AU 19/?

STORY 1, PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14, PART 14.5, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 20, PART 21, PART 22, PART 23, PART 24, PART 25, PART 26

Another reminder that not all chapters are happening in continuous days. Sometimes a week or a month go by but I'm not gonna say that every chapter lajsdlajl

We are channeling our inner Lucifer who has no concept of time and feeling like the days are blending in with one another.

A short but SIGNIFICANT chapter

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

Lucifer had never opened a portal so fast in his life. Hearing those outrageous words from Nifty made him sprung into action, not even caring that he's leaving Adam behind. He's pretty sure the guy will be fine even if he is bound within palace walls.

Maybe he should've asked Nifty to elaborate more because what the fuck does 'the sky is falling' mean?? But his daughter could be in danger so he'll figure it out there.

It was Charlie who calls for him as soon as he arrives.

Charlie: Dad!

Lucifer: Char-char! What's going on? I'm so sorry. Adam and I were busy and I put a ward on the palace and my phone was silent and why is Nifty saying the sky is falling?? Charlie-

Charlie: Dad! Just- come with me outside!

She all but drags him by the arm out the hotel doors to a sight he never thought he'd witness outside of Earth.

Lucifer: Wha- What in the unholy hell?

He feels breathless. It's horrifying but also.... so captivating.

From the heavens above, a cascade of meteors descended, their fiery tails of gold painting the skies of Hell. Each impact further damaged and eventually destroying the Pentagram barrier.

Screams ensue the moment the first meteor hits one part of Pride. Following that are continuous deafening crashes, the meteors struck with indiscriminate force, wreaking havoc on his denizens. Glass shattered, concrete crumbled, and chaos ensued as residents fled for safety, their once familiar surroundings now transformed into a scene of destruction.

One meteor veered off course, hurtling straight towards the hotel. Lucifer vaguely hears Charlie shouting for them to take cover and catches sight of Alastor putting up a shield for them.

He hears his daughter shout for him but he stays rooted in place as the object landed just a stone's throw away from where he stands.

When the dust clears, he feels himself freeze as amidst the rubble lay a figure, not of space rock, but an angel, a dead low ranking angel.

Now grounded in Hell and no longer have its majesty. It is mangled, burned, and broken.

Fallen.

Lucifer cannot speak as he keeps staring at the crumpled figure in front of him. Its once luminous wings now tattered and singed. He knows he should do something but what? His people are terrified and his city is getting the brunt of the mass Fall.

The King of Hell doesn't move when Charlie and the other sinners run to his side. He senses them freezing and someone vomiting (probably Vaggie-he can understand) because of the body. The angel bodywhatthe fuck-

Charlie: Vaggie! Dad!... why-what- is that an angel?!

Angel: Move, Vagina, I think I'm gonna be sick too.

Cherri: Way ahead of ya, Angie.

Husk is rubbing circles on Angel's back as the spider pukes out the his lunch. He wants to comfort Angel fully but he's all too distracted by the dead angel on the ground.

Alastor moves closer to poke the body, bringing his blood soaked finger to his mouth to taste.

Alastor: How peculiar....

Lucifer had barely begun to grasp the gravity of the situation when he felt something wet hit his face. He slowly reached up to the spot, fingers coming away coated in a golden substance. Confusion were written in their faces as they look back up as the liquid began to pour from the sky like rain.

His ears begun to feel like he's underwater- screams and choking sounds echoed throughout his city as the thick gold coats every single corner of Pride.

'No.'

He whispered, the realization hitting him like a delayed blow. As the metallic scent finally reached his nose, he collapsed to all fours, unable to stop his own gagging. He knew what this was, but he refuse to believe it.

'This can't be real.'

He could sense Vaggie in a similar state nearby, both of them struggling to breathe and think because this is angel blood.

Lucifer falls face first on the wet ground that's shimmering gold to the endless distance. He passes out from the smell before he knows it.

Heaven is falling.

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

I feel like this is not what yall expected to happen as the beginning of the final arc.

A Supernatural reference? In 2024?

The blood rain is also inspired by that one quadrant in the 2nd Hunger Games movie. Because I, too, would gag and probably choke on my own vomit if I was suddenly rained on by human blood, or any blood for that matter.

We're finally getting there.

Let me know what you guys think so far!

[guillotinesandroses]

Blemished By Life; Tokyo Revengers Reader Insert Masterlist

WARNINGS; Blood, injuries, gore, mental illness, night terrors, self-destructive tendencies, suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, suicide, guns, sharp weapons, unhealthy relationship dynamics, canon typical violence and themes

8/45 Completed

Chapter 1 - Indigo Velvet Skies

Chapter 2 - Pitch Black Stare

Chapter 3 - Blood Red Lips

Chapter 4 - Gentle Lilac Eyes

Chapter 5 - Hazy Amber Irises

Chapter 6 - Pearl White Snow

Chapter 7 - Dried Bone Yellow

Chapter 8 - Dark Silk Hair

Chapter 9 - Purple Old Wounds

Chapter 10 - Chartreuse Running Shoes

Chapter 11 - See Through Tears

Chapter 12 - Zealously Carried Cross

Chapter 13 - Gold Coloured Buttons

Chapter 14 - Wine Red Victory

Chapter 15 - Birds And Blues

Chapter 16 - Silver Shaded Weapon

Chapter 17 - Dull Monday Grey

Chapter 18 - Apple Green Beginnings

Chapter 19 - Crimson Clad Monsters

Chapter 20 - Never Same Saffron

Chapter 21 - Painted Blue Festivities

Chapter 22 - Obsidian Black Gratitude

Chapter 23 - Concerning Development Gilded

Chapter 24 - Paranoia Laced Navy

Chapter 25 - Broken Nose Garnet

Chapter 26 - Rainy Day Teal

Chapter 27 - Bittersweet Reconsiliation Jade

Chapter 28 - New Conflict Scarlet

Chapter 29 - Blaring Ruby Flags

Chapter 30 - Amethyst of Love

Chapter 31 - Bright Christmas Stars

Chapter 32 - New Year Tin

Chapter 33 - The White Charcoal

Chapter 34 - Run, My Lavender

Chapter 35 - Ever Blooming Daffodils

Chapter 36 - The Black Snowflakes

Chapter 37 - Ashen False Hope

Chapter 38 - Burgundy For Liars

Chapter 39 - White Oleander Leaves

Chapter 40 - Returning Red Lips

Chapter 41 - Wine For Nostalgia

Chapter 42 - Shattered Dream Slate

Chapter 43 - Newfound Resolve Blue

Chapter 44 - Graphite Grey End

Chapter 45 - Punch Pink Beginning

[foxblood]

The Threads of Memory VI - Unmasking

Editor's Log 5/24/25 - More gore in this chapter now - Made some changes to names - More scenes w/ Velim's family

TW: blood/gore, surgical gore, minor self-mutilation, non-consensual drugging, kidnapping, captivity

1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25/26/27/28/29/30

Gale slammed the desk drawer, then kicked the table leg.  Mystra’s statue teetered towards the precipice.  Tara tried to will it the last millimeter over the edge, but the goddess stood firm.  Gale cursed at his stubbed toe and tore his coat off the rack.

“Mr. Dekarios, slow down,” she huffed, trotting up beside him. 

He yanked his boots on.  “There’s no time, Tara,” he massaged his chest, the ache of the orb more present than ever.  His stomach growled too, but he ignored it and Tara’s protestations as he hurried out the door.

Tara dogged his steps.  “Mr. Dekarios, it will kill neither you nor Velim to take care of yourself.  They would not want you running yourself ragged on their account.”

“They’re a doctor, Tara, they would have to say that,” he lengthened his stride, “Gods, if I just walked them home when they asked.”

Tara sprang from the ground.  Gale lurched forward as she landed on his shoulders and made new runs in his coat.  She anchored her claws in the fabric and hunkered down, ears pinned back.  “Velim would mean it,” she insisted.

“Tara, please.” Gale considered brushing her off.

“Gale, please,” she hissed back.

“Come with me if you must, but we cannot waste time,” Gale pinched the bridge of his nose and forced a deep breath into his lungs, pushing the orb back.

Tara kneaded his shoulder.  “I’ll make another loop of the Sea Ward.  Promise me you’ll eat when you return?”

Gale released the breath in a truncated sigh, misting in the cold air.  “I promise.”

“Very well, Mr. Dekarios.”  He winced as Tara flushed off his shoulder, her wings ruffling his hair.

The townhouse door swung open before Gale could knock.  The kobold saluted him, dropping the rope she used to reach the doorknob.  “Jada saw you coming!”

A violet tiefling made a beeline down the hallway and Jada scrambled out of his way.  He glared at Gale, dark red eyes suspicious in the way that teenagers are of most adults.  “You Gale?”

“Yes it’s a pleasure to --” Gale attempted a greeting.

“Come on,” the tiefling cocked his head down the hallway and slammed the door behind Gale, “don’t bother taking your shoes off.”

Gale hesitated to step on the carpet, but the muddy footsteps tracked up and down the hall indicated that the floors were the least of this family’s worries at the moment.

Jada tugged at his coat when he waited too long. “Velim’s wizard should hurry.” 

Helena held up her finger when Jada ran up to her, and Jada bounced from foot to foot waiting for her to finish her hushed conversation with one of her older children -- a human girl, maybe 15.  The human girl looked Gale up and down as she passed, flipping her box braids over her shoulder as she passed him by.  Helena smoothed the plaits in her graying beard.

“Velim’s wizard is here!” Jada chirped.

“She can see that, Jada.” The tiefling scowled down at her.  Jada stuck her forked tongue out at him.

Helena shook Gale’s hand, her palm warm and grip stone-solid.  “Mr. Dekarios, a pleasure to finally meet you.  I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Like a wedding!” Jada chirped, and the tiefling shushed her.

Helena cleared her throat.  “You’ve met Jada.  This is my son, Garus.  Kitty has been running messages to Georgie all day,” she gestured after the human girl, “Have you met Georgie?”

The barrage of names left Gale’s head spinning.  “Is Georgie another one of your children?”

Helena shook her head.  “No, no, Georgie is Velim’s fledgeling.  She’s working with Harold on the council to find a man named Unger the Gold.  Did Velim tell you why they were on leave?”

“Yes, they mentioned Unger the Gold in passing once or twice,” Gale said, “I have my tressym doing flyovers of the city, in case they’re out and about.”

Helena shook her head.  “Oh dear, Velim doesn’t vanish like this on a whim.  Your tressym isn’t likely to find them.”

Gale’s chest spasmed, pins and needles running up his arms.  He excused himself and sat down.

“Are you well, Mr. Dekarios?” Helena asked, thick brows knitting together.

“Yes, fine,” Gale choked out, “please continue.  How may I help?”

Helena looked at him skeptically.  “I understand you’re tenured at Blackstaff Research Institute?”

“I am.”

Helena produced a Vulture’s badge from her pocket, four black stars marking over a decade of service.  “Jada found this in the grass beneath Blackstaff Academy.”

Gale studied the badge, his heart dropping.  “I’ll ask around, but I don’t know what they’d be doing there.”

Velim reached inside their open chest cavity, hooking the blade of their scalpel beneath the aorta and slicing through with a hollow pop.  Their heart slipped free of the pericardium and into their hand, sputtering blood onto Gale’s pale skin.  They held the organ out and let it drop from their palm and into the maw of his chest.  Gale’s face twisted in pain as the teeth ground their heart to slivers.

“We’re gonna run out of ether at this rate,” Unger’s voice grated.

“Looks like someone’s tried to get at it’s heart before,” a woman said.

Velim bit down on the gag, gasping around the sweet chemical stench of ether.  Their vision swam, eyelids heavy.  They lolled their head aside to see their captors better and the echo of pain radiated up their neck.  The needle snapped off in their throat, a gush of blood splashed hot then cold on their bare skin.

“Awake again.”  Another voice, one Velim recognized but couldn’t place.  Like Unger’s, but softer.  

A hand grabbed Velim’s hair and wrenched their head back.  They choked on the flood of ether soaking the gag, their lungs and throat burning.  The skin around their mouth cracked and bled.

The maw yawned.  Velim wrapped their finger around the back of their pulmonary artery, the pain coming half a second after they sliced their finger on the way through the rubbery resistance of the vein.  They tipped their heart off their bleeding hand and into the mouth again.

“I don’t mean to cause you pain,” the maw said.

Pain is just pain, Velim tried to say, but heard only the wet inflation of their lungs.

“We have opium,” suggested the woman.

Velim’s eyelids fluttered, searching for the sound of her voice.  The leather straps firm on their upturned hands strained against the weak twitch of their limbs.  Their back ached like they’d been skinned.  They winced as Unger plucked off another scale.

“Couldn’t spare opium for me,” he grunted.  His legs clanked on the polished tile.

We had no opium, they wanted to say.  The gag still stank of ether, burning their eyes and tearing down their raw throat.

“Try this,” the voice that was Unger’s but softer said.  Velim couldn’t see what he held up, but felt the slice of a scalpel in their arm and rough fingers pushing a hard seed beneath their skin.  They whimpered.

Unger ripped out another scale and laughed when their body twitched.

They cut the inferior vena cava and fed their heart to the seething black void in the middle of the room.  It floated off their hand, coaxed forth on black tendrils that blackened the muscle.  Their claws cracked and crumbled away to ash.  The scales peeled back, the skin beneath blackening and muscle withering.  The bones of their hands charred, each fragment drawn into the void.  It smelled of afterbirth and vinegar.

Gale put his head down.  No trace of Velim but their badge in the grass beneath the infirmary.  His head pounded, the ache in his chest demanded attention.  Security checked the watching eye on the bridge, the wards on the doors, no sign of Velim or anyone else that night. He found himself walking the Sea Ward, and almost didn’t recognize the stairwell or the worn wooden sign for Lonzok’s Arcane Supply.  He opened the door, the familiar warmth of magic and incense greeting him.  

Lonzok looked up from the bookshelf he was stocking, his spectacles shining strangely in the gray daylight filtering in through small windows set high in the wall.  “Surprised to see you in the daylight,” he grunted, “in for the usual?”

Gale sighed.  “Yes.  No time for browsing today, I’m afraid.”

Lonzok presented the tray to Gale.  It rattled with its usual selection of odd trinkets.  Gale looked at the offerings, each a pittance for the waxing hunger of the orb.

“Do you have anything… more?” Gale asked, “something with a greater charge.”

Lonzok smiled knowingly and tucked the tray away.  “As a matter of fact, I do.  Came into it not long ago.”

Gale leaned in.  “What do you have?”

“If it’s concentrated magic you need, I can get you a pint or two of black dragon blood.  The genuine stuff, not some swill from a caged dragonling.  Fresh from the source, it’s potent if you know how to process it for extraction.  I’d cut a deal for a repeat customer,” Lonzok explained, setting a vial of blood on the desk.  

The orb lurched for the viscous red-black liquid.  Gale picked up the vial.  The orb throbbed, hungry.

“That’s already purified,” Lonzok explained, “fresh from the living beast.”

Gale felt the power of it, the weave primed for extraction.  The orb lashed.  Gale considered the things in his tower he hadn’t yet sold -- ancient tomes, the statuette of Mystra, the artifacts and trinkets he couldn’t bear to be rid of.  Dragon blood of this potency may silence the orb for a month, time enough to search for Velim unimpeded.

“Very well,” Gale conceded to the hunger, “let us deal.”

Dim light filtered through the slats between the boards of the crate.  Splinters dug into Velim where the wood wore their raw skin ragged.  They ached like a bug shoved in a box.  They willed their leaden limbs to move.  Their right arm throbbed numbly where Lonzok drove the seed beneath their skin.  The sutures pulled tight, professionally done.  The woman must be a surgeon, whoever she is.

Gods, they put some faith in that thing, Velim thought as they tested the flimsy hempen binds on their wrists and feet.  The cloth gag still stunk of ether, stinging the cracking skin of their lips.  Magic buzzed discordantly outside the thin barrier of wood. The moans of another trapped creature echoed forlornly.  A storehouse or a warehouse, not the place with the operating table.

Acid dripped from their claws and onto the rope.  Sulfurous smoke billowed up from the burning fiber.  They winced at the heat on their scoured skin as acid pooled on the floor of the crate.  Sulfur fumes choked Velim’s senses as the wood beneath them eroded.  They closed their eyes against the sting and woke again with a gasp that ravaged their scorched throat and sent them into a coughing fit.  The ripped the gag out of their mouth and retched.

Heartbeat loud in their ears, they ran their hands over the rough floor of the crate until their claws caught in the deep gouges the acid left behind.  Another dose of sedative coursed through their body in response to their adrenaline, dragging them back under.  Velim focused on the creaking pain in their shoulders and shifted their weight against the side of the crate until it tipped over and they crashed into the floor, unconscious.

The creature moaned again, morose at the sound of the padlock on the heavy door clicking open.  Velim’s arms buckled as they tried to push themself out of the twisted position they’d fallen into.  It clicked and howled in indignation, drowning out the clanking footsteps approaching Velim’s crate.

