#a wee babe chapter

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Axel: Into the Lion’s Maw V

Bandages covered the forearm closest to him, ones striped with thin, red slits.

Her chesire smile was so fragile; it twitched on the edge of sobs.

She was going to crush his shoulder.

Axel gripped her wrist. She flinched back, dragging him a step with her. Up close, he could see her lips were split. Flakes of skin dangled off. Spittle flicked from them as she giggle-cried, “Gone. Don’t you see? All gone. Just us. Don’t you see? Just us and our little audience, like a puppet crowd we stigger and stabble in the auditorium with nothing to do but fear the dreaded Exit Sign at the end of all sho—”

Axel allowed one glance.

The monsters were, in fact, gone.

With that one step, one that the demigod soldiers had unwittedly taken with them, the labyrinth had come to life and taken its own step. The hoards of monsters—their strength and shield—had vanished. There was a fork in the stone tunnel ahead. It ended in two doors, one with a golden archway; another, a wrought iron one.

He was alone with a handful of terrified demigods and a mad goddess.

“They left us,” one of the demigods shouted, “Without Ariadne’s string…” His fellow soldier—Luke’s new favorite—Nakamura?—didn’t need to finish the sentiment.

Mary spoke their fears aloud, “Everyone forgets that we all cease. How does everyone forget? You can read and read and watch and watch and drown and drown, but that’s all you’re doing. Drowning—[1]”

Lieutenant, came the gentle reminder.

The helm was correct: his job was, right now, to keep everyone calm. Something Mary was rapidly undoing.

Mary was far stronger than he. There would be no overpowering her. But, maybe he didn’t need to. Ethel needed gentleness after Zeus attacked her. Hiro, his little half-brother, needed slow movements and softness after Hiro’s mother had killed herself and tried to kill him. Mary’s desperation reflected that same fragility.

“Mary,” Axel said, maintaining eye contact, “My name is Axel. I am friends with Chris Rodriguez.”

That’s what he meant to say.

“I am the Leonis Caput,” came out instead. Axel felt like the alteration should scare him. Instead, clutching the helm brought calm detachment. “The child of Hermes was to be under my protection. As these demigods are now. We are rejoining our main force. And I do not like distractions.”

Pax would have liked it. It had dramatic flair. He would have wanted to end it with, and hear me roar.

The authoritative tone worked.

Mary released his shoulder and shrank back a step. Her lower lip quivered, making the skin flakes dance. She hugged herself, digging her nails into the scabs along either bicep.

“I can help! Help—help—please—” she pleaded, “I’ve been down here a long time. A lo-o-o-onnnng time. I’ve guided many people in the labyrinth.”

In the labyrinth, Axel noted. Not through the labyrinth.

“I know the way!” she pranced once towards the golden archway. “This way—oh, all ways are the same, but this way is best same way.”

But, Axel knew it wasn’t the way. Earlier, the flooring under Kampe and the monsters had glowed dimly. Here, the glow deadended between the two arches. “No—”

Mary had already gripped Ethan Nakamura’s arm. She dragged him towards the golden arch. “Hey!” Ethan shouted, unable to keep his footing at her speed.

“We’re going to be left behind again!” someone from the back cried.

For an exacerbated heartbeat, Axel remembered babysitting all his siblings after Uncle Frasco had given them several pounds of candy and they sprinted in two different directions. Except, that only resulted in several bags of throw up instead of the potential destruction of the entire demigod force.

 “Stop!” Axel roared. He flicked out his lighter, bit his tongue, murmured a word in Maya, and spit into the flame. It quadrupled in size, taking on a turquoise hue. With a flick of the Mist, torches around the room flared to life, providing them a parameter.

He pivoted on his scared troops. “Stay in the protective barrier. We lose no more to the labyrinth on this trip.” He sought out someone whose name he knew, someone responsible, and settled on a short brunette in the back. “Ailiseu, keep everyone here.” Before anyone could protest, he ran for the golden arch. Ethan just vanished into it, his over-sized armor clanging.

There was no protective barrier, but Alex couldn’t have them splitting up into the labyrinth. Ailiseu—he couldn’t even remember their godly parentage—was level headed. He just needed them to keep the others there until—

Heart pounding and eyes darting, Axel dashed after Mary’s footsteps as the sound retreated into the darkness. He held up his lighter with the turquoise flame. Uncle Frasco could manipulate flames like this for hours—for a whole circus show. Axel had only tried it for brief tricks. He hoped that “protective barrier” would hold.

“Hey! Let go of me, you crazy lady—” echoed ahead.

Axel almost stumbled over Ethan’s sword. He must have dropped it in the struggle. Axel slipped his foot under the hilt and kicked it up, snatching it in his left hand. The floor’s dim glow had shifted, the light trailing after the kidnapped soldier and mad goddess.

When Axel saw them, he increased his speed.

Ahead, Mary was dragging Ethan towards a pile of corpses.

Thank you for reading! I know this is a short one. And I’m only technically getting it out before the end of the weekend (er, my time zone’s weekend--) but I hope you enjoyed! Getting a short with both Ethan Nakamura and Mary. I’ve had requests on both of them and I hope this doesn’t disappoint!

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I’m hoping to resume our every-other-week schedule with a lovely forecast of dismembered limb jokes. I hope you have an awesome leap day!