The storehouse sat third in a row of identical boxy brick structures set back from the docks on the Sea Ward and invisible in the hustle and bustle of ships and sailors.  The steel service door was locked with a padlock that whirred with wards Gale felt over the hot seething of the orb in his chest.  The keeper, a tall elven woman, grunted with the effort of turning the key.  A series of locks tripped inside, clicking in the static silence of sleet pattering on the ground.

She hauled the door open, putting her full weight against it to get it moving.  The swing of the door passed over four wards carved into the concrete floor, each glowing in turn as they activated.

“Quite the advanced security system you have there,” Gale commented in an effort to fill space, “the circuit goes all the way around the structure of the building?”

“You'd have to ask Lonzok.” The keeper held the door for him.

Gale peered down the long brick side of the building until the keeper gently nudged him inside.  The trilling of the manticore caged on the far wall drowned out the sound of sleet on the roof.  It paced, howling at them through the narrow slots between bars and working a single large claw through like a cat pawing at the crack beneath a door.

“Don’t worry about Milo,” she nodded at the beast, “we're holding her for a menagerie.  She's loud, but pretty girl wouldn't hurt a fly.”

Gale lowered his voice, doubting her assurances.  “What a treasure trove this place must be, have you worked for Lonzok long?”

She nodded. “Old School friends, he calls on me when he has a beast he needs kept down.”  She stopped at a wobbly wooden table and simple chair with a heavy leather coat draped over the back and picked up the pry bar leaned against it.

Gale stared at the coat.  Even in the dim warehouse, it seemed familiar.  The wear on the shoulders and cuffed sleeves nagged at his mind.  He looked at the coat, and at the tall woman.  “Are you working with a Vulture?”

“That’s mine,” Unger clanked out of the stacks of crates.  He crossed his arms, his brass legs shining, “took you long enough.”

“And you are?” Gale held out his hand. 

“Unger the Gold,” Unger crushed Gale’s hand in his grip.  He sniffed, his crooked nose twitching, “used to be a Vulture.”

The coat still bothered him, and he stared at the oilcloth hood until his guts dropped into the void. “It’s a bit small for you.”

“You callin’ me fat, wizard?” Unger scowled, then laughed and slapped Gale's back, “I'm kiddin’.  Let's get set up.  And just so you know: it looks like a person, but it ain't.  You seen the product for yourself already, so you know.”

“Come on, Unger, while the sedative still works.” The keeper handed him the prybar.

Unger approached a crate, askew from the others surrounding it.  As he wedged the prybar beneath the top, the crate exploded with a thunderous crack that sent the broad man flying into a wooden barrel. It split open, spilling a viscous silvery black substance over his head.  Unger wiped at the oil clinging to his face.

Gale covered himself against the hail of splinters that rained from the shattered crate.  He blinked the dust out of his eyes and grabbed the Vulture’s coat, holding it up like a shield as the dragon uncoiled from the crate and fell on Unger.

Unger’s body convulsed as Velim’s weight knocked the wind from him.  They snarled with jagged teeth, a screech rolling from their ragged throat.  Unger thrashed, but the acid dripping off Velim’s claws sizzled in the mechanisms of his brass legs and they seized.  The stench of burning flesh filled the room as they dug their fingers into his throat, the tissue coming away in strings of charred flesh. 

The keeper readied a spell, but Velim flung their’s faster.  A flash of green streaked between rows of crates, and the keeper screamed as her face melted away.  She pawed at her curdling flesh before falling. 

Velim staggered back from Unger’s body and collapsed.  The concrete floor leached what remained of the warmth from their body.  The sudden brightness from the lantern on the table drove a blade of nausea into their stomach, and they hissed as they leaned heavily on a nail lodged in a shard of wood.  The nail pierced their right palm, and they yanked it out as they forced themself to their knees.  The room spun and their hand throbbed dully, the sedative blunting the pain as another dose surged into their bloodstream.  They gripped the wood shard like an anchor, spine curling over and pressing their forehead to the cold concrete.

Velim braced their right arm against the floor.  Their vision resolved on the neat stitches between quills and scabs, and they drove the nail beneath them.  Blood welled up and obscured the site, but they continued levering the nail up until the sutures broke.  The sedative numbed the pain as they clawed for the little metallic seed and ripped it out of their skin.  They shook it off their claw and it made a hard little splat on the floor in the moment before they finally doubled over and vomited stomach acid onto the concrete.

“Gods, Velim!” 

The sound of their name pierced through the nausea and they rose on their knees as footsteps approached them, meeting the voice with a clumsy lash and wordless snarl that connected weakly with the stranger's shoulder.  The familiar voice yelled as Velim doubled over again and a violet woolen coat dropped to the ground, an acid burn eating away at the sleeve.  They blinked hard against the onslaught of the sedative, but their muscles went rubbery despite their resistance.  Heavy fabric settled over their bare back, pushing them further into the concrete.

Warm hands held them steady, their leaden head lolling back.  The stranger pulled the coat around their shoulders.  Their coat, they knew it by the smell of the beeswax they sealed the leather with, deadening the sharpness of sweat and blood clinging to their body.  He cradled their face, pushing mats of hair out of their eyes.

“Velim, can you hear me?” Gale asked, his voice low.  The manticore howled at the commotion.

Velim grimaced at his question, flashing their teeth.  Gale thought they might try to bite him, but they just lurched forward into his shoulder.  He cradled their head against his heart, their body shivering.

“That’s alright, just listen to the sound of my voice,” Gale’s heart slammed against his chest.  The orb reached out for them, caressing their face with burning filaments of weave.  He could have them.  Right now, drain them away to nothing and feed the orb a piece of Tiamat so powerful, a meal so satisfying, that it might not bother him for the remainder of his natural life.

The thought arrived so quickly and so selfishly that a knife twisting between his ribs may have been less painful.  He pulled Velim closer.

“I’ve got you,” Gale counted the steps he’d taken around the building, how many steps to the intersection closest to his mother’s house, “just hold on to me, I’ll get you out of here.”

“Please don’t…” Velim stammered, their voice giving out to ragged breathing.

“I won’t -- I-I’m --” Gale checked his calculations one more time, “I've got you.  Just hold on, I’m getting us out of here.” He adjusted his grip, hooking his arm around their waist and adjusting their arms over his shoulders.  They held onto his neck, the tips of their filed claws grazing his shoulders.

“Complicare viam,” he spoke, the words becoming truth in a gust of cold wind.  

Sleet dripped down the back of his shirt and melted on Velim’s hair.  He held them until the vertigo of traversing dimensions subsided, then hauled them to their feet.  They stumbled, knees buckling beneath their own weight.  Gale propped them against the wall of the alley to button their coat and pull up their hood.  He thanked the gods that the scabby black skin on Velim’s legs looked like boots in the dark.

Velim blinked up at the cloudy sky, letting Gale ease their arms through the sleeves of their coat.  He took their weight again, stooping so Velim could rest their arm across his shoulders.  They struggled to lift their legs, each step half-dragging through the mud until they found a stumbling rhythm with Gale pushing them forward.  

“Almost there,” Gale panted as they turned the corner into his mother's neighborhood.  The gas streetlamps flickered eerily off the sleet melting into the gutters.

Velim’s knees buckled as they lost consciousness, bringing them both down in the cold street.  Velim blinked back awake with a low groan, ice chilling their skin.  Gale glanced down the street at his mother’s stoop, just a half block away.  The orb throbbed in his chest, still reaching for the dragon in his arms. 

“Not far now,” Gale pushed wet hair out of Velim’s eyes, “I’m going to carry you.”

Velim nodded, letting Gale sweep his arm beneath their knees.  He staggered back to his feet and shifted their weight against his chest, each step fell forward harder than the last until he reached the short staircase leading to his mother’s stoop.  He braced himself for the final exertion, breath wheezing through his teeth, and surged to the top of the stairs where he let Velim down gently, holding them until they found their feet again.  Once he was sure they wouldn’t fall, he reached for the knocker and slammed it against the door until someone answered.

“What?” Charrel’s anger dropped away as she took in the scene on the front step.  Her long ears fell slack in surprise as the frustration that had rocketed her out of bed dissipated in a cloud of inert steam. “By the Gods, Mr. Dekarios,” was all she could manage in a small voice.

“Prepare a room and wake my mother, it’s an emergency.” Gale mustered his most authoritative voice, but Charrel was already helping him drag Velim across the threshold and lower them down on a bench in the foyer.

Velim traced the designs carved in the velvet upholstery, watching Charrel and Gale bicker.  Gale locked the front door, then warded it, and stormed up the stairs past Charrel yelling for his mother.  The commotion faded into footsteps above them.  The feeling came back to their toes with a prickling sensation.  Their arm and hand throbbed.

Gale and Charrel rushed back down the stairs, and Velim’s stomach churned as they were hoisted to their feet and carried up the stairs.  The patterns in the wallpaper morphed, birds stretching their feathers and turning to watch Velim pass by.  Gale and Charrel carried them into a bedroom lit with the low glow of an oil lamp on the desk and set them on the desk chair.

“Get out,” Charrel demanded of Gale.

“Get out?  What do you mean ‘get out’?” Gale’s voice didn’t rise above a harsh whisper, but his grip on Velim tightened.

“I mean what I say, Mr. Dekarios, now get out and let your friend some modesty,” she hissed, but her hands were gentle in prying Velim away.

Velim noticed the callouses on her fingertips as she eased them onto the bed, and thought dimly that she must play some kind of string instrument.  Gale’s vigor dissipated as he released them, holding their hand.  They left a smudge of blood behind on his palm as they finally slipped free of his grasp.

“Gale,” Morena lingered in the door in her housecoat.  Beside her, Delores and Dorothea blinked sleepily through curtains of curly brown hair mussed from sleep.  

Gale hurried out of the room and closed the door behind him so Del and Dot couldn’t see inside.  

Dot blinked up at him, her stormy gray eyes narrowed suspiciously as she pulled her curls back into a messy bun.  “Who’s that?”

“Is that who the matchmaker set him up with?” Del asked through a yawn.  She wiped the tears out of her cloudy eyes.

“Go back to your rooms,” Morena said through her teeth.

Her daughters looked at her skeptically, but both turned back on Gale in their own time.

“Go back to bed, it’s none of your concern,” Gale snapped.

Del blinked, full awake.  She ran her hand through her hair, but it fell back into place.  “What’s none of my concern?  Don’t you have your own tower to bring your dates back to, or would you rather spend the night in your childhood bedroom?”

“Delores,” Morena snarled.

Del matched Gale’s confrontational stare.  Dot grabbed her sister’s arm and dragged her back to her bedroom.  She waved to Gale as she slipped back into her own bedroom across the hall and closed the door.  Morena walked past Gale, gesturing him towards the sitting room.  She pinched the bridge of her nose.  Gale followed, shoulders slumping under his mother's scrutiny.

Morena sat in her rocking chair and folded her hands in her lap.  Gale sat on the long sofa across from her, avoiding her stern gaze.

“Gale, would you like to tell me what happened?” She asked, her voice measured.

Gale shrunk, his body responding to a tone of voice he had known before his feet reached the floor from the couch he was sitting on.  He gripped the brocade upholstery and blinked back tears.  When the onslaught didn’t stop, he buried his face in his hands.  His mother waited.

When Gale looked back into his mother’s stone eyes, the words spilled from him in an unstoppable tide.  He stared at the blood smear on his hand as he told his mother about his search for Velim and what he intended to do with the dragon.  He covered the aching black scars beside his eye when he explained the reason for his drastic measures.  He sobbed outright when he begged her forgiveness for all the time he’d been gone.  He was still crying when Morena sat down beside her son.  She rubbed his back and leaned against his shoulder, humming a soft lullaby beside him until he stopped sobbing.

The throbbing in Velim’s arm woke them.  They rolled over and covered it with their palm, pressing down on the flimsy bandage until the scab slipped.  Daylight streamed through the gaps in the curtains.  Velim squeezed their eyes shut against the light until the stinging pain drove them out of bed.  They leaned on the wall, picking up their coat from the back of the desk chair on their way to the bathroom, and closed the door behind them.

The water inside the tub steamed, the washbasin full of clean water.  Some kind soul whose face they couldn’t recall left fresh clothes and towels on the table beside the bathtub.  They dug for the bag of holding sewn into the lining of their coat and removed their surgery kit and a roll of gauze, dropped it on the table, and peeled away the stained bandages.  They dunked their wounded hand and forearm into the washbasin and scrubbed with soap until both injuries were red and raw, then studied them.

One all the way through puncture and one gash too open to stitch up.  They turned their hand over and flexed it where the nail had pierced their palm, matching the two holes dorsal and palmar.  They tested the movement, touching each fingertip to their thumb in turn.  It ached when they moved, but like a bruise and not a ruptured tendon.  When they turned their forearm over, some of the quills sat at odd angles.  They opened their surgery kit and picked out a set of forceps and one of the clean towels, then leaned their forearm on the table and plucked off the skewed quills.  They blotted at the blood welling up from the base.

They stripped the night dress and clambered into the tub.  Their body ached in the hot water, and slipped under the surface and let the world go thick and quiet until their lungs burned for air.  When they surfaced, their fingers were wrinkled.  They combed out their hair and washed the blood and sweat from it, soap clouding the water.  When the water cooled, they stepped out and scrubbed until the raw skin bled from the pinprick scabs where the scales were plucked.

They reveled in the feel of clean clothes and properly tightened bandages, the shirt supple from years of wear but missing the tie so it sat wide over their collarbones and left the scars down their chest plainly visible.  They held the collar closed as they approached the bedroom door and paused to listen for strangers in the hallway.

“Oh, good!  You’re awake,” Tara exclaimed, emerging halfway through a porthole above the wardrobe.

Velim startled back into the bed, knocking their already aching legs on the bedpost.

“Oh, my apologies,” Tara sat primly on top of the wardrobe, “I should have announced myself.  In any case, no need to listen for danger.  Morena sent the girls away this morning, and Gale received his scolding last night.  It’s only myself, Mrs. Dekarios, and dear Charrel.  Mrs. Dekarios sent me up to check on you.”

“Where is Gale?” Velim asked, rubbing their aching shin.

“Taking urgent meetings with his colleagues at Blackstaff,” Tara explained, “he’s been making calls since before dawn, I expect he should return past lunchtime.”

“I see,” Velim fussed with the fresh bandages on their arm.

“Fear not, doctor, I’ve been keeping vigil since I heard.  No ruffian is getting through that window without a good deal of scorching,” she flicked her tail at the closed curtains, “Mrs. Dekarios is expecting lunch downstairs.  I would appreciate it if you joined us.”

Tara disappeared back through the porthole and Velim heard her soft landing on the hallway carpet.  Velim followed Tara’s flagging tail down the hall until she vanished around the curve of the main staircase and left them alone on the landing.  Velim hesitated, tracing the carpet runner down the sun-dappled stairway -- much like the stairway in the Hazelight home, with windows set into the eaves letting the light in.  The stairs Everon chased them up with a kitchen knife.  They were whipped for it when they got the knife from him and chased him back down and into the arms of his waiting mother.  The chill of her hateful glare waited just around the corner.

Velim ignored the way their stomach clenched and took it one stair at a time until their hand passed into a sunbeam on the railing.  Their remaining scales flashed, inky black and glossy.  They pulled their hand away as though the gentle warmth burned and crossed their arms tight across their chest as they turned on their heel and walked quickly back to the bedroom.

The door clicked closed.  Velim sucked in deep, hungry breaths while their heart slammed against their ribcage.  They blinked back tears, and repeated against the tight wall of their throat, “I’m safe.  No one is going to hurt me here.”

The panicked animal at the back of their mind railed against them with worst-case scenarios.  They looked for a place to hide, some dark and tight corner of the room, and found the nook between the bed and the far wall.  Their head swam, body swamped by hyperventilation and the aching twitch in their fingers threatening to throw open the windows and jump out.  

Velim staggered into the corner and curled up, digging their claws into their knees and focusing on the pinpoint pressure on the joints.  Panic hammered at their defenses, tremors climbing up their spine.  Hot tears ran down their face, tracing odd patterns between the scales on their cheekbones.  They sucked in deliberately slow, stuttering breaths through their clenched teeth.

“Oh dear,” Tara mewed from her perch on the wardrobe.  She sighed and shook out her wings with a soft rustle, then left again.  She landed softly in the hallway.

Velim’s heart was just beginning to slow when Tara returned, gliding off the dresser and trotting up to rub against Velim’s knees.  Velim peeled their claws off their legs and scratched behind her ears.

“Doctor, I’ve arranged for lunch to come to you,” she explained.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in, Mrs. Dekarios,” Tara called.

Velim’s hand stilled, their body freezing tight.  

Tara pushed her head up into their hand.  “You’re okay, Doctor.  Morena already knows, and I’m afraid this conversation must occur while Mr. Dekarios is still out making his calls.  And besides that, we really must get some food in you.”

Morena set the serving tray down on the desk, the smell of hot coffee mixing with her rose perfume.  She pulled out the chair and sat across from Velim, taking her own cup of tea from the tray and sipping it.

“Gale tells me you prefer coffee, Charrel brewed it with cloves and ginger for their warming properties,” Morena said, studying the tea leaves drifting to the bottom of her cup, “she insisted I tell you that.”