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[1] Interlude brought to you by Jack’s recent existential crisis. Interlude music begins here, preformed by Pax and three weasels. Doo doo to doo doooooo—

[ineffable-suffering]

Why Aziraphale is an unreliable narrator

Part 2: The Story of wee Morag

This is Part 2 of 3 total metas. Here are:

Part 1, in case you want to read about my analysis of the Story of Job first

and Part 3, in case you're impatient and want to jump ahead.

Fair warning though, for the sake of understanding some of the references, you're probably better off reading this chaptered meta chronologically. However, every part should work just as well as a standalone! I'll do my very best to make it so.

Alright, off or on you go beyond the cutty cut!

I'll start this second part off with a very brief summary of the main take aways and points from Part 1, which go as such:

Memory, as opposed to a third party's narration, is not a factual, objective retelling of a story or event. It's mingled and mangled with emotions, imaginations and exaggerations, projecting both the feelings and impressions you had back then as well as those you might have now in the present time back on whatever it is you are remembering. (Which is why we need to put everything that Aziraphale is remembering into the context of what he might have felt in the past, as well as what he's feeling right now.)

While this doesn't mean his (or anyone's) memories are lies, it does mean they're a very subjective and sometimes factually distorted representation of what actually happened, which, in our case, gives us a lot of subtext and a lot of not-there furniture to figure out and look at.

So, let's continue with S2E3 and the Story of wee Morag. We start our flashback with a scene of Aziraphale writing his diary entry on the 10th of November, 1827. Immediately, it's firmly established that this is once again not an outside-point-of-view narration, but rather what Aziraphale remembers and wrote down.

One thing that immediately stuck out to me here, is how helpful and kind Crowley is to Elspeth, pretty much from the very beginning when they meet her in the graveyard. Not only does he take on a Scottish accent so she won't perceive him as English (as she does with Aziraphale), but he also helps her drag the barrel that has the fresh body in it and, in the end, even pulls it all by himself while Elspeth simply follows behind them. Here's a rather poor-quality picture, for reference:

Now, we know that despite not showing it very often, Crowley has always been very fond of the humans and never really put himself on a pedestal simply because he's an immortal being himself. He likes humans, just like Aziraphale does. But, just like this story will tell us, Crowley knows that on top of liking humans, you can't just put them into boxes of good and evil and expect them to always do what is supposedly the "right" or "divinely good" thing to do. (Which is what differentiates him from Aziraphale in the way he understands and treats them, as we're shown in this minisode).

Him immediately and unspokenly helping Elspeth with dragging the barrel therefore might also be a first sign of a tiny projection from present day Aziraphale, as opposed to what Crowley might have actually done (probably just walked beside her, like Aziraphale) because he has the knowledge that Crowley really was so very kind to her in the end, wasn't he? And that he's kind to humans in general. ("Not kind! Off my head on Laudanum!" Sure, babe.)

Most of this minisode, in my opinion, is actually there to establish how Aziraphale's view of morality and good vs. evil used to be quite flawed and elitist –– and how Crowley has always been there to gently nudge him towards questioning his black and white view of heavenly right and hellishly wrong. That's why I think there's not as many hints in this minisode about Aziraphale's memories not being an accurate portrayal of what happened, as there are in the Story of Job or the magic show in 1941. (And, fear not, the latter will definitely be the most hint-heavy one). Alas, there's still a few bits and bobs in the Story of wee Morag that stuck out to me, that make a brief yet good case of the whole unreliable narration thing.

First of all: The way Aziraphale describes all of it in his diary is so different from the way we see him actually remembering it. It's almost like he tried to write this entry (and possibly all of his diary) as a bit of a thrilling short story, with himself as the main character. Which makes sense, given the fact that he adores books and would certainly be keen on dabbling in the art of capital-w Writing himself. It's yet again hinting at the fact that sometimes people (and angels) try to polish and bedazzle stories (and memories) to make them seem more exciting and adventurous, often to distract from the not-so-fun parts of it.

Like when Aziraphale's diary narrates:

"It was with heavy heart we arrived at Elspeth's destination. I was determined to thwart her monstrous plan!"

... and yet we see Crowley and Elspeth casually walking down the alleyway, very obviously not heavy-hearted in the slightest, while Aziraphale nervously scurries on behind them, very obviously not determined to thwart. (Timestamp-wise, it's around 17:38 in S2E3, in case you want to see for yourself.)

We get another cinematographic/auditory hint at the fact that Aziraphale's memory is heavily influenced by what he's feeling that very moment, when Dr. Mister Dalrymple –– FRCSE, thank you very much –– shows him the tumor he removed from the seven year old boy. You can see the shock and horror on Aziraphale's face once he learns of this child's cruel fate. We then proceed to hear Mr. Dalrymple's voice grow sort of echo-y and far away as the sad music swells up and drowns out his voice almost completely. It's awfully similar to what it feels like when really horrible news are broken to you and you dissociate and drift into a state of shock. Here's the clip of it, so you may listen for yourself:

It's clear that this is a very subjective portrayal of what Aziraphale is going through during this part of the memory. He's deeply horrified and saddened about the little boy having passed away so early in life – and we hear and feel this shock with him. Through him, because this is his memory. Whatever it is he's feeling and thinking, we're feeling and thinking it too because we're seeing it through his lense.

Another (less sad) hint at a possible exaggeration is the abnormally deep hole Crowley makes the two graveyard watch keepers fall into. I'm pretty sure he's very much in charge of his miracles, making this random slip-up seem a little silly – which is why I'm also pretty sure the "Might have slightly overdone it on that hole" is a wee bit of a meta hint at this just being another one of Aziraphale's dramatic bedazzlements of this story. For the *flings feather boa around neck* drama!

You know what else might be exaggerated? Hm, I dunno, maybe Crowley growing into the size of a tree for no apparent reason. Sure, yes, he's pretty high on Laudanum which is making him a bit loopy. But apart from that, it does seem an awfully big cinematographic euphemism for him being the metaphorical (and, once again, for the drama of it) literal bigger person in this scenario. He's the one who ends up saving Elspeth and who manages to secure a safe life without poverty and grave robbing for her. While Aziraphale was so tangled up in his own moral journey and main character-ism, missing that wee Morag was seconds away from death already, Crowley is the one who actually ends up growing stepping up for the human in need and saving them for good (pun intended).

In a way, it might just be Aziraphale's view of/feelings for Crowley in this very moment. Watching the demon outgrow what, according to Aziraphale's heavenly logic, is supposed to be a foul fiend, bestowing evil upon humanity – and growing into someone who does the exact opposite and saves Elspeth instead. Another larger-than-life character development, in Aziraphale's eyes. Literally.

Let's switch back to the topic of the diary entry one last time, so I can make my final point of the this minisode's unreliable and a smidge over-dramatic narration of Dr. McFell. If you pay close attention, Aziraphale starts the entry we're all getting to experience with: "Last month, Crowley and I both happened to be in Edinburgh." Which means it didn't actually happen on the 10th of November, but rather at some point in October, 1827. Once we see Crowley get hydro-pumped back to Hell after rescuing Elspeth, the minisode ends with, presumably, the last sentence of Aziraphale's diary entry: "And that was the last I would see of Crowley for quite some time."

Take my hand and let's look at where the furniture isn't: This very clearly means that Crowley couldn't have been gone for more than a month, at best. Read again: "It happened last month and that was the last I would see of him for quite some time." This, albeit indirectly, clearly implies that when Aziraphale had sat down to write the diary entry, he had already run into Crowley again. Otherwise his phrasing would have probably been more along the lines of "... and I haven't seen Crowley since" or "... and Crowley has yet to return from wherever it is Hell's currently keeping him".

What's the point I'm trying to make? Good question. I guess my main point of storyteller Aziraphale being a bit over-dramatic in his narration is simply backed up by this, since A Single Month would barely pass as "quite some time" for an immortal being like him. And yet that's how he puts it, in his little Confidential Journals of A.Z. Fell, Vol. 603.

And another point that has absolutely nothing to do with the topic of this meta (but I'm still gonna make it 'cause this is my memory post): The meeting at St. Jame's Park in 1862 that so many, post-S2, took to be their first run-in after the Story of wee Morag, actually wasn't that at all. They saw each other at least once only a month later, as Aziraphale's diary lets us know. Which explains why he wasn't very surprised or concerned when he met Crowley in London, 1862. If there really had been 35 years in between those two events, the first one ending with Crowley being sucked back Downstairs to receive more than three decades worth of hellish punishment, wouldn't Aziraphale have been at least a tiny bit worried or more interested than:

Just saying.

Alright, let's string this inflated hot air balloon of a post back together so we can outline some invisible furniture. This time with only two humble points:

Crowley through Aziraphale's lense Backed up by how we are introduced to Bildad the Shuhite in the Job minisode (suave, cheeky, smart, passionate in shoemaking and obstetrics), it's growing quite clear that Aziraphale's memories and impressions of Crowley are very fond and impressed ones. He sees him as someone who's not only witty, funny and cool, but also as someone who has figured out way sooner and faster than him that nothing's ever black and white. Not God's plans and not the human's choices either.

Aziraphale as a bit of an exaggerating adventure author With the direct parallel we get of inkslinger journalist!Aziraphale in the present day, it's quite apparent after this minisode that Aziraphale's memory is not only deeply influenced by his emotions, but that he also tends to have a bit of a dramatic touch to him. Although, you gotta give it to the guy: A month without seeing the love of your life, even if said life is eternal, can indeed seem like "quite some time".

Well, would you lookie here, we've reached the end of Part 2! What a journey it was. I hope you forgive me for the fact that I drifted off-course a few times. I just can't seem to reel in my silly little observations, even if they've got nothing to do with the point I'm trying to make. But hey, doesn't that just make me a little bit like Aziraphale's storytelling, in a way?

I'll let you be the judge of that.

See you in Part 3! And in case you haven't snuck a peak yet: here's Part 1 again.

Ta!

[mmogurl]

In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 1: Requited Passions

18+ | 7.2k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Smut, Dragons, Political Intrigue, Plotting, Murder, lots of old timey concepts that don't make a lot of sense today, but are still kind of hot/fun.