Velim pressed their thumb into their injured palm, still stiff and cold despite the hot bath and now clammy with panic.  They swallowed the fear in their throat.  “That’s kind of her.”

Morena waited.  Velim felt her eyes on them, studying their loose hair and the pattern of scabs on their arms.  The scrutiny sent their heart hammering again.  The frigid hatred of Ulana Hazelight haunted the chair Morena currently occupied, as though she was hanging over Morena’s shoulder with her chestnut hair pulled back in a tight weave of braids and whispering all their horrid actions into her ear.

Tara leaned against their knees, but they made no move to pet her.  The shade of Ulana Hazelight froze them in place, but she dissipated as Morena got up from the chair and took a seat on the unmade bed beside Velim.  She leaned down and offered Velim a handkerchief.  

Velim flinched at the movement.  They wiped their eyes and blew their nose, then balled the handkerchief up in their palm.  “Thank you.”

Morena sat herself on the bench at the foot of the bed, adjusting her skirts and pulling her embroidery project from her pocket.  She hummed quietly as she worked the needle through.

Velim’s heart calmed and they unwound themself from the corner.  They leaned against the wall until they found their balance, then relocated to the desk chair and picked up the coffee, warming their hands on the mug.  The warm drink settled their stomach enough for them to realize how ravenous they were.  Morena continued her embroidery.

“I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.” Velim balanced the fork on the empty plate.

Tara jumped into their lap with a huff and balanced herself in an indignant loaf on their knees.  “Far more trouble had you died, Doctor.  Do you have any idea what kind of state Gale was in when you didn’t arrive for dinner?”

“I’m sorry for that, too, then,” Velim sighed.

“Are you done?” Morena asked without looking up.

Velim watched out the crack between the curtains at the empty courtyard below.  “Yes.”

“Come sit, please.” Morena moved to one side of the bench and patted the empty seat beside her.

Velim sat, crossing their arms across their chest as though they would stop being a dragon if they just hid enough of the evidence from sight.  Tara had enough of that, though, and followed them from the desk chair to the bench.  She settled in Velim’s lap, pushing under their folded arms until they reluctantly extracted a hand to pet her.

“Thank you for bringing Gale back,” Morena said, her stern face drawn, “last night, he came home for the first time in more than a year.  I am grateful to you, and glad to finally meet you, although I wish the conditions were within your control.”

Velim traced the timeline in their mind.  One year previous Gale had his run-in with the Netherese magic, and then vanished from public life.  They wondered if he had to take desperate measures to control the parasite from the beginning.  

When Morena noticed that Velim was lost in thought, she continued with a small smile, “Gale is working to secure another option for disguise.  Until then, we will keep the blinds drawn.  You may stay here for as long as you like, but I believe it would be best for both of you to leave the city while the investigation runs its course.  I can only turn away your visitors so long.”

“He hoped he would return in time for lunch,” Tara sighed, “I always tell him that bureaucracy takes time.  When Mr. Dekarios hurried out the door this morning, he was so hopeful that he would return and prepare breakfast before you woke.”

Velim smiled at that.  “He knows he doesn’t owe me for dinner, doesn’t he?”

“Oh please,” Tara scoffed, “he talks about repaying the favor all the time.”

“Has Gale told you much about us?” Morena asked.

Velim began to relax, the tension easing out of their shoulders and leaving a throbbing ache in its place.  “Some, mostly about his sisters.  I understand he’s much older than them?”

Morena nodded, working her needle through the eye of the crane in her embroidery hoop.  “By ten years for Noelle and fourteen for Dorothea and Delores.  He helped raise them after his stepfather died.”

“Stepfather?” Velim echoed.

“Yes, stepfather,” Morena confirmed, “I met Gale’s father when I was still very young.  He fled his familial responsibilities in the Silver Marches, but he had to return shortly before Gale’s birth,” Morena trailed off, studied the stitches of her embroidery, “ten years later, I received his will as the only surviving inheritor for the family.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Velim watched her work the thread back through, pulling a downy gray feather into the bird’s body, “he never mentioned that.”

“He never met his father, and I don’t speak much of him. He doesn’t have much to tell you,” Morena pulled another feather into place, “I’m sure you’ve had more than your fair share of losses.”

“Yes, haven’t we all?” Velim tried to shake the oppressive memory of their years at the Hazelight home from their mind, a shadow cast over Ortheon Hazelight’s proud expression at their first amputation.  Instead, the hurt pinged against the memory of Luz’s body in the mass grave at Ulivin during the smallpox outbreak.  They settled on the grief of that memory instead.

Morena waited for Velim to elaborate, but they stared down at the tortoiseshell patterns in Tara’s fur and said nothing.  She set her embroidery in her lap.  “Is your family aware of your condition?”

Velim shook their head.  “Only Jada.  Peiotr and Helena don’t know.”

“Have you considered telling them?” Morena asked.

Velim shook their head again.  “The less who know, the better.”

Morena angled her body toward them.  “I have a proposition for you, and I would like to put it to you before Gale returns so that when he brings it up, you already have your answer.”

Velim waited for her to continue.

“I’ve staffed his father’s ancestral home in the Silver Marches with a skeleton crew for years to keep the place functional.  Willowdarn Manor, it’s been in the Halavar family for ten generations, and Gale is the last of the line.  It rightfully belongs to him, but I’ve never extended the offer because of its remote location.  Now, it seems a blessing,” Morena laid a hand on Velim’s shoulder, “I would send you both out there while the ruckus dies down and rumors of Tiamat’s Spawn running rampant among the townsfolk dissipate.”

“Does anyone else know about Willowdarn?” Velim asked, anxiety churning in their chest.

“Just myself and Gale, as the home is his birthright,” Morena assured them, “if you decide to go, we must make the arrangements quickly before the roads become impassable.”

Velim considered their options, glancing at the curtains and imagining the city beyond boiling with talk of another sacking on their doorstep at the hands of Tiamat’s own black dragon.  It wouldn’t be long until a mob with torches and pitchforks made their way to Morena’s door intent on tearing them limb from limb.  A desolate swamp sounded like paradise in comparison, but perhaps that was the dragon talking.

Morena gathered her embroidery and stood up to leave.  “Take your time and consider my offer,” then a small smile crossed her face, “I can't hold Peiotr off for long, so while you may remain in here until supper, I must insist that you join us for the meal.”

“Then I thank you for the warning,”  Velim smiled, and felt a buzz of warmth as Morena returned it on her way out the door, “Tara, would you be joining us at Willowdarn?”

Tara hopped off their lap.  “No, Doctor, someone must care for the tower while Mr. Dekarios is away.  I’ll keep an eye on your flat, as well, but it would just be the two of you.”

“And the staff,” Velim clarified.

“Yes, and the staff,” Tara echoed, flitting up to the top of the wardrobe, “get some rest, Doctor, I’ll send Gale up once he’s home.  Is there anything you’d like me to retrieve from your flat?”

“There’s a journal on my desk, if you can carry it,” Velim requested, thinking of the magical circuits scratched into the pages, “do you know where it is?”

“I absolutely can, and I do,” Tara purred, then was gone through the porthole.

Velim wondered how long Tara had been watching and how much she had known.  They had never heard of a familiar keeping secrets from their wizard before, but as they sat in Gale’s childhood bedroom wearing his sister’s old clothes, they figured there was a first time for everything.

[destroyerofnations92]

Works in progress

Title: papa is a rolling stone

Synopsis: "When an arrogant Sea Snake says the wrong thing while trying to sell his daughter as the sole option to be the next queen consort, King Viserys starts fearing the might of House Velaryon and turns to his banished brother for protection."

Main pairings: Daemon/Rhaenyra

Status: Work in progress (three chapters and counting)

Patreon: 1 2 3 AO3: TBP

Title: a division of gods

Synopsis: "When Prince Baelon seemingly dies from a burst belly, King Jaehaerys has his corpse examined by Maester Gerardys of Dragonstone, who discovers the royal heir was poisoned. In the aftermath, Princess Rhaenys is accused of having orchestrated it all and is brought to trial by the Crown. Abandoned by all but her uncle, who threatens to raise an army in her defence, the young princess fears being made a scapegoat for some greater plot against her House, so demands a trial by combat. But who will stand for the disgraced Princess?"

Main pairings: Daemon/Rhaenys

Status: Work in progress (two chapters and counting)

Patreon: 1 2 AO3: TBP

Title: a house divided

Synopsis: "A century after Aenar the Exile became High King of All Westeros, his descendants Aegon II, Rhaenys I and Visenya I granted their second son rule over Dragonstone. With the House of the Dragon divided as one line rules the West and the other the East, the unexpected heir to the Throne finds herself besieged by her father's Hand, new wife and brother, who wish for their blood to sit the Iron Throne, and hopes to find an ally in the Dragonheart."

Main pairings: Daemon/Rhaenyra

Status: Work in progress (six chapters and counting)

Patreon: 1 2 3 4 5 6 AO3: TBP

Title: a king in gold

Synopsis: "Fearful of his younger grandson's chaos and rage, Jaehaerys nixes Alysanne's idea of betrothing him to some Vale heiress and instead grants him command of the City Watch in the hopes of taming him—and watches him blossom."

Main pairings: Daemon/Gael

Status: Work in progress (nine chapters and counting)

Patreon: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 AO3: 1

Title: up unto the overturned keel

Synopsis: "Tales of great kings and mighty warriors are whispered with revery amongst the smallfolk, but how do things change when a peaceful king makes way for a martial one?"

Main pairings: Daemon/Rhaenyra

Status: Work in progress (twenty-five chapters and counting)

Patreon: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 AO3: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Title: amidst salt and smoke

Synopsis: "It has been seven years since Bran the Broken was named Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Tyrion Lannister has rebuilt the realm, bringing forth peace and change. However, tensions with the independent Kingdom of the North and the Lords Paramount endanger the prosperity created by the Lannister lord’s Handship, as does the Hand’s own instability—for he dreams of those he has lost. What is real and what is not?"

Main pairings: Tyrion!centric (pairing TBD)

Status: One hiatus after part one of five (eleven chapters and counting)

Patreon: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

AO3: TBP

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Saturday, November 9

WILLOW: By the way, are we hoping to find a body, or no body? XANDER: Call me an optimist, but I'm hoping to find a fortune in gold doubloons. GILES: Um, body would mean flesh-eating demon, no body would point towards the, uh, army of zombies thing. Take your pick, really.

~~BtVS 2x02 “Some Assembly Required”~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Red Moon (Darla & Drusilla, not rated) by SeleneBlue

speaks volumes (Buffy/Faith, M) by storiesfortravellers

Surprise (Buffy/Angel, E) by MeTheMermaid

Chemical X (Fred, Maggie Walsh, E) by Kittenwritings

[Untitled] (Giles/Reader, M) by romeactivelycries

[Chaptered Fiction]

Okay Dad, Chapter 1/6 (Ensemble, T) by Work

Tears of the Slayer, Chapter 1/? (Buffy/Angel, Buffy/Spike, E) by MadMaster

You're a Beautiful Person, Chapter 3/? (Willow/Tara, M) by firagasauce

The Comedown, Chapter 2/2 (Buffy/Angel, T) by Descended_from_Hufflepuffs

Maps, Chapter 4/6 (Buffy/Faith, E) by thisyearsgrrl

The Right Swipe, Chapter 15/? (Buffy/Giles, E) by DancingAngel0013

The Phoenix, Chapter 1/? (Buffy/Spike, ensemble, E) by OffYourBird

Firebell in the Night:, Chapter 50/150 (Willow/Tara, E) by TheLightdancer

With Sprinkles, Chapter 44/? (Xander, anime xover, M) by dogbertcarroll, Narsil

Little Light, Chapter 16 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Melme1325

Oh My Goddess, Chapter 11 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Maxine Eden

Incarnate, Chapter 21 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Sigyn

Oh My Goddess, Chapter 11 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Maxine Eden

[Images, Audio & Video]

Gifset: Cordelia Chase + Outfits (Season 2) (worksafe) by clarkgriffon

Artwork: “She’s cold, she’s dark, she’s cynical (Buffy/Spike, depiction of blood, mostly worksafe) by o-cm-draw-o

Artwork: Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, S3 Ep8 “Lovers Walk” (worksafe) by nightheartcomics

Artwork: Collage #228 (Buffy/Spike, worksafe) by thedecadentraven

Artwork: Collage #230 (Spike, worksafe) by thedecadentraven

Video: Drusilla's Diary Entry 1 by Slayin It with Juliet Landau

Crafts: Fun little embroidery project I made for my friend’s birthday [Scenes from Gile’s slide show in ‘Hush’] (worksafe, depiction of show-typical violence/blood/death) by littlethingstitching

Crafts: I’m creating an art piece for every episode of Buffy and Angel: BTVS 601. Bargaining Pt. 1 (worksafe) by tmcarlee

Nail art: My friend did Buffy nails for Halloween and I finally get to show them to this sub! (worksafe) by Confident-Smoke-6595

[Reviews & Recaps]

Season 4 first time viewing! by Specialist-Orchid-80

I am SUFFERING through Angel season 4 by Anna3422

PODCAST: You Said Glice! (S5E4) by It Stakes Two

PODCAST: Big G and The Slaymaster General (S5E5) by It Stakes Two

[Fandom Discussions]

i just finished watching buffy s1-s7 for the first time and like. s6 is good. not perfect, but still by beets-are-not-green

Look I’m just saying if we got to see Spuffy have explicit sex multiple times we deserved to get to see when Spike and Angelus did by thequeenofsastiel

i do find it immensely boring when your interpretation of spike’s complexity involves dumbing him down to some variation on “human good, demon bad” the same way the show tried by slugessence

I don’t think we give Cordelia enough credit for driving a car through the school by aphony-cree

more on Faith and dog parallels! by juanabaloo

[anon ask] So, apart from how it happened, what’s your take on the Spike soul thing? answered by thornfield13713

Were the slayers a good idea? continued by multiple posters

Buffy Season 2 rewatch by Btvs fan, multiple posters

Lilah and Cordelia were Outstanding by Nostromo87

Very minor criticism that drives me crazy whenever it happens by Agvahl

The Beast is by far one of my favorite baddies/demon/monster of the Angel verse by moses616

S7 E6 "Him" by distortionisgod

The Inca Princess by opmdl6

Anyone else wish Buffy and Willow didn't become roommates so fast in season 4? by jdpm1991

Angel finale by anthonycaruana

When Groo left, after realizing that Cordy did not love him, what do we think happened to him? by jengafat

tell me you’re a BTVS fan without telling me you’re a BTVS fan by perfectmoonwalker

How do you feel about every season having its own unique feel to it? by precita

Demon Sports Team by No_Introduction_4136

[Articles, Interviews, and Other News]

PUBLICATION: The Best Fighters in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Franchise, Ranked by CBR.com

PUBLICATION: How an Iconic Episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer Explores Queer Issues by Tell-Tale TV

Submit a link to be included in the newsletter!

Join the editor team :)

[epicaxolotls]

i want my mouth, so i may howl (1566 words) by EpicAxolotls Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dream SMP Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF) Characters: Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF) Additional Tags: Kid TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Magic, Dark Magic, Protective Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade is Bad at Feelings (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Blood and Injury Series: Part 1 of Epic's Bedrock Bros Prompt Month Summary:

He remembered the blood that he had smeared onto his Tommy. How he hadn’t cared, and how the boy didn’t seem to care, either. That shouldn’t be Tommy’s last memory of him. Not caring. Allowing him to be dirty, to allow blood on him.

 That wouldn’t be Tommy’s last memory of him. Tommy’s last memory of him would be his head in a basket tomorrow morning.

or: technoblade is a creature in this one. and feels the need to take some drastic decisions (title from rule #21 - momento mori by fish in a birdcage)

for @bedrock-bros-prompt-month 's first prompt- blood/gold/chains

[verai-marcel]

Your Hearth Is My Home (BG3 Fanfic, Astarion x Female Reader, Part 23 of 28)

Summary, Notes, Tags, & Part 1 are here.

Act I - Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Act II - Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | 

Act III - Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 (18+) | Part 28 (END)

AO3 Link is here, darling.

Word Count: 4,692

Act III, Chapter 2 - The Confrontation

You woke up in a room on a surprisingly soft bed. Sitting up, you rubbed your temples. 

That fucker hit me hard. 

Taking a look around, you realized that the room was adorned with paintings on the walls and smelled heavily of perfumes. But underneath that was the odor of… 

Oh gods.

You immediately leapt off the bed and brushed yourself off. You didn’t even want to look at the bed for fear of seeing all kinds of stains. Looking around the rest of the room, you felt like it was a couple of centuries too late in its decor, the tapestries and draperies in a rich red and dark green with details in gold thread.

There was no time to observe your surroundings any further as the door opened slowly. Behind it, a vampire spawn, dressed in a similar doublet to what Astarion had been wearing when you had first met him, bowed to you.

“The master wishes to see you.”

“You say that as if I have a choice,” you mutter.

“Indeed, you do not.” He stepped aside and gestured gentlemanly toward the door. “This way.”

You walked with him, side by side. “How long have I been here?” you asked, not really expecting an answer.

“A few hours,” he replied to your surprise. “The master has been waiting for you to awaken so he can see what kind of creature has captured Astarion’s attention.”

So this master knew where he was AND that he was fond of me specifically? That’s far too powerful for anyone’s good. 

“I see,” you said noncommittally. You eyed him for a moment, noting his haughty expression. “And what’s your name?”

“You may call me Petras,” he said in a lilt that made you think of how Astarion first spoke. “I can see why Astarion has been distracted.” His eyes wandered up and down your body before resting on your hand. “Your blood smells absolutely fragrant, like a crisp autumn breeze through an apple orchard.”

You suddenly remembered that you never healed your hand. Looking down at it, you realized that the blood had been wiped away.

Or licked away.

You shuddered at the possibility and went silent for the rest of the walk.

As you were marched down, down, down to the defiled chamber deep below the city, you realized you were passing by cell upon cell of feral spawn that attacked the bars as you walked past, smelling your fresh blood. There were thousands of spawn here, and you had a sinking feeling that the six spawn that were marked for the ritual were only a small part of the sacrifice.

Petras held your arm and escorted you into the final chamber where you were immediately overwhelmed by the immense size of it. A sickly green glow illuminated the stone walls that went down to the depths, small torches highlighting balconies that led to more prisoner cells. You kept pace with the vampire spawn beside you, but you paused for a moment at the last flight of steps before continuing. 

You stumbled on the last few steps, distracted by the vile magic emanating from the space around you. Catching yourself before you fell, you found yourself before a dais where a man—no, a true vampire—stood facing away from you, holding a golden staff. Beyond was a dark stone coffin, elegantly decorated with gold lines. 

So. This bastard must be Cazador. Gods, I can feel such… tainted energy from him.

On instinct, you took a step backward. He shifted the staff in his hand.

Suddenly, you couldn’t move.

“So, you must be the one who has been distracting my boy and preventing him from coming home.”

“This is no home,” you spat, despite the fear bubbling deep in your gut. “He’d never want to return here.”

“And that is where you’re wrong. He knows this is where he belongs.”

You glared daggers at him as hatred spilled into your heart. HE was the one who hurt Astarion. HE was the one who starved him for a year.

Cazador continued with his rant. “He is weak, imperfect. He needs authority in his life. He can’t be trusted to make his own choices—”

“Shut UP!” you screeched at the bastard. “I trust him! I believe in him!”

As you spoke, you could feel power leaking out of your seal, shooting into your veins. For a breathless moment, you could feel your eyes glowing with fey magic, your hair beginning to turn fiery red. Taking a deep breath, you glowered at the vampire with every ounce of vitriol you had.

In the following silence, staring into your enemy’s undead eyes, you felt your imminent death weighing on your chest like a blacksmith’s anvil, your heart hammering with what could be its final beats. 

Cazador's eyes narrowed before he raised his staff and tapped the ground once, the clang echoing in the chamber. A set of iron chains suddenly appeared in front of him. He pointed at you, and all of a sudden you were in the air, then flung onto the ground, your knees hitting the stone with a painful crack. In the midst of the pain, your arms were stretched before you, your wrists together as if waiting to be shackled.

Oh shit shit shit—

The chains wrapped around your wrist, the iron burning your skin. You had never had this reaction to iron before, but then again, your ancestral blood had never been as active as it had been lately. You grit your teeth against the searing pain, unwilling to give him the satisfaction, even as your transformation ceased and melted away.

“Weak. Nothing but fancy tricks and pretty little eyes,” he mocked. Stepping off the dais to loom above you, he gently touched your cheek, tracing a line from your jaw up the lobe of your ear. “I wonder if your screams are as sweet as his.”

You shuddered, feeling disgusted, but you glared back with all of your hatred and fury. Your own emotions nearly drowned out the cold, sterile curiosity dipped in sadistic cruelty that you felt from his ice touch. 

His fingers dug into your hair bun, and without warning he fisted your hair and tugged, pulling you onto your feet and sniffing your neck.

“I can smell him on you. Disgusting. Of course, he would have relations with livestock.”

“You arsehole!” you hissed.

Cazador released his grip on your hair, leaned back, and swiftly backhanded you in the face, sending you skidding across the marble floor.

Your nose and mouth burned as you tried to breathe, drops of blood splattering on the floor with each exhale. Oh shit, he really did a number on me.

His steps were casual as he sauntered over to you, like he had all the time in the world. You pushed yourself up and let your fury ride you hard, even though common sense and self-preservation were screaming at you to stand down. You spat blood at the vampire, just out of spite.

It landed on his shoe.

He looked down at the bloody glob for a moment before he suddenly disappeared and reappeared behind you. Grabbing the back of your neck, he violently pushed you down, forcing you on your hands and knees, his fingers digging in right below your ears. Ice cold fear laced your insides when you heard the sound of a dagger being removed from its sheath.

You struggled as hard as you could, but the hand on your neck tightened and you felt yourself freeze up uncontrollably. The fear that had temporarily left you was now back in full force, and you regretted giving into your anger. Now all you were left with was absolute terror.

The back of your shirt was suddenly torn away, and you felt the slice of cold steel against your back.

“No, noooooo!” you screamed, recognizing in horror the pattern that Cazador was beginning to cut into your skin.

“Yes, yes, I knew your pained cries would be most exquisite,” he said with sadistic glee as he sliced into your back with aplomb. “If he doesn’t come back, I’ll drain you so you can take his place. Or perhaps I’ll wait, and then drain you in front of him, just so he remembers that he owns nothing.”

You weren’t sure how long you screamed, but half your back was carved and your throat was raw before you suddenly heard a familiar and very welcome voice.

“CAZADOR!”

The others were walking carefully towards you, clearly being cautious in case Cazador decided to kill you off, now that his real target was here. 

And why the hells did Astarion come here? Didn’t he know that he was key to this ritual? He should have stayed away!

Cazador grinned viciously before he flung you away. You slid across the floor on your back, blood smearing against the stone. The sharp, flensing pain on your skin made you curl into a ball as you desperately remembered how to breathe.

“Who stands before us? Is this truly our prodigal son?”

Astarion glanced over at you. You struggled onto your hands and knees, looking up at him and minutely nodded. I’m alive.

He frowned before turning his attention back to his old master. The terrible reunion unfolded before you, Astarion partially blocked from your sight by Cazador's looming figure. Watching them snarl at each other through your bleary vision, you tried to catch your breath. 

Then Astarion attacked… and was immediately flung away to the other side of the platform, his body rushing past you as he was locked into position. His shirt was stripped from his body as glowing red runes everywhere suddenly became activated.

“No!” he yelled in anguish. “Stop him! And get me out of this!”

Astarion!

Everything was flung into chaos as your companions immediately jumped into the fray. Cazador summoned minions to distract the others while he attempted to finish the ritual, but fortunately, the others were strong and focused.

But you realized that the runes were getting brighter, even as they drove the vampire away from the dais and distracted him from chanting his spell. Grinding your teeth, you forced yourself to focus on the lines of the power around the room, and you realized that each spawn had a thread leading straight to Cazador.

Shit, we have to free them!

You ran to Astarion, swiping away at the bats that lunged at you from all sides. You ignored their bites and scratches as you used the weight of your chained wrists to smack them down. What was one more wound when it meant you could get close to saving him? With all of your momentum, you flung yourself at Astarion, knocking him off the rune's space. Twisting your body to get your weight off him, you rolled onto your bloodied back, the pain blossoming across your skin once more. You gasped and immediately rolled onto your side.

He called your name and scowled as he undid the chains. He stared at the burn marks on your wrists. 

“Hide. Find Shadowheart later, when it's safe,” he commanded. 

You nodded with no intention of obeying. 

“Stay alive,” he added as he got up, took a knife he had hidden in his boot, and joined the battle. 

You snuck around the perimeter, pulling each spawn out of their rune while the others fought hard, eventually sending the vampire lord scurrying back to his coffin. 

“Oh no you don't,” Astarion snarled as he pushed the lid back open, pulling his former master out and onto the floor. “This isn't over. Not yet. WAKE UP!”

While they argued and yelled at each other, you had managed to come back around to rejoin the others. Shadowheart immediately healed you while Gale cast Thaumaturgy to mend your shirt. 

Then Astarion called your name and beckoned you closer. Quietly, only to you, he explained his plan. How he needed you to show him a mirror version of himself so he could carve the rune on Cazador’s back.

“I can do this, but I need your help.”

You frowned. “But… all those people…”

“Those people died years ago, trust me on that. All that’s left are feral spawn, desperate for blood. If we release them, how many people will they kill? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands? But if they die and I ascend, I won’t have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I’ll be free. Truly, completely free. Isn’t that what you want?”

You didn’t have to use your empathic touch to sense that something was terribly wrong. You only had to look into his eyes. The environment, filled with the scent of blood and a touch of power that could be his, was influencing his thoughts, intoxicating his mind. Behind the fear in his gaze was a hunger for power and the alleged freedom that comes with it. But you knew, deep down, that if he were to look at this situation from the other side, he’d regret sacrificing all those souls. You shook your head. “The price is too high, Astarion.”

“But I can protect us. I can protect you.”

“You don't need to do this.”

He stepped closer to you, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. “You're the only thing I'm willing to protect, and you don’t want this?”

He said ‘thing’ again. You knew now was not the time to be angry. 

But you were. 

“I'm not a thing to be owned, Astarion,” you snarled, flinging his words back at him. 

He flinched. 

“This power will just trap you, just like it trapped him. You said you weren’t afraid to die.” You took a deep breath. “I'm terrified of dying. But more than that, I want to live with no regrets. I want to live a life I’m proud of.” You looked at him beseechingly. “Is this what you want? Do you want to be like him?”

Astarion frowned, looking away from you. You held your breath, hoping that you were right. That it was the bloodlust making him like this. That deep down, he wasn’t like this. Gods, I hope I’ve been right about him all along.

He finally turned back to you with a thoughtful expression. “You… you’re right. I can be better than him.”

You let out a sigh of relief. Thank the gods.

His gaze turned back to the vile creature that once controlled him. “But I’m not above enjoying this.”

You turned away, the sounds of the dagger piercing flesh, though deserved, making you feel ill. It was when Astarion cried out, his catharsis felt deeply within your bones, that you turned back. Falling to your knees beside him, not giving a damn for all the blood staining your clothes, you nearly reached out to him, but paused. No. Let him come to you.

So you knelt beside him, close enough to let him know you were here for him, but with enough space to let him sort himself out.

He didn’t look up at you; he stayed still, staring at nothing, silent as the dead.

“Is… is it over?” One of the spawns, a female, quietly spoke. “Is he..?”

Astarion blinked, and returned from wherever his mind had gone, slowly getting up. He spoke with the others, laying out their choices. And when it came to the other spawn… He turned to you.

“What do you think?”

The answer seemed obvious to you. “Let them go,” you replied.

Astarion nodded. “The poor wretches in the cells are innocent. They shouldn’t have to suffer because I… lured them here.”

Using the staff, he released the other spawn, gave orders to take them to the Underdark, and turned to the rest of you. “I… I think we’re done here. Let’s go.”

Quietly, everyone walked away, letting you and Astarion walk together behind them. You looked at him, covered in blood, sweat, and though he would never admit it, you could see some streaks on his face from the tears.

“I’m here,” you said simply, holding out your hand.

He immediately took it without a word.

As the party made it back to the dais that would take you out of this wretched place, you saw a group of people, armed to the teeth. You immediately stood in front of Astarion.

Where is this courage coming from? I could never defend him better than he could himself.

But your seal tingled with power, and even though it hurt, burning like a wildfire, a part of you knew that instinctively, you could protect your loved ones from harm if push came to shove. It’s what my power responds to. 

Love.

He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a reassuring smile before stepping forward and speaking with them. You watched them talk, watched the fighters stand down and let you go. As you joined your companions on the dais, you kept an eye on Astarion. He looked like he was deep in thought.

I’ll ask him how he feels when we’re alone.

***

Back at the Elfsong, you took Astarion to the private bath and heated up the water to his preferred temperature. He said nothing as he listlessly removed his clothing and stepped into the water. Not even a sigh of satisfaction. 

You were afraid to leave him alone, but you weren't sure where his head was. Kneeling beside the tub, you began to wash his hair. 

I sense nothing from him.

You continued to wash and rinse his hair while he soaked quietly. Finally, you moved around to see his face. He was staring vacantly ahead.

“What's on your mind?”

He looked in your direction, but his expression was still blank. “He’s gone.” He stared into the water. “After all these years, these centuries… it’s really over.”

You reached out and gently touched his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

He turned back to you, looking lost. “I’m…not sure. I… feel a little… numb. What I’ve lost… what I’ve gained… it’s all so much.”

You felt a spike of panic from him, his emotions churning chaotically. You squeezed his shoulder to keep his attention, to be his anchor.

“And gods, all those spawn, free in the Underdark.” He frowned, his head turning this way and that, his eyes looking everywhere. “I need some time, I think, I… just to let it all sink in.”

You nodded and patted his shoulder. “Take all the time you need.” 

Shifting around him, you began to gently dry and brush his hair. Through your touch, you could feel his emotions begin to simmer down back to a low buzz, still anxious, but less hectic. It felt as if with each passing moment, he was untangling the web of his emotions, one thread at a time, slowly, carefully.

You finished with his hair and got up.

“Show me your back.”

You blinked at him, surprised, but you realized during the chaos that he probably hadn't noticed Shadowheart healing you. Turning around, you lifted your shirt. 

He breathed a sigh of relief and reached out to gently caress your unmarred skin. “Good.”

When he said nothing more, you turned to mending and cleaning his clothes. It was strange, him not being his usual chatty self, but you understood the need to process.

After he was done washing himself and getting dressed, you led Astarion up to the roof where no one was around. The sun was setting over the city, and the two of you watched it quietly dip beneath the horizon before either of you spoke.

“How do you—”

“Are you—”

You both paused, looking at each other. 

“You first,” you said.

He cleared his throat. “How do you feel?” He suddenly looked panicked. “Did he bite—”

“He didn’t bite me,” you reassured him. “He only attempted to carve the same sigil on my back.”

Astarion nodded. “We arrived in time.” A hint of his usual smile flickered on his face. “It’s rather gauche for a couple to match.”

You let out a soft chuckle. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

“Gods, no.” He smiled before holding his hand out to you. “What were you going to ask?”

“I was going to ask if you were hungry,” you replied, taking his hand.

“I’m alright for now. Perhaps later.” He looked off toward the sunset.

You clasped his hand with both of yours. “Just let me know what you need.”

His gaze turned back to you, soft and solemn. Without another word, he placed his other hand on top of yours and leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his eyes closed. You weren’t sure how long you stayed that way, but you could sense the amorphous cloud of his feelings slowly coalescing into something solid.

When he pulled away, he seemed to have come to some kind of conclusion. “There’s… something I’d like to show you, if that’s all right. Something out in the city.”

You tipped your head. “What is it?”

“Something I haven’t shown anyone else.” He stepped back. “Come. It’s not far.”

As you walked with him, hand in hand, the stars came out of the inky darkness of the night sky and the moon shone brightly on the cobblestone streets. It would have been a romantic little date… if he hadn’t turned right into the graveyard.

You followed him in, wondering why here, but when he stopped before a worn, neglected gravestone, you had a feeling. You watched him brush away the vines and dust to reveal a tombstone, the letters faded over time, but still legible.

Astarion Ancunín.

“Nearly two hundred years, and I never came back.” He went on to tell you about how he had to escape his grave only to see Cazador. Only to become his slave. 

“From that day on I was his,” he muttered. “Until today.”

“How do you feel?” you asked quietly.

He smiled, but it was tinged with melancholy. “Exhilarated. Terrified. Exhausted.” He let out that last word with such a sigh that you could feel how drained he was without touching him. “For nearly two centuries I stalked the streets like a ghost, while the person I was lay here, dead and buried. Now I need to figure out who I am.” He turned to you, a smile growing on his face. “What I want.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And that is…?”

“Must I spell out everything, darling?” He took your hand. “It's you. I want… you.” Stepping close, his smile grew ever warmer. “Through the bloodlust, the pain, the misery… you stayed. You were patient. You cared. You trusted me when that was an objectively stupid thing to do.”

You frowned for a moment. Just as you were about to snark back to him, you saw the vulnerability in his expression and wisely kept your mouth shut, letting him continue. 

“I feel… safe with you. Seen. And whatever the future holds for me, I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t.” You squeezed his hand. “It’s too late to get rid of me now,” you said with a grin.

He smiled back. “You had better keep your word.” He let go of you and looked at his grave marker. “Well, I should probably fix this.”

You watched as he etched out a new date on his tombstone with his dagger. When he was done, he scooted back to look at his handiwork, his gaze miles away. 

Grabbing a flower from nearby, you lay it gently on his grave. 

“Cute.”

You smiled and knelt down beside him. “So what now?” 

“That’s the question, isn't it?” He stared at his tombstone. “I've been dead in the ground long enough. It's time to start living again.” He turned and took your hands in his. “With all that life has to offer.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” 

“You know… I didn't care for you when we first met.”