The second born daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, Ryna, is nine and ten years old and still unwed. Despite being surrounded by suitors, she has yet to find a man who captures her interest, and bristles at the pressure to select a husband. But a chance encounter with her enigmatic uncle, Daemon, promises to disrupt all her assumptions and to set her on a path she could never have anticipated. (Loosely set in episode 6, but Laena has already died a year prior)

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 Also on AO3

The Great Hall was bristling with celebration held in honor of Viserys’ latest grandson, Joffrey Velaryon. The massive chamber was alight with dancing shadows, decorated grandiosely with Targaryen tapestries hung where all could witness to demonstrate wealth and power. Long tables filled with the most toothsome of fine delicacies lined both sides of the throne room. Perhaps Father was trying to distract the noble assembly with pomp, away from the very obvious fact that Rhaenyra’s children were all bastards.

Numerous guests filed in with their entourages in tow, announced by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Criston Cole. Ryna grimaced at who he declared next.

“House Lannister with their lord, Jason Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West, and Master of Casterly Rock,” Cole’s voice was stout enough, but had nowhere near the authority his predecessor, Lord Harrold Westerling had in his day.

The Lannister strode at the head of his retinue, like a preening peacock adorned in so much crimson and gold that one might think he were royalty and not the hosting family.

Ryna sat sandwiched between her good-brother Laenor Velaryon and Lyonel Strong, a position that made her feel most irritable as she was not even allowed the courtesy of being placed next to her own kin. The Hand was pleasant enough, albeit mostly a stranger, but she had never grown close to Laenor given how much time he spent preoccupied with affairs outside of his marriage.

As always her father, Viserys, sat proudly next to Rhaenyra, his named heir and, one might wonder at times, favored daughter, despite how much he protested to the contrary.

When the Lannister party drew close to the high table, Lord Jason bowed before them with a flourish and as his party withdrew, he climbed the steps and approached the King.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” he fawned in the manner only a Lannister could muster, a tone both disrespectful and servile at the same time. “Healthy babes are a worthy cause for celebration. Where is the strapping lad? I had hoped to pay my respects.”

Rhaenyra piped up this time, looking exhausted and not fully recovered from child bearing even though it had been days since Joffrey’s birth. Ryna supposed the wee babe had been keeping her awake more often than not.

“Prince Joffrey is resting. He would not tolerate staying up any longer. You know how babes are, always sleeping,” she replied, playing into Jason’s feigned deference.

It was then that the Lannister shot a glance down the table at Ryna. She tried to smile just politely enough so as not to encourage more attentions from the man, but it was without success.

“Your Grace…” he started off in that same falsely sycophantic tenor. “Has the Princess given any more thought to the courtship I proposed?”

Father looked down the table at her, leaning forward slightly so that he might see the expression on her face. Ryna’s eyes were pleading ‘No’ while trying to remain civil in the lord’s presence. Viserys’ features hardened with annoyance and he rested back into his chair.

“The Princess should be happy to consider your attentions. After all she is but ten and nine summers and still not wed,” his voice was stony and strict, markedly cross with her for shirking her duties even longer than Rhaenyra had.

Jason Lannister ruffled his feathers as he voiced appreciation to her father and stepped down the length of the table until he came to stand before her. Ryna had to choke back a smirk when the thought occurred to her that the Lannister’s sigil should be a primping cock instead of a lion, for Jason had more in common with a fowl than the fearsome and proud predator.

“Princess, I trust you will save me a dance?” he squawked and it took all she had to keep from rolling her eyes.

“I shall try, Lord Jason,” she answered with a prim smile through grit teeth. “But, I have not been feeling well. It might be something I ate.”

Father shot her an irate look and Ryna had no doubt that if they had been seated next to each other, that she would have felt his palpable frustration.

“The Princess is in good health,” Viserys said, with a snide smile. “Expect her company once the revelry starts.”

With a pompous smirk, Jason Lannister excused himself and made his way down the steps and back to the banquet. Ryna heaved a sigh, finding it difficult to hide her true feelings on this subject, despite years of learning to comport herself in the presence of refined company.

Viserys was still glaring at her, and she reckoned he might be wrathful enough to cause a row amongst guests and their kin alike.

“Ryna, draw near,” he called out and she rose from her seat and came to where he sat.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the birth of my grandchild, but unofficially, I had hoped you’d make use of the congregation of eligible lords and find a husband once and for all. Enough of this procrastination. Find a man worthy or I shall make the choice for you.” His voice was low so that the company in attendance of the great feast could not hear them.

“You would wed me to a Lannister?” she practically spat. “Just to fill the coffers with his dowry?!”

“Watch your tone with me, girl. You have heard me and I will not suffer your insolence any longer. Leave me so I might enjoy the festivities.” Viserys turned his head back to the next guests approaching the King’s table. He was done with her, his decision final.

Ryna could not help but to stomp swiftly away with a childish petulance that did not become a lady. Leaving her family behind, she slipped into the shadows of the great pillars that lined the throne room and made her way down a short corridor until she was outside in the crisp night air.

She let out a troubled sigh, wishing now that she had brought a goblet of wine with her. Ryna walked to the edge of the stone parapet and looked down at the splendor of King’s Landing in fall of the leaf. The color marking the trees was apparent even at nightfall and the sea was glittering in the moonlight just past the city’s edge. The sight made her feel both reverence and panic in equal measure, with a mounting desire to climb atop her dragon and take flight away.

Why should a princess of Valyrian blood be constrained to laws of man when she had the power to tame a dragon? She should be free to do as she longed to - to wed whom she desired, and not be forced to play along to such formal vulgarities, duty or not.