“Considering you held a knife to my throat without so much as a hello, the feeling was mutual.”

He smiled. “And now look at us.” He shifted closer and pressed his forehead to yours. “I love you. I love this. And I want it all.”

You were touched. So much so that tears came to your eyes. The love that you felt flowing from him was warm and soft, like a hug. 

“I love you too,” you whispered. Through your tears, you could see his smile, soft and radiant, and you could sense that the possessiveness you had felt before was being replaced by something lighter, stronger, deeper.

Seems like his fear of being owned again was driving his possessiveness… Now that Cazador is gone, he's getting better. He trusts me. 

A sudden twinge of guilt shot through your heart, and you knew it was your own. 

He should know the truth. He deserves that much. 

You pulled away from him. He must have seen the apprehension in your eyes, because he raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“I…” You trailed off, taking his hands and placing them back in his lap. You couldn’t confess while you were feeling his emotions. Swallowing hard, you tried again. “I haven’t been… forthcoming, about one of my… quirks.”

He stared at you, his face carefully blank. 

You took a deep breath. “I can feel emotions through touch. It's why I normally wear gloves, it's why I avoid direct skin contact.”

Astarion looked a bit surprised as he processed what you had just dropped on him. “Wait. So you feel… everything?”

You nodded. “That's why I cover up as much as I can.”

His eyes narrowed. "So that's how you figured out I was trying to seduce you."

"Yes," you replied weakly, casting your eyes downward. Gods, he's probably furious. You wondered if he was going to reject you, or worse, consider your power a betrayal of his trust.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, he finally huffed. "You little cheater."

Seeing his wry smile, you breathed a sigh of relief and smiled back, shrugging. "Use the gifts the gods gave you, right?" 

Astarion chuckled. "You're damn right." He was quiet for a moment, but then suddenly understanding dawned in his eyes. “So when I bite you…?”

“I feel your hunger, your pain, your happiness, your sadness. Everything.”

You could see him visibly trying to digest that information. 

“You felt all of that, and still let me bite you, night after night?” 

You nodded. “I meant what I said. I'd feed you, no matter what method. To eat is to live, to survive. I won't have my people go hungry.”

He only looked at you, partly in awe, partly worried. “I… I don’t want you to be in pain because of me,” he finally said. It was a truly altruistic thing for him to say, and it was for you.

“It’s alright,” you said, taking his hand. You smiled. “I can feel your concern through your touch.”

He smiled wryly. “So I can't lie to you, can I?” 

You shrugged. “No, not really. But you don’t need to lie to me anymore, right?” Looking up into his face, you quietly asked, “You trust me, don’t you?”

He stared at your joined hands for a moment. “You're the first person I've trusted with anything.” Squeezing your hand gently, he brought it up to his lips and kissed the back of your hand tenderly, his eyes locked onto yours. 

The thrum of desire and craving pulsed through you. “Oh,” you said breathlessly.

“But I suppose we should head back, before the others look for us,” he said, getting up, holding your hand as you got up with him. “Without you, they’d be gnawing on fishbones.”

You laughed. “Gale can cook,” you commented.

“He may be a bit preoccupied,” he said with a sly grin. “Did you know how much he fussed over Shadowheart the entire way back from the House of Grief?”

“Gods, she must have gotten so irritated!”

Astarion laughed with you as the two of you headed back to camp, sharing snarky comments and holding hands.

As far as dates go, this one was pretty damn good.

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

Act III, Chapter 2 End notes: It hurt to write this chapter, because quite frankly, I hate writing injuries. But I had to do it, it’s the scene that popped into my head and kept replaying in my brain. Hopefully it came out alright. And I was going to post this yesterday, but my damn brain decided to rewrite a huge portion of the post-fight scene (there wasn’t originally a bath scene!). Let me know what you think in the comments!

Tags List: @numblytemporary @xalphafox @avitute @stormyjane7 @kmoon21

[collabpartners]

Hazbin Hotel: The Contract of Blood Ep. 17

*Hey, guys! We're back with another episode and things are gonna get intense since we're reaching to the end! This episode is published on April 21, 2024. If you guys like this episode/chapter, don't be afraid to heart it, reblog, and comment! That would be greatly appreciated. Warning: slight smut, violence, vulgar language, and blood. Enjoy!*

Episode Seventeen: Incoming Invasion

In the middle of the peaceful night, Husk lays on Angel’s puffy chest and purrs at the softness subconsciously until he groans in his sleep.

Flashes of his friends are fighting something dark.

Cherri is falling off of a roof of a tall building.

Angel and Blitz is surrounded by the dark creatures with guns out.

Emily stands alone, her dark powers rising behind her with anger shown on her face. She stands in front of Clara and Odette, who has their weapons out.

Carmilla Carmine cries out for someone, tears streaming down on her face.

Charlie turns into her full demon form, red eyes and white pupils darting glares into Morrigan’s yellow eyes. Morrigan smirks like she has the upper hand while Charlie has the pitchfork almost stabbing her.

Vaggie fights against Orais with Sebastian and Eleanor helping her.

Alastor has red and orange colors around him, staring into Husk’s eyes with stitched up smile.

Husk then gasps awake under the rubble. The place seems familiar...almost like he’s back at the hotel. He pushes the rubble away and stumbles out to the red light. Once he’s at the front porch of the hotel, his eyes widen in shock. His fur stands on its ends to find dead bodies everywhere.

“No...No!” Husk utters while covering his head. “This is a dream now! This has to be a dream!”

Husk looks around to see how his friends died. Charlie is laying on the steps, her neck snapped. Vaggie lays on her side, stabbed by multiple spears. Alastor, even, has his body tore in half, black goo dripping from his carcass. Emily has a hole on her chest, blood pouring out on the concrete she’s laying on. Sir Pentious has a sword pierced into his stomach, his back against the wall. Cherri lays on her back on the ground with blood pooling around her head as if she hit her head while falling. Nifty has a boulder on top of her, her small body crushed by the weight. Bella and Nora are bury underneath the rubble with Sebastian and Eleanor, holding hands loosely.

Husk shakes his head in denial as he glances to the side to find that the I.M.P crew, including Stolas, Octavia, and Fizz did not meet a kinder fate. Stolas lays on the boulder, bullethole on his shoulder and the holy glow seeping into his skin. Octavia has a hole in her abdomen of a gunshot wound, dead next to bleeding Loona. The hellhound’s body has many broken bones. Blitz has a hole in the forehead, Moxxie has his head cut off, and Millie has her heart ripped out. What the three has in common is the gold glow spreading through their veins. Fizz has his robotic limbs torn off completely, making him unable to function and lifeless from the bullet in his forehead.

Husk starts to breathe heavily in fear as he look to find Angel laying on his side, curled up. He gasps in fear, tears edging out of his eyes.

“No,” he utters before running towards Angel and collapsing on his knees. He turns Angel up to find that he’s hugging his dead pig, Fat Nuggets. “Fuck, no. Angel. Angel? Anthony?!”

Husk hears a small gasp from Angel, watching him fluttering his two eyes open. He trembles, holding Angel in his arms.

“Anthony?” Husk calls, seeing Angel’s head turn up at the sound of his real name being called.

“You knew this would happen, did you?” Angel utters with tears.

“Tony--”

“No...you fucking knew this would happen. Why didn’t you tell us? We could’ve avoid the whole thing.”

Husk breathes heavily and shakes his head. “Angel, I swear I know nothing about this. I-I-I know nothing about this.”

“You do now,” Angel says before finally releasing his last breath.

Husk shakes his head again in denial. “No, no! Angel, come back to me! Please, Tony! Please! Please! Come back to me!”

Husk glances up to the sky to find a black hole, sucking all the buildings. “What the--?”

The red sky is sucked into the black hole along with the grounds of Hell. Before he knows it, the pieces of Heaven and pieces of Earth is sucked into the black hole, leaving everything dark.

Husk starts to have trouble breathing.

“Husk? Husk? Henry, baby, wake up,” Angel’s voice echoes in Husk’s dream.

~.~

Husk gasps for air, snapping his eyes open to find him clinging onto Angel.

“Henry?”

Husk glances up at Angel, seeing that he’s alive and well in real life.

“What’s going on?” Angel asks.

Flashes of Angel’s dead body appears in Husk’s vision when he looks at Angel. Husk stumbles off of him with a gasp, falling off the bed.

“Baby?” Angel calls.

Husk grabs his head, seeing visions of his friends’ dead bodies everywhere. “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

Angel hops off the bed and wraps his four arms around Husk. “Baby, breathe. Breathe.”

Husk tries to breathe in and out deeply.

“There you go, baby. You got it. I’m right here.”

“You’re gonna die,” Husk utters tearfully. “Everyone here is going to die--”

“Baby, it’s just a dream--”

“It damn well better be a dream. Otherwise, I don’t know how to live without you.”

Angel softens his gaze with a smile. “I don’t know how to live without you either.” He brings his boyfriend up into his arms, extending two extra limbs to cradle Husk.

Husk rubs his head against Angel’s fluffy chest, purring. “I love you, Tony.”

“HOLY SHIT! HUSK AND ANGEL ARE SLEEPING WITH SOME RANDOS NAMED TONY AND HENRY!!” Nifty screams from outside of the room, ruining the moment.

“Uh,” Angel utters in confusion.

“THOSE FUCKING HOMEWRECKERSSSS!!” Sir Pentious barks from outside.

“WAIT A SECOND! THEY MIGHT BE IN A POLY RELATIONSHIP!” Blitz shouts. “HOLY SHIT! WHICH OF THE FOUR OF YOU TOPS?!”

Husk sighs. “THOSE ARE OUR REAL NAMES, DUMBASSES!!”

“ARE YOU SURE?!” Sir Pentious questions loudly.

“IT’S FOUR O’CLOCK IN THE FUCKING MORNING! WHAT’S WITH ALL THE SCREAMING?!?” Vaggie yells.

“HUSK AND ANGEL ARE CHEATING ON EACH OTHER!!!” Nifty claims loudly.

“THEY MIGHT BE IN A FUCKING POLY RELATIONSHIP!” Blitz argues back with her. “WHICH I LOVE THAT FOR YOU GUYS! YOU GO TEAM! FEEL FREE TO GET INTO FOURSOMES! DON’T MIND US!!!”

Husk slaps his forehead. “Idiots.”

Angel sighs in discouragement. He lets Husk go and walks over to the door, opening it to reveal Nifty, Sir Pentious, Blitz, and tired Vaggie staring up at him.

“Does it look like there’s the four of us in here?!” Angel shouts at them.

Blitz looks into the room. “Well, the other two might be hiding somewhere. Hey, Henry! Tony--!”

“It’s Anthony,” Angel responds in a deadpan tone.

Blitz gasps. “I knew it! I knew you guys are in a poly relationship!”

“What?” Nifty and Sir Pentious respond in unison.

“Angel corrected me on Anthony’s name. That means the four of them know each other and thus in a poly relationship!” Blitz theorizes.

“No! We’re not!” Husk snaps. “Henry and Anthony are our real names! Anthony!” he points to Angel, referring to him as Anthony. Then he points at himself. “Henry!”

The group takes a moment to process the information.

“Oh! Henry and Anthony are your real names before you died!” Blitz gasps in realization.

“YES!” Both Husk and Angel answers in unison.

The group stays silent for second.

Vaggie sighs and looks up at them. “Do you want us to call you guys Henry and Anthony--?”

“No,” both Angel and Husk respond in unison.

“Okay, we have our answer then. Now let’s just go back to sleep,” Vaggie announces to the group before storming off to find her room she shares with Charlie and Bella.

Blitz’s eyes sparkle and coos, “Aww, you guys call each other by your real names. That’s so cute! I love that for you both.”

Nifty sighs in disappointment. “Aww man, I don’t get to punish bad boys.”

Sir Pentious wipes the sweat off of his brow with a sigh in relief. “Let’sss get back to bed. Shall we?”

Sir Pentious, Nifty, and Blitz walk away from the couple with Blitz smirking to himself.

Angel shuts the door and looks at his short boyfriend. “You know, babe, maybe we should tell everyone our real names so that no one thinks we’re cheating on each other.”

“Heh, it’s kind of funny now thinking about it. We should’ve make a mystery and let them assume we’re in a poly relationship,” Husk says with a chuckle.

Angel smirks at Husk. “Aw, Husky, are you really cheating on me with this Anthony guy?”

“Hey, you’re the one cheating on me with this Henry fucker. Whoever the fuck he is,” Husk teases his tall boyfriend.

“Maybe we should invite our little homewreckers over and get some action on. What do you say?” Angel flirts with Husk.

“What kind of action are we talking about?” Husk flirts back.

Angel cups Husk’s face. “You know what kind of action I’m talking about.”

Husk hums. “This isn’t a goodbye kind of thing?”

“Oh no, baby. We don’t have to say goodbye,” Angel says while picking Husk up and pinning him against the wall. “In fact, we don’t have to go all the way tonight.”

Husk blushes madly. “Fuck you.”

“Only if you want to fuck me, baby,” Angel teases Husk.

Husk hides his face in his hands while groaning in embarrassment. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Oh, I do,” Angel says before his eyes move down to find his boyfriend’s erection pressed against his pants. A smirk corners on Angel’s voice. “Are you sure you don’t need help down there?” One of his bottom set of hands squeezes the bulge.

Husk lets out a moan in shock. “The fuck?”

“I’m being gentle,” Angel whispers to Husk, reassuring him. “You feel so warm down there, baby.”

Angel squeezes Husk’s bulge gently, letting him moan more.

“I’ll do it if you let me, baby,” Angel whispers. “Just say the word and I’ll do it.”

Husk huffs, his furry face sweating. “You know, you can be a bastard sometimes.”

“Am I sexy bastard?”

“Fuck yeah, you are.”

Angel crashes his lips into Husk’s, moaning into the kiss. They start to kiss passionately, their bodies pressing against each others.

“Fuck, baby,” Husk breathes once Angel breaks away from him.

Angel presses his lips again, sliding his tongue past Husk’s lips so effortlessly. Husk opens his mouth wider, letting his tongue lick the bottom of Angel’s.

Angel breaks away from Husk. “You’re getting good at this.”

“What can I say? I have a good teacher,” Husk says, almost out of breath.

“Do you want me to teach you everything else?” Angel asks in a husky tone, letting his bottom set of hands unbuckle Husk’s pants, but not moving them unless Husk is okay with it.

Husk blushes when he feels his pants undone. “I thought you said we weren’t going all the way tonight.”

“I mean, unless you want me to,” Angel says while going into Husk’s pants and pulling out of Husk’s dick.

Husk blushes madly and looks away from his erection in his lover’s hand with embarrassment.

“I was just going to suck it for you. Unless you have other plans,” Angel adds with a smirk.

Husk looks up at Angel and leans back against the wall comfortably. “How about you take control tonight?”

Angel widens his eyes in shock. “Me? Take control? Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want to invade your boundaries.”

“I’ll tell you when you are. For now, you get to take control. Be the top. Val usually gets you to be the bottom in most of his shows, right?”

“Well, yeah, but...are you sure--?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I ain’t your client and I ain’t Valentino. So, you get to decide if you want to go all the way or not.”

“Do you want to go all the way?”

Husk smirks. “Maybe. Unless this is a goodbye kind--”

“No, it’s not.”

Husk relaxes. “Then do what you want with me. But I’ll let you know when you’ve crossed the line, got it?”

“I got you, boo~”

~.~

Blitz walks outside of the hallway with a slurpee until he hears a needy moan from within one of the rooms. It sounds like Husk, which seems a bit odd to hear from.

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum!” Husk cries from within the room.

“Holy shit, these bitches are going to town,” Blitz utters before nodding in approval. “Good for them. Good for them.”

With that said, Blitz walks away and back to his room he shares with his crew including Stolas, Fizz, and Octavia.

~.~

The next morning, the light is getting darker, showing that there’s not a lot of time.

Everyone, except for Angel and Husk, is standing at a military formation with Vaggie walking across in front of them like a drill sergeant.

“Alright, everybody, listen up!” Vaggie calls out to the group. “The world’s ending and the light is getting darker! We don’t have a lot of time in our hands! So we’re going to need train and train hard! This isn’t the time to play around. And--” Vaggie notices Angel and Husk missing. “Where’s Angel and Husk?”

Blitz smirks and makes a sign by forming a hole with his one hand and using his index finger to point into the hole.

“Blitzy,” Stolas scolds quietly.

“What? They were doing it last night,” Blitz responds.

Vaggie groans and hurries up towards the room where Husk and Angel are at, pounding at their door. “Get up! You guys need to train with everyone else!”

“Five more minutes,” Husk moans tiredly from the other side of the door.

“What a bitch,” Angel groans, but isn’t as quiet as he thought it would come out.

Vaggie’s face turns red with anger as she kicks down the door with so much force.

“What the fuck?!” Husk shouts, covering his nakedness with the blanket.

“Get your fucking clothes on! The world’s going to end soon, and if we don’t get out there and train, we’ll lose everything!” Vaggie shouts, throwing Husk’s discarded pants at them without caring why it’s off in the first place. 

“Man, alright! Alright! Geez, fucking bitch,” Angel groans while both Husk put on his pants.

Vaggie rolls her eyes at them. “Malditos idiotas(Fucking idiots).”

“¡Escuchamos eso, perra!(We heard that, bitch!),” Husk shouts from the other room.

Vaggie groans and walks away from them.

Angel and Husk has their clothes on, walking out of their rooms getting themselves together. As they stand next to the others, they notice Husk and Angel’s furs disheveled.

“Alright!” Vaggie continues with her announcements. “As I was saying, we need to train! It’s only the matter of time before we have to fight against Morrigan and Orais and stop the world from ending!”

“What are we waiting for?!” Sir Pentious determines. “Let’ssss get to fucking training!”

With that said, everyone nods their heads along with Sir Pentious words.

~.~

The group disperses amongst themselves with Lilith talking to the cannibals and teaching them how to fight better.

Stolas uses his Grimoire book to teach Octavia some magic in battle, throwing fireballs at the training dummies to demonstrate for her.

Octavia forms a fireball that is flickering until it explodes in front of them. Stolas puts a protective arm around her and forms a small reassuring smile at her. He places her hands and helps her create the fireball in her hands. She gasps happily, but notices her fireball turning purple.

Stolas cocks his head to the training dummies to tell her to release it.

With a small smile, Octavia releases the purple fire onto the training dummy in front of her, setting it ablaze with purple fire. Her eyes sparkle as she hops in excitement.

Meanwhile, Blitz fires the pistol at all the bottles up on the shelves with Angel firing his bullets at the moving dummies from next to Blitz.

Moxxie takes out bottles that Blitz isn’t shooting while Millie and Nifty works together to slash through the training dummies on the other side of the fortress.

Clara and Odette are busy helping Sir Pentious build his new airship that won’t be disintegrated so easily by an angel’s beam of light.

Cherri watches at Sir Pentious with a loving gaze, watching him getting excited like a small child.

Husk throws the pink glowing dice while Fizz aims the gun and shoots them, blowing them up.

Angel notices his boyfriend helping Fizz with his gun more. Then he speaks in Italian, “Non posso credere di averti fatto urlare ieri sera.(I can’t believe I made you scream last night).”

Husk hears that and turns to Angel. Angel smirks at him, expecting Husk to be confused by what he said.

Husk gives his lover a flirty smirk and says, “Te l'avevo detto che ero vergine, vero? (I told you that I was a virgin, right?).”

Angel widens his eyes, blushing. “You didn’t tell me you can speak Italian.”

“There’s a lot of things I don’t tell you, mi amore,” Husk says while wiggling his brows.

“Sick! You both can speak Italian?!” Blitz gasps in shock. “So can I! Watch!” The imp clears his throat and says, “Siete entrambe le mie puttane!(You both are my bitches!).”

Angel and Husk widen their eyes.

“What?” Blitz questions.

“Do you know what you said?” Angel probes.

“No, why?” Blitz inquires.

Fizz rolls his eyes with a scoff. “You just told them that they’re your bitches.”

“Wait, you can speak Italian?” Husk questions.

“Yeah...well, some of it,” Fizz says. “Enough to know the curse words.”

“Wait, that’s what it actually means? Damn it, Moxxie,” Blitz groans.

“What did I do?” Moxxie questions defensively.

“Did you teach me some Italian thing from your mob family?”

“What? No!”

“Ugh, must be Chazwick saying that about you and Millie while he’s fucking me senseless,” Blitz says while recalling where he hears that Italian phrase.

“Ew, I don't need to know that!” Moxxie snarls in disgust.

"Has Chaz been better in bed?" Millie asks. 

"No, he's still terrible in bed," Blitz responds. 

Stolas almost chokes when he hears about Blitz’s ventures. He covers Octavia’s ears and tries to get her to continue practicing her magic.

Vaggie comes up from behind the group. “Is this seriously the conversation we need to talk about at a time like this?! Keep training, guys! We don’t have time to waste!”

“We’re trainin’. We’re trainin’,” Blitz responds with a groan.

~.~

Carmilla hands Bella a battle hammer that is glowing and Nora a battle-axe.

“Sweet!” Nora chirps and flies up to swing her axe at the dummies.

Sebastian and Eleanor sniffle tearfully.

“That’s our daughter,” Sebastian says proudly.

Eleanor nods in agreement.

However, Charlie seems cautious when Bella is handed a battle hammer.

“Um...are you sure you should give her that?” Charlie questions.

“Yeah, it’s light enough for both of them to carry. Don’t worry,” Carmilla reassures Charlie while Bella is swinging her hammer around the background.

Loona tears through the training dummies.

Alastor watches with a bit of an unsure grin at Loona.

Meanwhile, Vaggie gives Emily an angelic spear and starts training her how to fight with the spear.

Emily seems to get a good handle of the spear, but she stumbles during her training fight with Vaggie. Vaggie helps her up and keeps teaching her.

Charlie, Eleanor, and Sebastian help train alongside with Nora and Bella and fight all the training dummies and tearing through them with Loona.

As Emily is training with Vaggie, her eyes wander up at the darkened red skies. She blinks and stops her training.

“Em, keep your eyes on your enemies--”

“What’s that?”

Vaggie hesitantly looks up at the sky to find four fireballs falling towards them. “Shit! Guys, get down--!”

The warning comes too late as the fireballs blow up the rooftop of the fortress. The group notices the fortress is being lifted off of the ground. They turn to see Orais is outside, using his hands to lift the fortress off of its foundation telepathically.

“Looks like we found little ants underneath,” Morrigan replies besides her husband, watching him toss the metal building aside.

Stolas immediately pulls Octavia behind him, getting out his fireball to use against Morrigan and Orais.

Blitz cocks his rifle and steps in front of Fizz, who widens his eyes in fear.

Moxxie and Millie hold hands while facing the evil couple with glares.

Husk and Angel exchange glances in concern and then they glare Morrigan and Orais while holding hands to comfort each other.

Alastor shifts his glare up at the couple.

Lilith stands in front of her people as the queen, her horns coming out the sides of her head and her eyes turn red with white pupils.

“You got a lot nerve to show up here,” Lilith growls at the couple.

“No, you got a lot of nerve to take off your little disguise,” Morrigan quips back. “What kind of queen would hide from her people, hm?”

“You’re one to talk,” Lilith growls before charging at Morrigan and Orais.

Orais steps aside, letting Morrigan take control of the fight. Morrigan manages to stop Lilith’s attack, gripping her throat.

“You’re not living up to your legend, Lilith,” Morrigan whispers to Lilith before slamming her on the ground and choking her.

“MOM!” Charlie cries before she feels green chains tugging her back. She looks to find that there is a green chain attach to the ground.

“Remember my little favor, dear?” Alastor asks Charlie. “Don’t interfere.”

Charlie struggles in her chain while watching Lilith getting beaten up by Morrigan. “MOM!”

Alastor notices something out of the corner of his eyes and turns to notice too late of the fireball hitting him. He flies across the building and crashes onto the ground. He tumbles harshly until he’s able to stop him. He glares up to find Vox, the flat-screen faced demon, having a familiar keyblade that’s now blue instead of black. Alastor widens his eyes in shock while noticing the red and orange aura around him.

“Long time, no see, Al,” Vox calls out with red liquid dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Who losts his signal now?”

Alastor looks at his staff, seeing it broken in half again. “Fuck!”

Charlie attempts to try to fight Vox away from Alastor, struggling in the chain Alastor creates for her.

Nifty charges into the scene with a maniacal laugh and hops towards Vox, but Vox uses the beam from his new keyblade and fires it at her, shoving her back.

“Let the grown-ups talk, sweetie,” Vox responds with a small insult at Nifty.

Alastor growls and stands up, antlers growing on the sides of his head. “Alright, let’s do this.” He zooms towards Vox to fight him, growing bigger to break through the building. Vox starts to spread his wings that are mostly bat wings and flies up to fight Alastor.

~.~

Husk and Angel witnesses Alastor fighting Vox along with Blitz, Millie, Moxxie, and Fizz.

“Should we help him?” Blitz asks the others.

Husk notices Sir Pentious getting Emily into his airship along with him, Cherri, Clara, and Odette. Nora hurries out of the scene to free the raptors from the big cage they built with Eleanor and Sebastian on with her.

Loona picks Bella up and takes her out of the scene where the debris are falling on them.

When Lilith notices Charlie chained to the ground, she screeches at both Morrigan and Orais, hurting their ears. Lilith flies away from the couple and hurries to Charlie, breaking her green chains and carrying her away from the falling debris.

Fizz hears creaking from the side and looks to find a sharp spider leg coming at him. He dodges it, rolling back to the group and looking up to find...Mammon?

“It feels good to be back!” Mammon growls demonically, his eyes turquoise.

“M-Mammon? But you’re not--” Fizz is slammed against the wall.

Blitz takes out his rifle. “I’m going to fucking kill you whoever you are!”

Mammon tranforms into a familiar woman that appears to be Blitz’s mother.

“You wouldn’t want to kill your own mother, would you, Blitzy?” Blitz’s mother says in fear.

Blitz softens his gaze, tears edging out of his eyes before an arm like Ozzie’s grow on Blitz’s mother and slams her fist at Blitz, causing him to fly against the wall.

“Blitz!” Angel calls out in concern before turning to find Velvette grinning wickedly at them.

“You motherfuckers fell for my tricks so easily,” Velvette says with a chuckle.

Moxxie glares at Velvette and aims his rifle up. He pulls the trigger, but Velvette catches the bullet with her mouth, swallowing it and having it burn in her lava-lamp waist.

She sighs in satisfaction and notices Moxxie’s fear growing. To add insult to injury, she shapeshifts into Crimson.

“I always knew that you’ll turn out to be a disappointment,” Crimson says, angering Moxxie.

Before Moxxie can attack, Crimson transforms into Moxxie’s mother, wearing the shoes Moxxie remembers the most of.

“Are you really going to attack your mother? After what your father has done to you?”

Millie growls and charges at Moxxie’s mother, tackling her. “You ain’t her, bitch!”

Velvette reverts back to her normal self and changes into Chazwick, the shark demon. He grips Millie’s throat and drags her across the floor, throwing her against the wall. When Millie crashes against the wall, the pitchfork nearly stabs her. She looks up to find her father glaring at her.

“Why do you have to pick such a wimp?!” Her father snarls at Millie.

Moxxie growls and runs up to Millie’s father, hopping onto his back and putting the rifle up against his throat. However, Millie’s father transforms into Striker, managing to strike Moxxie with his tail.

Moxxie flies off of Striker, hitting the ground hard.

Before Velvette, as Striker, can beat Moxxie up more, Fizz jumps in and throws punches with his robotic fists. However, one of his punches is blocked by Ozzie’s hand as Velvette transforms into Ozzie.

“Are you really going to hurt me, Froggie?” Velvette asks in Ozzie’s voice. As Ozzie, he throws Fizz against the wall. Stolas joins in the fight, throwing a fireball at Ozzie.

However, Ozzie transforms into Stella, as Stella takes out her shotgun to shoot at Stolas. However, Stella is hit by the purple fireball formed by Octavia. Stella reforms back to Velvette, who groans in pain.

Stolas turns to see Octavia losing control of her newfound powers, her eyes turning purple. She lifts up the falling debris, purple aura glowing around her hands. She has tears in her eyes as she starts to throwing debris at Velvette angrily.

Blitz and Stolas exchange glances in concern as the people in the fortress are being lifted up in the air.

“Sweetie! Sweetie, snap out of this!” Stolas responds.

“Wait, we got an advantage!” Blitz shouts, noticing disoriented Velvette being lifted up. The I.M.P crew, excluding Loona and Octavia, charge to attack Velvette. While in the air, Velvette takes on various people to fight back against the crew.

~.~

Husk and Angel are being lifted in the air, grabbing on the floating debris.

“Whoa! This is cool!” Angel gasps in shock while finding stars surrounding them.

“Is it, Angel baby?”

Husk and Angel shiver at the familiar tone, looking to the side to find Valentino standing on the debris with them.

“You know, you giving your boyfriend a blowjob gives away your location, right?” Valentino says slimly.

“Aw, shit,” Angel utters in shock.

Husk growls, his eyes turning green in anger. “Fuck you, Val.”

“This is going to be fun,” Val says while spreading his moth wings and charging towards Husk. Husk lets the tentacles rise and charge towards Val attacking him.

Bella sees this while Loona hops onto the debris towards somewhere safe. She also sees Angel jumping in to help Husk fight Valentino. However, Angel’s attack is deflected by Val’s arms, who’s glaring at him.

“Are you that willing to kill me, babycakes?” Valentino asks.

Angel growls, extending his limbs holding two extra rifles and shooting into Valentino’s torso, getting him off of him.

Valentino stumbles back, giving Husk an opportunity to tackle the moth away from his lover. However, Valentino throws Husk down onto the ground, causing a crack. Valentino turns to Angel with a smirk.

“You know, you’re so pathetic that you let your little friends defend you. You’re supposed to be with me,” Valentino growls, his wounds heal up with the blue aura.

Bella sees this and wiggles herself out of Loona’s hold.

“Bella, no!” Loona calls, floating in the air before getting caught in Sir Pentious’ ship.

Bella hops on the debris to get to Angel and Valentino with her battle hammer.

Before Valentino can lay another hand on Angel, Bella jumps over Angel and stands between them with a scowl.

Valentino guffaws. “Wow, you’re so pathetic that you let a child defend you.”

Bella growls like an animal and leaps to attack Valentino, whacking him in the face with her battle hammer. Valentino’s gold tooth flies off of his mouth. Bella comes back down in front of Angel, but Angel pulls her behind him and raises his rifles at Valentino. Valentino feels his gold tooth missing, glaring at Bella.

“Why you little bitch?!” Valentino says while blowing blue fire at Angel and Bella.

Angel lifts Bella up to shield her with his body until Husk’s tentacles block the fire from reaching both Angel and Bella.

Husk flies up and kicks Valentino in the face. He puts the tentacles down and looks at Angel. “Get Bella somewhere safe!”

“What about you?!” Angel asks in panic.

“I’ll be fine! Go!” Husk barks, charging towards Valentino to fight him more.

Angel breathes heavily in fear while hopping on the floating debris to get Bella somewhere safe.

“We have to help Husk!” Bella shouts in fear.

Angel looks back to find Husk taking Valentino down in full rage. “Eh, I think he got it for the most part!”

~.~

“We got to get out of here!” Vaggie announces while leading the cannibals out of the building as fast as they can while Lilith is still fighting Morrigan and Orais.

Charlie tries to fight the chains keeping her from running or fighting.

Vaggie sees Charlie chained up and leaves Carmilla to lead the cannibals out of the building. She flies over to her girlfriend and starts attempting to break the green chain while Alastor is still fighting Vox.

“C’mon! C’mon!” Vaggie says while using her angelic spear to cut through the shackle on Charlie’s wrist.

Lilith starts to choke by the time Charlie is released from the shackle.

“Don’t you hurt her!” Charlie barks.

“Babe, no!” Vaggie gasps before witnessing her girlfriend being stopped by Morrigan invisible grips on both Lilith’s and Charlie’s throats. With a growl, she charges into the battle and attempts to attack Morrigan. Orais interferes and slaps Vaggie away from his wife. He grabs her throat to choke her.

Meanwhile, Nora opens the cage for the raptors to come out.

“Go, go!” Nora urges the raptors as Carmilla leads the cannibals to them. Nora’s parents turn to notice Charlie, Vaggie, and Lilith struggling to fight Morrigan and Orais.

Eleanor and Sebastian exchange looks of worry and then determination.

While the cannibals hop onto the backs of raptors to fly off, Carmilla manages to shoo them away. Before Nora can hop up on the raptors, she’s suddenly embraced by her parents.

“Guys?” Nora calls Eleanor and Sebastian.

Sebastian gives Nora one last kiss on the head before running off towards Morrigan and Orais.

Eleanor lets go of Nora. “Find your siblings and get somewhere safe!” With that said, she hurries beside her husband to fight Morrigan and Orais.

“Mom! Dad!” Nora calls for her parents.

~.~

Meanwhile, Orais holds Vaggie up high by the throat.

“Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but your little princess will soon die along with the queen,” Orais says with a smirk. “So you better value your last breath.”

Before Orais can snap Vaggie’s neck, a butcher knife is thrown at Orais, impaling his shoulder. He screeches in pain, a fist slamming against his cheek by Sebastian. Sebastian catches Vaggie and lets her go, hitting Orais while he’s down with his butcher knife.

Eleanor gets out a sawblade and thrusts it to cut off Morrigan’s arm that is gripping Charlie’s throat. Morrigan gasps in shock and glares at Eleanor.

Charlie gasps for breath and witnesses Morrigan stumbling, releasing her hold on Lilith as well. Charlie picks up nearly blacked out Lilith and carries her away from the situation.

Eleanor brings the sawblade back and is about to attack Morrigan again, but Morrigan holds her only hand out, gripping around Eleanor’s throat telepathically. Before Eleanor gets a chance to speak, Morrigan snaps her neck and kills her.