Ryna was so deep in thought that the nearby sound of a clearing throat startled her back to awareness. She turned sharply and could just barely make out the figure of a man leaning against the massive stone bricks of the castle wall behind her. Then her eyes caught the blinding billow of moonlit tresses and she knew it must be her uncle, Daemon, for no other Targaryen males yet had his height.

Daemon had returned from exile a year ago to attend to the funeral of his wife, Laena Velaryon, who had died in childbirth. Although to be more technically accurate, her dragon Vhagar had incinerated her once the baby would not come out. The end result was the same; Daemon widowed once again.

She had been closer with her uncle in the past, back before Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor, but her uncle had made himself scarce as of late. He spent much of his time away from King’s Landing, presumably finishing up his business in Pentos or simply behaving restlessly as Daemon was wont to do. Often she had observed his comings and goings from a distance by the sight and screech of Caraxes in the sky outside her window.

Daemon stepped forth from the shadows and approached her, yet halted at a pace’s length, his eyes roving up and down her form in keen appraisal.

He leaned in closely, his eyes of violet hooded as he whispered in a velvety, ardent tone, “My you’ve grown, niece.” His closeness and the heat of his gaze caused her cheeks to flush, and she could not help but feel a flutter in her chest.

For a moment, Ryna just stood there incredulously, unable to think of how to respond. He had never shown any interest in her before, no matter how much she had desired it. Daemon had only ever had eyes for Rhaenyra it seemed, and Ryna had always remained a child in his eyes. She had honestly forgotten those long lost unrequited desires until his simple greeting brought them all rushing back like a wave breaking hard as the tide comes in.

“Uncle,” she acknowledged him, yet scarce a word could she find in answer to his bold suggestion.

“Such beauty should never be sullied with a frown,” he continued, his demeanor charming without effort as he brushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Tell Uncle what is troubling you.”

His inquiry proved to be somewhat of a balm to her tensions, providing a welcome transition into a topic she could put words to.

“Father has given me ultimatum to choose a husband lest he choose one for me,” she pouted, her lips pursing and her eyes sullen.

“Surely it cannot be so grim, sweetling,” he reassured her smoothly and she now saw he was holding a silver chalice adorned with the the three-headed dragon, likely filled with wine. “I imagine you’d have your pick of many fine and wealthy lords.”

“I’m afraid the selection is quite lacking,” Ryna scoffed gently, feeling a fondness stir as she recalled the old pet name he’d given her in many years past. It had been some time since she had heard him utter the word, but the fact that it sounded so well when spoken by him did not escape her notice.

Daemon quickly turned her around by the shoulder, then with a firm yet gentle hand placed against the small of her back, he led her towards the balustrade. His hand remained steadfast even as they halted, and Ryna shivered involuntarily at the feel of his fingers tracing the fabric of her gown with a tender and possessive touch.

“Let me guess,” he relished with sardonic glee. “Some old and fat oaf of a lord… No doubt a widower with a dozen children?”

“That and much worse,” she scowled thinking of all of the potential suitors that had approached her father for her hand. “A Lannister so full of himself that is makes my skin crawl to think of his paws upon me.”

An easy laugh escaped Daemon’s mouth and she thought with a wry smile that many must share her disgust for the lions.

“Ah, Lannisters. What a bunch of cunts,” he chuckled condescendingly, stealing a wanton glance down her bodice. “And the rest? Are there none suitable, niece?”

Ryna pondered the question, but could not think of a single man that had caught her attention. Except for Daemon of course, but that had never been a real option, especially after his transgressions with Rhaenyra some years back. Father had tried to keep it secret, but she’d crept into the throne room upon hearing his furious yelling and had heard the entire ordeal take place between the brothers.

Even still, she could not imagine marrying anyone of plain blood. In fact, it repulsed her to think that Father would ever marry a Hightower without an ounce of Valyrian heritage. And even though her brothers were technically half Targaryen, they were both young, and while Aemond seemed sweet, Aegon was a reprehensible human being.

The answer it seemed was simple after all. “No,” she replied curtly with a rueful sigh. “There are none who please me… But, I fear Father will not be thwarted this time. He will not permit me to celebrate my twentieth nameday without a husband.”

She glanced over at her uncle and took in the almost ethereal way his pale skin glowed in the moonlight. He hadn’t changed at all, like an ageless god from the legends she’d so loved as a girl. His hair swayed against his shoulder in the slight breeze as he took a sip from his cup.

“Ah yes, sweetling, It would seem your father has you in quite the bind,” he said matching her somber tone. “No doubt he believes that time is running short. That you must fulfill your duty to the family and start producing heirs before you get much older.”

“He has been patient with me. Rhaenyra shirked her duty at first, but still acquiesced to marry at seven and ten years, but I… Well, they will be calling me an old maid soon.” She hung her head down, feeling ashamed for the way she’d behaved towards her father. He had meant well for her after all, and Ryna had done nothing but rebuke him as reward for years of lax freedom.

Daemon removed his hand from her back, sliding it gently up her arm until it came to rest below her chin. He tipped her jaw up to meet his face and she was met with a kind smile.

“Do not ever lower your head, sweetling. You are a dragon,” he said warmly, letting go so that he could sit against the stone wall beneath the balustrade. “Now, perhaps we can solve this little problem.. What would make a suitor worthy of your hand in marriage?”