Sebastian sees this and growls at Morrigan. Before he can enact his revenge for his wife, Orais grabs Sebastian's head and rips it off of his body. Sebastian’s headless body falls onto the ground, bleeding out.

Nora witnesses this and glares at Morrigan and Orais. Before she can charge towards them with a vengeance, Carmilla holds Nora back.

“Don’t! You’ll end up like them!” Carmilla warns, holding her for dear life. 

“MOM! DAD!!” Nora cries, struggling against Carmilla’s grip.

Vaggie and Charlie helps Lilith through the building, floating in the air.

Sir Pentious sees them from his ship and opens up the window. “GUYSSS, OVER HERE!”

Vaggie and Charlie jumps into the ship with Lilith in their grasps. Charlie looks around to find Emily, Cherri, Loona, Clara, and Odette.

Sir Pentious flies his ship through the floating debris, noticing Nora and Carmilla down below. Sir Pentious presses the button to sent a beam to lift them up into the ship. Carmilla and Nora are in the ship.

“Girls!” Carmilla calls while hugging both Clara and Odette.

“We’re okay, Mom,” Odette reassures Carmilla.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” Clara adds.

“Hang on!” Sir Pentious shouts to the group in the ship. He steers the ship through the starry surroundings Octavia created.

~.~

Angel hops from debris to debris while carrying Bella to reach the ship departing from the building.

“HEY, PEN!” Angel shouts.

Sir Pentious notices Angel out of the corner of his eyes and steers the ship towards Angel and Bella. Bella looks over Angel’s shoulder, finding Husk losing to Valentino when Valentino manages to burn Husk’s tentacles and gripping his throat.

“Husk!” Bella shouts.

Angel looks behind him to find Husk in trouble. As the ship approaches them, Vaggie and Charlie extend their arms out for Bella and Angel.

However, Angel decides to throw Bella to the women, letting them catch her.

“Angel!” Bella cries when she watches Angel turning back to hop from debris to debris to help Husk.

“Angel, no!” Vaggie calls out.

Before Vaggie can hop out of the ship to get Angel, Octavia starts to feel dizzy from using her powers for too long.

Stolas notices this while fighting with Velvette. “Honey?!”

Octavia falls over, the debris now falling. Stolas zooms to save Octavia and then hurries to save the rest of the I.M.P crew, including Fizz. He creates a portal to the ship and enters it with his friends, his boyfriend, and his daughter in his arms.

Vaggie hasn’t been able to get out of the ship due to the falling debris.

However, Angel tries to reach Husk and Valentino before another debris falls on him. Husk sees his lover hit by the debris, diving down to pick him up. Husk manages to catch Angel in his arms and attempts to fly through the collapsing debris until Alastor accidentally knocks Husk and Angel down when trying to fight Vox with his tentacles. Vox manages to smash Alastor onto the ground next to Nifty. Before Vox can land a killing blow, Alastor picks Nifty up and turns into the shadow with her in his grasps.

Vox punches the ground with a growl. “You fucking coward!”

The collision stops in the fortress as the ship flies away.

“Wait, we can’t leave Husk and Angel!” Bella begs them while Alastor arrives in the ship with passed-out Nifty in his arms.

“We’ll come back for them, promise,” Sir Pentious says while driving the ship away from the chaos. “For now, we need to get out of here!”

“We should be safer at the hotel,” Vaggie suggests.

“We have to hurry then,” Emily determines.

Sir Pentious flies the ship towards the hotel.

Meanwhile, Vox growls while throwing a temper tantrum. “That damn coward! He doesn’t even let me pull a finishing blow!”

“You’ll get your chance, Vox,” Orais says with a deadpan tone, managing to put his wife’s arm back on with the bright glow mending her up.

Morrigan sighs and moves her arm. “Ugh, they’re becoming stronger.”

“They’re cowering away to the hotel,” Velvette says while pointing at the direction of the ship.

“Great, now we don’t have any hostages or something,” Vox growls.

“What are you talking about? We have hostages,” Valentino says before pulling out passed out Husk and Angel out from under the debris.

“Holy shit! They left those two behind!” Vox gasps in shock.

Morrigan and Orais exchange smirks at the sight of the new hostages.

“You said that you have to renew your contract with Angel?” Morrigan asks Valentino.

“Yeah?” Valentino utters.

“I believe you got your opportunity to do so,” Orais answers. 

To Be Continued...

[ivpapaemeritusiv]

Addeline: The Darkness at the Heart of my Love

A captivating tale of love, sacrifice, and power struggles that delves into the pressure faced by the band's frontman, Papa Emeritus the IV, as the evil clergy demands he take a wife to continue his bloodline. The story unfolds as he meets a young woman willing to sacrifice everything for him, but she eventually grows weary of her role. As she seeks a new path, another character steps in to support her, leading to a complex web of emotions and loyalties within the band and the malevolent ministry, threatening to tear them all apart. Amidst these pressures and complexities, the question remains: can their love endure, or will it be their undoing?

Characters: Papa Emeritus and original female character; Sister Imperator, Papa Nihil, Papa Emeritus's children, Swiss/ghoul, Sodo/ghoul, Aurora/ghoul, Cirrus/ghoul, Aether/ghoul, Mountain/ghoul, Rain/ghoul, Cumulus/ghoul.

Fanart

Chapter 1: Holy Mother

Chapter 2: Come Together for Lucifer's Son

Chapter 3: Summoned For a Divine Cause

Chapter 4: Wanna Bewitch You in the Moonlight

Chapter 5: Are You Ready to Stand Rite Here Rite Now?

Chapter 6: You Want to Play with the Sire?

Chapter 7: I'll Be the Shadow, You'll Be the Light

Chapter 8: Can You Hear Me Say Your Name Forever?

Chapter 9: Elizabeth, in the Chasm where was My Soul

Chapter 10: I'm Your Rock, Baby

Chapter 11: Kiss the Go Goat

Chapter 12: Cry For Absolution

Chapter 13: You Will Never Walk Alone

Chapter 14: And We Are Tied as One Eternally

Chapter 15: Suffering For the Lord is Not an Easy Thing

Chapter 16: Kaisarion, A Prophecy Told

Chapter 17: Your Beauty Never Ever Scared Me

Chapter 18: This Chapel of Ritual

Chapter 19: That Glitter Wasn't Gold

Chapter 20: It's Your Burning Yearning Need to Bleed

Chapter 21: Drink Me, Eat me, Then You'll See the Light

Chapter 22: Opus and Cirice

Chapter 23: Call Me Little Sunshine

Chapter 24: Your Desolation Led You into This

Chapter 25: The World Rests Heavy on Your Shoulder

Chapter 26: Can't You See That You're Lost Without Me?

Chapter 27: Together As One

Chapter 28: Meliora

Chapter 29: But He's The Guy You Wanna Do

Chapter 30: Don't You Vomit Savage Slurs

Chapter 31: They Don't Hear Your Cries in Your Own World

Chapter 32: And You Know That It Takes Two

Chapter 33: Scourge In the Guise of Sanctity

Chapter 34: I Am the One Lascivious

Chapter 35: Can You Hear the Rumble That's Calling?

Chapter 36: You Go Down Just Like Holy Mary

Chapter 37: No Return from This Excursion of Possibilities

Chapter 38: All Your Faith, All Your Rage, All Your Pain

Chapter 39: I Know You Need It Now to Make You Feel Alive

Chapter 40: Even When You're Dead and Gone

Chapter 41: If You by Then Have Forgiven Me

Chapter 42: Faith is Mine

Chapter 43: You Share Not the Blood of Ours

Chapter 44: We Will Break Away Together

Chapter 45: We Focus on Your Death

Chapter 46: Future is a Foreign Land

*There is an alternate ending to this story on AO3*

[littlepeakydevil]

Part 21: The Shadow of the Abattoir

Summary: Tommy questions the gardener on Lily's location, and Lily seizes a possibility for escape.

Word Count: 5,170

Warnings: Torture, violence, mutilation, suicidal thoughts, and references to sexual assault.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 24: Twisted & Deranged

Tommy unfolded the razor that he’d pulled from his pocket. Light from the lanterns in the room flickering off of the blade as he turned it to and fro, the glinting metal promising a sharp, painful bite.

“You can go, Charlie,” he said softly. He’d shed his overcoat, suit jacket, and hat, leaving him in just his waistcoat and button down. The leather of his black gloves creaked as he tightened his fingers around the handle of the razor. 

Charlie looked nervously between him and the man bound to the chair in front of them. “Tommy…”

“You can go,” he repeated, voice still remaining soft, though his eyes did not leave the gardener. 

Charlie hesitated for a moment, then nodded, plucking up his lantern and shuffling out the door. Tommy waited until the hinges had squealed shut behind him, and then he began to approach the man tied to the chair.

Paul Smith. That was his real name. Not the one that Lizzie had hired him under. They’d found two sets of identification forms on him. Tommy was guessing that Luca had Sabini helping him make up new identities for people. 

Paul Smith, who’s piece of shit rapist son Lily had castrated not that long after she’d first started working for him. 

He remembered watching her that night. Fascinated. In awe of the way the orange light from the lanterns reflected off her fiery hair. The way that her eyes danced with curiosity and primal bloodlust as she watched Xavier Smith bleed out before her, turning the blade she was holding over in her small hands. 

She’d looked beautiful, wild and unhinged. But her movements had been controlled, her eyes analytical as she observed the way Smith’s body jerked and quickly drained as he died. 

After, when her blood had cooled and it was just the two of them, she cried in his arms, head tucked against his neck while she clung to him as if he were her only lifeline.

He’d promised to protect her. That no one would ever hurt her again. How badly he had failed, in that regard. 

Crouching down in front of Paul Smith, crowding into his line of sight, Tommy stared into the man’s small, black eyes.

“Where is she?” 

Paul stared back at him stubbornly, jaw tightening. “I don’t know.”

Tommy could see the lie in his eyes. Frustration flared through his nerves, like an angry dragon roused while atop its nest of gold. He did not have time for this. 

“Yes, you do,” he somehow managed to keep his voice calm, despite the desire to slice and scream and kick something. 

“I’m dead anyway, why would I tell you shit?”

Tommy cocked his head, considering, then nodded. “You’re right. You are going to die. But not until I have the information that I need. How long that takes, and how painful it is for you, however…” he passed the razor from hand to hand idly. Paul’s eyes followed the gleaming blade warily. “That’s entirely up to you.” He brandished the weapon in Paul’s face, bringing it to just a few inches away from the corner of his right eye, enjoying that way that the man tried to cringe back from it. “You tell me what I need to know now, and I’ll make it quick,” he promised. 

Paul was shaking, but when he looked up at Tommy, his expression was steadfast. Stubborn. 

Alright, then.    

Drawing himself up to his full height, he flexed his fingers around the grip of the razor, head tilting while he considered. He couldn’t take his tongue, at least not while he still needed him to speak. 

A shiver wracked down his spine. Every time he blinked, he was transported back to that dimly lit room, Vincente Changretta bound before him, mumbling prayers in Italian while Tommy danced on the line of losing what little sanity he had left. 

Arthur’s bullet in the old man’s head was the only thing that had saved him from turning into a monster. 

But Arthur was not here. And Tommy could not stop. If he did, he may never see Lily again.  

Leaning forward, Tommy brought the razor to Paul’s face. Pressing the tip of the blade against Paul’s cheek, he drew it down in a diagonal line starting at the corner of his eye to his lips, but not exerting enough pressure to actually break the skin. 

“Tell me where she is.” He commanded. At no answer his temper flared, eyes narrowing, getting right down into Paul’s face. “You want me to castrate you like Lily did to your fucking son?” he snarled. Paul flinched, a tiny little whimper emitting from his throat, so quiet Tommy might not have heard it if their faces weren’t inches away from each other. His captive clenched his jaw, but it did no good to hide the way that his lips trembled. 

“She’s getting what she deserves after what she did to my Xavier.” Despite practically shaking in his boots, Paul’s eyes were blazing like two twin flames, chin jutting up slightly when he spoke. 

Tommy rocked back, eyes widening. For a moment, he was nearly blinded by a pulse of rage so white-hot it could put the sun to shame. The leather of his gloves creaked when his hand tightened unconsciously around the handle of the razor. 

He took a deep breath, managing to wrestle himself back under control before the rage burst from his very veins and he did something he’d later regret. The man was probably trying to goad him into losing his temper and killing him prematurely. 

“Your son,” he wetted his lips, forcing his voice to remain level, “was a rapist sack of shit, and he got the punishment appropriate for his actions.”

Paul’s face flushed with anger. “And now so is she. Mr. Changretta promised me that he’d make her pay. That he would punish her for all the pain and fear she’s inflicted in your name upon those of us who live in this city. He’s going to destroy her.” He let out a creaky, pained sound that Tommy realized after a moment was a laugh. 

Tommy forced himself to take a step back, refusing to let himself lash out like he so wanted to. His hands were shaking, and he tightened his grip on the razor in an attempt to stifle it. His imagination danced with the horrid images that had been cycling on a loop inside his mind.  

His Lily. His sweet girl who at times was the only source of positivity and joy in his life. They were hurting her. At this very second, this very moment. She was alone. Scared. Probably wondering where he was and why he hadn’t come for her yet. 

The very suggestion that she may think he’d up and abandoned her spurred him into sudden movement, the blood rushing so loudly in his ears that he hardly even heard the words Paul was still spewing at him.   

“God, I wish I could have watched. Hearing her cry and scream would have made me–” 

 An echo of his own voice, from what felt like an entire lifetime ago, screaming in the dark, razor brandished out in front of him, thundered in Tommy’s head. 

I’m a Blinder I’ll take your fucking eyes first! 

Lunging forward, he grasped Paul with one hand by the sides of his face, halting any more words that may have come from his lips. 

The razor in his hand was a precise little blade. Perfect for making the most delicate of incisions. 

He severed the muscles around Paul’s right eye with two quick flicks of his wrist. Distantly, he was aware that his captive had started screaming, but he didn’t really hear it as he wiped the razor clean and tucked it back into his pocket. One hand keeping Paul’s face held firmly still, Tommy jammed his gloved fingers into his eye socket. He had to flex and wriggle his digits a little to drive entirely under the eyelids and get a good grip on his slimy eyeball. Paul howled, twitching and writhing in his bonds, trying in vain to jerk his face away from Tommy’s steel grip.  

With a sharp twist and a yank, Tommy tore the eyeball cleanly from its socket, a bloody tail trailing out from the back of the surprisingly firm sphere. Blood poured copiously from the newly fashioned hole in Paul’s head, running in a gushing waterfall down the right side of his face. 

Tommy tossed aside the eyeball unconcernedly, instead seizing Paul by either side of the cheeks. His black gloves left red smears against his skin. The man sobbed, mouth open and gaping with pain filled wails as Tommy curled two fingers into the bloodied hole where his eye had been, pressing down on the sensitive, irritated tissue. 

“You tell me where she is now, or I’ll take the other fucking eye,” he threatened, voice a low growl. The pure monstrosity that he heard in his own voice sent a shiver down his spine. 

He sounded like some thing risen up from the depths of hell. An instrument of nothing but misery and pain. 

Paul just continued to sob, shaking in the chair so violently that the wooden legs rattled against the floor. Tommy let go of his face, still looming over him as he watched the man’s head bow forward, gaping eye socket still bleeding heavily. He’d need to be careful, to ensure that he didn’t drain too fast. 

No answer to his question came, and so Tommy reached back into his pocket, razor once more finding its home in his leather clad palm. 

This time, when he descended upon him, Paul begged him to stop. Broken, whimpering pleas that were quickly cut off by another agonizing cry when Tommy dug the razor into the skin around his remaining eye. The overwhelming coppery scent of blood and what Tommy realized a moment later to be urine filled the warehouse. The bastard had fucking pissed himself. 

Fingers diving in, he took hold of the eyeball and twisted it slowly in the socket almost a full ninety degrees before ripping it out with the same ease that he’d removed the first. There was a roaring in his ears, sickness twisting in his gut from the tiny part of him that still clung to sanity. His veins sang with the thrum of fast pumping blood, a twisted sense of vindication washing over him. 

They were hurting Lily because of the man before him. He would like to think that he’d at least partially paid him back for the pain that his actions had caused his lover. 

“WHERE IS SHE!?” he roared, mouth but a breath away from the crimson, empty sockets staring back at him. The stench of blood was almost dizzying, only further addling Tommy’s mind and adding to the bloodlust, rage, and overwhelming terror that fully encompassed him. He was shaking, he realized, mind beginning once again to take up a horrible chant. 

You’re too late. You’re too late. You took too long, and it’s too late. She’s dead. She’s gone. They’ve destroyed her, they’re hurting her, they’re raping her, they’re killing her, it’s all my fault, oh God, oh God, Lily, no…

In a movement driven by rage–at Paul Smith, at Luca Changretta, at himself–Tommy lurched forward and plunged his thumb into one of the fresh, bloody divots where Paul’s eyes had once been, digging in deep. The man’s screams finally pierced through the roar of self loathing echoing in Tommy’s ears, echoing so loud throughout the warehouse that there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that anyone in the yard would be able to hear him. Hell, they could probably hear him all the way down the bloody street. 