She felt a hot wave of embarrassment rise within her, for she knew well the answer that rested upon her tongue, yet dared not speak the words aloud. Surely, Father would never let her have him even if she begged on her knees. Even so, Ryna didn’t see the point in lying completely. She would be honest about the qualities she sought in a partner, even if not being direct about the person whom she had in mind.

“It is important to me that my offspring remain pure. I do not wish to mix with those who are laden to the ground. That doesn’t leave me with many options,” she spoke softly, her head tilting up towards her uncle as she finished.

There was an intrigued sparkle in Daemon’s eyes as he comprehended her words and a smile wove its way across his face. “A dragon’s clutch should remain undiluted and pure, I agree. The blood of Old Valyria is powerful and should be preserved.” He hummed in approval as he wrapped his free hand around her waist and pulled her a touch closer. She gasped softly, unaccustomed to being so close to him.

“Tell me, little dragon. Have you never considered your uncle as a match before?” Daemon’s words cut like his sword, Dark Sister, through the cool night air.

Ryna’s lips parted as if to speak, unsure of how to proceed. He had taken the bait she’d unintentionally laid out and given he suggested it himself, the prince must be partial to the idea. But, Daemon was an enigma and she found it difficult to gage his intentions at all times.

“I have,” she said concisely. “It is the only obvious choice when it comes to such aims, but… It is… complicated.”

She saw his eyes flare, brow rising in challenge as he gripped more tightly around her waist. He placed his chalice down on the stone and drew her even closer to him. His knee wedged between her skirts to rest between her legs and her breast was now pressing indecently against his chest. It was not a position she was familiar to enduring. Ryna knew she should pull away, but Daemon had lulled her into compliance like a Dragonkeeper.

“Oh? And why is it so complicated, sweetling?” he asked with a smug grin and mock concern as he looked down at her.

Her uncle’s words snapped her out of it. How could he feign ignorance to the current situation?

“After your,” she began but found her mouth grow exceptionally dry after only two words. She turned her head to the side and brought her hand to her lips, clearing her throat before she continued. “After your exploits with Rhaenyra, Uncle… I doubt Father would consider letting us wed.”

Daemon’s gaze darkened with the mention of Rhaenyra. “Ah yes, that little indiscretion.” He said with an air of indifference that turned into an irritated smirk. “What do you know of it?”

“I overheard the two of you in the Great Hall that day. Father’s booming voice drew me in and then I stayed once I saw you lying on the floor with guards on either side. I was worried for you, but then I heard Father’s words. That you had taken Rhaenyra’s purity in some brothel… And you did not deny it.” The memory was not a fond one for Ryna. She could remember the inebriated state he’d been in as he asked her father for Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage as a result of their transgression.

“No, I did not deny it. And I did not confirm it either,” his voice was harder than usual, sterner as though upset by her knowledge of what transpired that day. “In all truth, I didn’t do much. I merely took her to a decent establishment to show her the reality of life outside the castle.”

“If you did not sully her virture, then why would you not refute such slanderous claims made against you, Uncle? Why accept exile for it… Again?” she asked furrowing her eyebrows, her hands with a mind of their own coming to rest on his shoulders.

He chuffed like a dragon, the only aspect missing was perhaps smoke escaping from his nostrils. “Why would I deny it? What would be the point?” his words were gruff. “What could I have said to convince your father that Rhaenyra was still untouched? Was I supposed to prostrate myself before him as a loyal dog to prove it?”

“You were already at his feet. Why not tell him the truth? Unless you hoped only to make him believe you besmirched her honor, just so you might wed her and recover your claim to the throne,” there was a certain amount of hurt in her voice as well as misgiving.

Ryna had never spoken to her uncle in this manner, or anyone so far her elder for that matter. But, part of her felt scorned, wronged for how much stock he had placed in Rhaenyra instead of her. She had to know what his true motivations had been and what he was capable of carrying out in order to get what he desired.

“You are treading on thin ice, little girl,” he voiced dangerously as his grip on her hips tightened. “How dare you make me out to be some incorrigible fiend. If anyone has been wronged in this whole… ordeal it has been me.”

His knee shifted a bit higher between her legs as he pulled her hips forward onto his lap, his thigh pressed firmly against her center. She whined faintly with the force of it, even through the layers of her skirts it made her core throb with unknown want.

“Iksos bona skoros ao pendagon hen issa?” he resumed in a more measured tone, his voice lower now. Is that what you think of me?- “That I only wanted Rhaenyra for the throne?”

His hands slid up her back, pulling her flush against him. Ryna’s lips pressed against the leather of his collar as he whispered in her ear, “Or do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

Was she so transparent? The very thought of him reading her so accurately made her feel about as obvious as the sun is bright. Despite Daemon’s embarrassing insinuation, it was impossible to think whilst being held in such close proximity to him. She attempted to regain her composure, but his hot breath against her ear and the way he dug into her heat with his knee was driving her mad.

“And what if I was?” she finally blurted out. “You never once glanced my way, not like you did her. I do not wish to be second best even to my own husband.” Ryna tried to make distance, attempting to push away from his chest.

Daemon wouldn’t allow it. His grip was strong and possessive, making it clear that he was not willing to let her go just yet.