“YOU WANT ME TO CUT MORE FUCKING PIECES OFF OF YOU? WHERE. IS. SHE!?” He did not recognize his own voice. Had not even known that his vocal cords were capable of making such a menacing sound. 

“The church!” Paul suddenly started to wail. “They took her to the church! It’s a thirty minute drive south on the road from Miss. Stark’s house! Please, just stop…”

Tommy immediately knew which church he was talking about. It was a big, white building with lots of stained glass windows. The bowels of it had once been used to hold individuals deemed enemies of the Catholic church, or those who needed to be placed under the watchful eye of a priest while seeking penance. 

He straightened, the bubble of blind madness that had enveloped him popping with Paul’s confession. His stomach turned as he took in the full scope of what he’d just done, swallowing hard. 

“Are you lying to me, Paul?” he asked, voice soft once more. Paul whimpered, trying to shrivel back further into himself, as if expecting at any moment to feel the bite of Tommy’s razor slicing into his skin again. 

“No…no…I swear. I swear…” 

Tommy cocked his head, not detecting any lie in his voice or remaining features. But still, he debated whether or not it would be worth it to keep him alive until they were sure that the information he’d offered up was true. 

He was still weighing options in his head when the door behind him creaked open.

“Tommy, I just–Jesus bleeding Christ!” Arthur’s report was promptly cut off by his exclamation of shock when he took in the bloody mess before him. It was only then that Tommy realized that he had blood all over the sleeves of his white shirt, red smeared down the front of his waistcoat and a few sticky droplets clinging to his cheeks. 

“He says that they’ve got her at a church near Lizzie’s house,” Tommy told his older brother calmly, deciding that it would be better for his own sanity if he did not think too hard about how he must look. Eyes glazed over, hazy with violence and desperation, a slight tremor in his hands, brutality roiling off him in waves. He wondered if he finally looked like the monster so many in Small Heath believed him to be. 

 Arthur just gaped at him, gaze darting from his blood drenched brother to the eyeless man slumped over in the chair behind him. Ignoring the shocked expression, Tommy went to grab his coat.

“Come on.”

“You’ll never get to her in time,” Paul was still sobbing, greatly undercutting the bite Tommy was certain he intended to carry in his words. “Luca…Luca has plans for her…”

Tommy clenched his jaw, hand squeezing so hard around the grip of the razor that the joints in his fingers ached. Something was trembling inside him. That need to rage and scream scratching at his insides. He went stock still with the effort that it took to force it down, eyes fixed firmly on the ground, his back to Paul. Paul, who just kept on talking.  

“Even if by some miracle you get her back, she’ll never be the same.” A hiccupping combination of a laugh and a sob interrupted him. “The Red Demon is dead. She’s gone. You’ll never see her again–” 

The thing within, which he had up until that point by some massive feat of will managed to battle back, snapped. 

A sound that was half scream, half roar tore from his lungs, whirling and promptly lunging at Paul. He seized the back of his head with one hand, brought the blade to his throat with the other, and slashed with a furious, uncontrolled movement. The razor ripped through skin, blood, and muscle, severing vocal cords and windpipe. Blood exploded upwards in a fountain-like spray, droplets spewing to dot Tommy’s cheeks, like crimson freckles to add to the collection that he already had covering his skin. More poured out to cover his hands and wrists, sticking to the leather of his gloves and soaking the white sleeves of his shirt. 

“Tommy!” Arthur shouted, and he was half aware of his older brother’s hand on his shoulder, trying to pull him away. Straightening, chest heaving with heavy breaths, Tommy allowed him to draw him two steps back. Arthur looked from him to the man twitching and steadily drowning in his own blood in the chair. “What if he was lying?” 

“He wasn’t.” Wiping his face on his sleeve, leaving a red smear where his skin made contact with the material, Tommy went to collect his coat, cleaning the razor and dropping it into his pocket with shaking hands. “They’re holding her at a church not far from Lizzie’s house. Come on.” He shot one last look at Paul, collapsed back in the chair, limbs dangling limply, his head lolled back as blood pulsed sluggishly from the open wound in his throat.

“Tommy, the Golds are still all the way across town. I told them you wanted them, but it’ll still be a while before they arrive here.”

“So you wait for them. I’m going.”

“Tommy! What if it’s a trap?” Arthur scrambled to keep up with him as he made his way to a car stored out of the rain. “You should wait for backup.”

“Can’t wait,” he shook his head, opening the car door and slipping into the leather seat. 

“Tom!” Arthur latched onto the frame of the open window. “Just stop and think for a moment–”

Tommy looked up at his brother, and there must have been something in his eyes–desperation, fear, madness, he could not have known–because Arthur drew back with a grave look. 

“The church that’s thirty minutes south from Lizzie’s house. You can use the other car in the garage.” He dug out the keys from his pocket and tossed them at him. “Follow me there now, or sit here and wait for the Golds. It’s your choice, but I’m going.”

“Tommy…” Arthur murmured in one final plea. But Tommy shook his head. 

“I have to go, Arthur.”

His brother said nothing more as he watched him push the button to start the engine and begin to drive out into the cold, rainy night. When he glanced in the rear view window, he could see him still standing there, hands limp at his sides, watching the car pull out of the yard. 

Dragging his eyes away, Tommy adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, drawing in a deep breath, attempting to calm the jitteriness that had begun to eat at his limbs. His foot pressed down hard on the accelerator, the engine roaring, the car rolling faster and faster down the road. Images of the bleeding Paul Smith nudged at the edges of his mind, but he pushed them away, instead focusing on the dark road in front of him.

Hoping the he was not too late. 

∗ ∗ ∗

The entire room was filled with the overwhelming coppery stench of blood. Like an abattoir containing freshly slaughtered animals hanging from meat hooks. 

Everything hurt. Not a single nerve was spared from the burn or throb of fiery pain. 

She kept her eyes closed, lacking the energy required to even open her eyelids. Not that she particularly wanted to. Being awake meant being in pain. At least while in the sweet embrace of unconsciousness she was free from the agony that coiled throughout her entire body. 

“Do you think she’s alive?” came a voice, speaking in Italian. Lily made no indication of hearing it, body remaining limp despite the horrid pain it caused within her shoulders.

“Nah, she’s still breathing, see? Look at her chest.”

A chuckle. “As if I could look anywhere else.”

Bile rose in her throat at the reminder that she was still naked, even though the dried blood on her body covered a good portion of her pale skin. 

She could hear the soft scrap and shuffle of their shoes against the floor as they circled her. Like two vultures, swooping around and around above an injured gazelle they knew would soon succumb to its wounds. 

“Any idea what Luca’s got planned for her next?”

“No idea. I’d say he’s outdone himself already.”

Silence, for a moment. “Shame that he won’t let us have a taste.”

Her limbs stiffened a little with dread, though thankfully not enough for either of the guards Luca had left to keep an eye on her to notice. One of them made a sound of agreement. 

“When will he be back?”

“Don’t know. A couple hours, probably. He was going to go have dinner with his mother.”

From beyond the door, Lily thought that she heard some sort of commotion, but she couldn’t be sure that it wasn't just her hearing things.

“What the hell is that?” asked one of the men who’d been circling her, and only then did she know that the sounds she was hearing were real. There was a creak as the door was shoved open.

“Giovanni, Marco and Nico want you. Something about settling some dispute they’re having over their game of cards.” 

Giovanni sighed. “Are you serious? Why can’t you or one of the other boys settle things between them?”

“You know that Nico only listens to you.”

There was a good deal of grumbling from the guard, turning to his companion. “Stay here with her.”

“C’mon, man. I wanna go play cards with the boys. She’s out cold and tied up. Not to mention beaten to shit. What’s she gonna do?”

“Nothing, probably. But Luca will have more than our balls if something happens while on our watch.”

A grumble. Then, “fine. Just don’t take too long.”

There was the sound of footsteps towards the door, the squeal of its hinges closing again, then silence. 

“You awake?” There was shifting in front of her, and then a light prod given to her stomach. She had to grit her teeth together to hold in a hiss of pain as she was sent swinging slightly back and forth. The guard huffed, shoes scraping roughly against the stone floor as he paced in front of her, snorting at her lack of reaction. “Figures.” She heard a rustle that sounded like he was turning around. She waited a beat and then, very deliberately, fluttered her eyes open just enough that she could see through her lashes. 

The guard had his back to her, head bowed and fiddling with his hands folded in front of him. He was close enough that she could have poked the small of his back with her toe if she wanted. 

Tucked into his belt, right there, right within reach of her foot, was a hunting knife. 

Lily’s eyes popped open the rest of the way, gaze zeroing in on it like she would a beacon.

It was hooked into his belt in a way that, if she could wrap her toes around the hilt, she could easily pull it free. Of course, she would have to deal with him first. 

A tiny bloom of hope started to build in her chest. 

She could very easily die. There was no way to tell how many men Luca had stationed upstairs guarding her. 

Better to be shot to death in a fight than to endure anymore of this.

Toes flexing, she experimentally tensed the muscles in her legs, encouraging blood flow. This would hurt like a fucking bitch, but she had no choice if she wanted that knife. 

With a quick, deep breath, she tensed the muscles in her core, raised up one of her legs, and swung it around to wrap around the guard’s neck, using the momentum of the swing to keep her leg turning, until she heard a sharp crack emit from his neck. 

White sparks of pain flew across her eyelids, every bit of her screaming in agony at the sudden movement. It took everything she had not to let the guard’s body drop to the floor, and several moments of gasping, trembling breaths before she could bring herself to move again. 

Leg still wound around the guard’s neck, and squeezed it tight to keep his body half raised up while her other foot reached down, grabbing at the hilt of the hunting knife. A grunt of strain left her lips as she fought to get a good grip on it, grateful that the hilt wasn’t so thick that she couldn’t get her toes around it.

She had to take another break once she had it out of the belt, letting the guard’s heavy body drop with a thud to the floor. Now came the next hard part. If she dropped the knife, she was fucked. For a second, she wondered if it would be easier to slit her own throat, rather than to cut herself loose. 

Shaking the thought away, she tightened the muscles in her core again, and raised her leg up, up, up. Her back curled, screaming in pain the entire time, while she contorted herself to pass the knife from her foot to her bound hands. Whimpers rocked from her lips, half numb fingertips flexing as they tried to grab the knife. The muscles in her stomach trembled with exertion, sweat beading on her brow. Never before had she been so thankful for her past time practicing contortionism as a kid, or the exercises she'd continued to partake in over the years to maintain her flexibility. 

Her hand finally managed to snatch the knife, squeezing it in a white knuckled grip. She didn’t have the dexterity or coordination with her toes to trust herself to be able to saw through the ropes around her wrists. The muscles in her core and leg relaxed, swinging down from their inwardly curled position. A yelp left her lips as she swung back and forth with the momentum. It felt like that one action had sapped nearly all of her energy. 

Just a bit more, she told her tired body. Omitting, of course, that once untied she’d still likely have to fight her way through Luca’s men. Craning her head up, she focused on maneuvering the knife to slice through the rope that kept her bound wrists dangling from the ceiling. It was harder than she’d thought; the angle was funny and her hands sweaty. She almost dropped the knife twice, heart stuttering with terror each time.  

Finally, she got the knife at the right angle and began to saw. Tears started to stream down her face as the rope, little by little, started to give way. When it finally snapped, she went falling to the ground with an unceremonious thud that knocked the wind out of her, groaning softly against the cold, blood-slickened stone.

She laid there for a moment, so exhausted that she was half tempted to just curl up there and close her eyes, not caring that she was now lying in the pool of blood that had collected beneath her over the days of torture Luca had subjected her to. But a part of her–the part that by some miracle still had a drive to live–forced her to raise her head and drag herself up, fumbling with the knife and crawling towards the guard’s body beside her. With a heave, she rolled him over, fumbling in his suit jacket until her fingers kissed the grip of a revolver. 

She really started crying then, yanking it from the holster and checking it to find a full round of golden bullets already loaded inside. She striped him hastily out of his clothes, pulling on his white button down shirt and trousers with shaking fingers. They were much too big for her, but she rolled up the sleeves and pants legs and used his belt to cinch the trousers around her waist, determining that they were better than nothing, and would hopefully provide some sort of protection and coverage for her many gaping wounds. 

Scrambling, half slipping on the blood on the floor, Lily went to the door. It was locked, and that had a heaving sob leaving her lips, even as she moved to press her back to the wall next to it, stuffing the revolver into her waistband and clutching the knife with shaking hands. 

It was not long until she heard footsteps approaching from outside, and then the click of a key sliding into a lock.   

“Hey Leo, if you want to go upstairs–” the guard started to say as he opened the door, but was unable to finish his sentence on account of the slice of her blade across his throat. His eyes widened, hands flying to the slit in his skin. Lily seized him by the front of the shirt, dragging him into the room with her. He was trying to grab at her, mouth working as if attempting to shout. She drove the knife up under his ribs into his heart, waiting until he’d stilled before reaching into his jacket for his gun. Sheathing the knife in her belt, she fumbled through his pockets until she found a ring of keys, stashing them away in her pocket. She stuffed the second gun in the back of her waistband. 

Both hands wrapped around the grip of the first gun she’d taken, she cautiously kicked the ajar door open the rest of the way, poking her head out to peer down the hallway leading to a flight of stairs. 

There was no one there. 

Tentatively, she started to creep out of the room that had served as her prison cell for the last few days. A surge of adrenaline had helped to somewhat dull the pain she was in, but everything was still extremely tender and raw, wounds rubbing painfully against the fabric of her oversized clothes. She was walking with a notable limp, one hand groping for the wall to help keep her upright. As she started to creep up the stairs, she could hear the sound of voices. 

The top of the stairs were closed off by a door, and she hunched down to peer through the keyhole to try to make out what was on the other side. 

She could see into a chapel, with high arching ceilings and a depiction of Jesus on the cross at the altar. Pews made of rich dark wood faced the cross. Seated at a table between the pews and the altar, two men were playing cards. Two other men were seated on the pews, passing a flask back and forth to each other. She spotted at least one other man pacing the length of the room. 

Lily adjusted her grip on the revolver, weighing her options. 

The only way out was forwards. 

Head leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes, listening to her breathing and the thunder of her heart in her ears. Trying to steady herself.    

Gun raised, she kicked open the door. 

Later, she would not be able to entirely recount what happened. Her mind blocked a lot of it out. But she knew that there was shooting. There was screaming. And there was lots and lots of blood.

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[violethowler]

After my last re-read of Iron Gold, I felt that what dragged down the pacing of the novel was how disconnected from everything Lysander’s chapters felt. His chapters didn’t have any tangible impacts on the others the way that Darrow, Lyria, and Ephraim’s did. But while re-reading Light Bringer and how Atlas and Atalantia used The Syndicate to draw the Rim into the war, I realized that the moment in Romulus’s trial where Dido name-dropped the Ophion Guild as the source of the footage of Darrow destroying the Ganymede Docks was supposed to be the big “oh shit” moment where it dawns on the reader that Lysander’s story was connected to the others all along and that the Syndicate was trying to get the Rim involved in the war on top of meddling with the Republic.

But that reveal went over people’s heads because the only frame of reference the reader has for the guild at that point is a single, easily forgotten throwaway line about Ephraim’s broker being an intermediary between the Guild and the Syndicate almost thirty chapters ago. And then we don’t even learn about the nature of the Guild and the Syndicate’s relationship until four chapters after what should’ve been our big, dramatic “oh fuck” moment.

What I think would’ve helped the flow and pacing of Iron Gold better is if they had structured the book into four parts like all the others instead of compressing everything into three.

Then we could have something like this:

Part I would basically be everything in the published Part I except for Lysander’s chapters, because my timeline notes place his chapters several weeks later while the other three POVs are happening near-simultaneously with each other, and make repeated references to the events happening in other chapters. (In other words, chapters 1-7, 10-14, 16-19, and 21)

Part II would open with Lysander’s rescue of Seraphina and capture by the Rim to set up the tension for what he’ll find when he gets to Jupiter, and then we’d cut between Lyria, Ephraim, and Darrow’s canon chapters for Part II up through Chapter 31. (So chapters 8-9, 15, 20, 23-24, and 27-31)

Part III would open on chapter 34 when Darrow finds Rhonna on board the Nessus and makes his agreement with Apollonius. Then we’d cut back and forth between Lysander’s chapters from his arrival on Io up through the chapter where Bellerphone declares a blood feud against Cassius, and the heist at Quicksilver’s party in Lyria and Ephraim’s chapters up through her escape in chapter 43. (Canon chapters 22, 25-26, 33-39, 42-43)

And then Part IV would go from chapter 44 to the end of the book, plus chapters 40-41 for the start of Cassius’s duels with House Raa. For maximum tension and dramatic impact, I would structure the chapters so that the chapter where Dido explains how she acquired the footage would come after Ephraim tells Virginia that the Ophion Guild is in the Syndicate’s pocket. (Chapters 40-41, 44-65)

I feel like that would do a much better job tying Lysander’s chapters into the rest of the book and making us feel like his plotline is connected to the others despite the physical distance.