“Who said you would be second best?” his words spilled out gravely, sweet, yet viscous as they fell from his lips. “Have you so easily forgotten how I used to dote on you? How I called you my little sweetling? Do you not remember how I would let you ride with me on Caraxes before you claimed your own beast?”

Ryna was taken aback by his perception of the past, not realizing that her uncle had remembered her so fondly. Perhaps she had spent too much time dwelling on inconsequential matters. She peered up at Daemon as he held her forearms tightly in front of his chest. The matter of Rhaenyra was still of some concern, but clearly she was mistaken about a great deal.

“Yes, Uncle, I do recall. And that is what made my envy all the more dire when you attempted to pursue my sister, barely noticing me as I tried to bid you welcome home. I felt you had forsaken me in favor of her.” She didn’t feel obligated to mention how desperately lonely she had felt when he was sent away once again, nor the deep sense of heartache she had experienced upon hearing about his wedding to Laena.

Dameon’s grip on her lessened and the softness now present in his features made her feel a little more relaxed. His hands caressed up her back once more as he sat down on the stone parapet and brought her fully onto his lap. Ryna’s dress protested, the skirts fighting as he pulled her knees forward to straddle him. It was an obscene, intimate position for a young maiden, but she couldn’t help be reminded of better times when she found great comfort in that same lap.

“Your envy?” he mused almost sympathetically. “Have you been pining away for me all of this time, sweetling?”

“No,” she answered abruptly, feeling the hot sting of mortification as he continued to reveal the inner yearnings of her heart.

He let out a deep, hearty chuckle as he brought a hand to her face. Long fingers traced the outline of her cheek before wrapping around her chin. She had forgotten the contentment of his affections even though the way she recieved them had been altered now that she was grown.

“No?” he echoed with mock disbelief.” He gently gripped her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look at only him as he spoke harshly. “Do not attempt to deceive me, niece. You could never tell-tale when you were young, and you still lack the talent.”

Daemon’s hand released her chin, sliding it down to rest against the base of her throat. “You forget I can see right through you… I know what you’re really thinking.”

“What am I thinking then?” Her voice was not haughty, but tinged with awe as his rakish wiles seduced her into calm once more.

“You’re thinking…” he paused, bringing his hand to brush a strand of hair from her face before caressing her cheek. “You’re thinking that you would welcome my touch further. You’d welcome my affections. My attention.”

His hand slipped further down, sliding along the neckline of her bodice he drew a finger against the top of her breast. “You’d welcome more than that. You want so much more than that. No matter how you pretend otherwise.”

Ryna’s breath stuttered out disjointedly, her chest heaving not just from his capricious words, but the unfamiliar touch of his hand at the swell of her breast. It was not at all unpleasant, but it was unseemly. The sounds of the banquet carried on from inside, but nobody had disturbed their solitude yet. She would venture an allowance, just this once.

“And what do you want, Uncle?” Ryna gazed at him, entranced at being the object of his focus after having been starved of it for so long.

As Daemon looked into her eyes, his expression darkened with what appeared to be lust and longing. His palm lowered over the curve of her breast, cupping her soft mound gently as he leaned his forehead against hers. A low whimper struck against Ryna’s closed mouth as his fingers grazed lightly down her bust, traveling over her ribcage and then rounding to her hips.

“Nyke jaelagon ao, jorrāelagon mēre,” he purred deeply. I want you, dear one- His lips brushed against hers as though trying to lure them open. “I’ve always wanted you, but thought it too wicked, even for the likes of me, to tarnish you with my degeneracy.”

His hands slid around to the small of her back, pulling her closer with a satisfied grunt. “But, now that I know you’ve been hungering for me, sweetling, I’m beginning to think… that you’ve always been mine. That I’ve wasted so much time hiding from the truth.”

She could feel the heat of his breath upon her face, coaxing her so enticingly into his thrall. Her lips parted to release a quiet breath, but before the air had fully escaped her mouth, Daemon sealed them with a kiss. Even though she had never kissed a man, she was consumed by his fiery passion. She closed her eyes, her fingers wrapping around his back as she whispered hushed, sultry mewls against his lips.

His tongue swept her lower lip, teasing at her mouth until she yielded to him and allowed entrance. The kiss was urgent and demanding, filled with untold desire she’d only read about in old tales of Valyrian mythology. One of Daemon’s hands roamed to the exposed skin at her right knee, bunching the fabric up higher and groaning as his fingers felt the bare skin of her thighs. His lips tasted of Westerosi strongwine and spices, his tongue plundering her mouth as though it were an indulgent ambrosia all its own.

“I should stop before I go too far, sweetling,” he groaned, tearing his mouth away as he regarded her. “I don’t want to ruin you out here in the open… Or at least I do not wish to get caught doing so.” A wicked smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, but the yearning was still present in his eyes.

Ryna fussed at the loss of his sweet kiss, an aching throb now coursing throughout her entire core. Lost in the affections she’d always wanted, she could not possibly think to stop now.

“No, please,” she pleaded without meaning to. The words were barely a soft gasp against his neck as her lips found the pulse of his throat and pressed a gentle kiss to it.

Daemon chuckled at her protestations, leaning his forehead against hers again. It was a simple gesture he had always used in the past to ease her distress, although there was an entirely new meaning to it now, it still made her feel at peace in much the same way.

“What will people say if they see us?” he whispered with feigned anxiety, his hot breath skimming against her dampened lips. “A wicked prince spoiling a young innocent maiden with his turpitude. What sort of debauchery is this?”

Her uncle’s words were laced with a sense of mockery, but she knew he spoke true. She sighed and kissed him once more, making sure to keep it brief lest she become unable to refrain from continuing. Ryna slipped off his lap, feeling her senses slowly return to her. She glanced at the glowing light coming from the hall and exhaled with relief when there was nobody present to see their misconduct.

She smoothed her skirts so that they were not so unkempt and tucked away any loose strands of hair back against her scalp. Daemon took his time in rising from his seat on the parapet, adjusting the front of his trousers slightly as he did so.

“You should return to the party,” his voice was rough with lust and did not sound pleased by the prospect. “At least for now we should keep up appearances. For now…”

“And what of our earlier conversation?” she asked almost demurely, with a submissive tone she was not frequently used to employing. “What of Father’s ultimatum?”

Daemon took a few steps forward, crowding into her as he rested his hands firmly at her waist. “I won’t suffer any suitor but myself to claim you,” he hissed possessively. “Especially not some timid lordling whose ineptitude would bring your heart naught but bitterness, my sweetling.”

Ryna couldn’t help but smile with the ornery way he insisted no other man should wed her, but it would still be difficult to convince Father to allow it.

“How shall we persuade my father that you are worthy than, Uncle?” she peered up at him, her fingers gently clutching the sleeves of his doublet.

“Worthy,” Daemon said with a scoff. “I have the blood of Old Valyria. I am the Prince of the City. I am a dragon, little niece.” He let his hands slide around to her back, gripping her hips greedily. With a swift tug, he yanked her flush against his chest and whispered quietly in her ear. “Name another who is more worthy?”

Gods, he was too good at this. With barely his low trill in her ear, Ryna’s knees felt weak.

“I do not question your value, Daemon. There is no better match in my eyes,” she placed her small hands on his chest and pushed him back so she might look upon him face to face. “But I fear Father will think the worst of your intentions.”

He let out a gruff chuckle at that, a knowing smile spreading wickedly as he tilted his head. “Intentions?” he mused with thick sarcasm. “Yes, how horrible it would be to bed, wed, and impregnate his sweet innocent darling daughter. I’m sure the thought of the latter will be a dagger to his heart.”

“I am speaking in all earnestness, Uncle,” she ruffled, her lower lip pouting out at his jest. “He will think you wish to claim the throne by way of wedding me.”

Daemon chuffed, clearly amused by her petulant scolding. “So, my brother thinks me a scheming opportunist, does he?” With a shrug he dismissed the notion, yet added, “Well, he isn’t wrong.”

A wolfish smirk pulled at his lips as he leaned his head down to her ear once more. “Although, if the throne comes to me as a result of seeding your belly with my babe, my sweet niece, then I certainly won’t complain.”

“You are awful…” she scoffed with disbelief, making space between them again. “How can you not take this seriously? I don’t want you to be sent away again. You know you should renounce any claim to the throne.” Her pale lilac eyes grew wide, peering at him with thinly veiled worry and beginning to gleam as tears threatened to come.

He clenched his jaw at the mention of relinquishing the Iron Throne. “Daor. Nyke jāhor daor,” he growled. No. I will not.- “Do not ask me to lie down like a whipped dog. And do not bring tears to your eyes in an attempt to soften me.” Daemon’s eyes remained cold as they narrowed at her, the fondness all but gone from his voice as he continued.

“I have spent my entire life living to the expectations of others. I will follow the path I know I am destined for.” He gripped her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him and meet his gaze. “I will claim what is mine by right, and you will be a part of it whether you wish it or not, little niece.”

Ryna attempted to speak, but he stopped her by placing a single finger over her lips.

“You have made it clear that you are mine. You will do as I say. You will wed me and stand at my side when I ascend to the throne. Those are the only outcomes I will accept,” he ordered sternly. “And to ensure it, I will have to use any means necessary. If that includes ruining your innocence to ensure you do not wed another… So be it.”

There was a palpable tension in the air between them. She wished to have the sweet man she had shared her first kiss with back and not the tyrant that stood before her. But, Ryna understood his ambitions, just as everyone in their family did. She knew she had touched upon a sensitive subject, perhaps too insistently, and now regretted digging into a wound that ran exceptionally deep.

Most distressing of all, was that she believed his purpose to be true, even though the thought of what lengths he might have to go to achieve it sometimes haunted her. Now, he might not even trust that she had any faith in him or his calling at all.

“I am grieved,” she replied with a quiet whisper. “I did not mean to say that you should not seek the throne, Uncle, but use it as pretense so that Father lets his guard down. He knows you want it and he does not wish you to have it.”

The truth of it was that between Rhaenyra’s bastards and the Hightower half-blood mongrels, the pairing she’d make together with Daemon would have the strongest claim to the throne. If something were to happen to Rhaenyra, the throne would pass to Ryna, but the realm was still not wont to have even a Targaryen Queen rule over it. If she wed Daemon though, then there would be no question of a higher authority. She had no desire to rule and would pass it to her uncle gladly.

His grip on her chin faltered, the anger leaving his voice and replaced by a tired sigh. “My sweetling, you know not how difficult it has been for me to restrain myself for all these years. You have grown more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.” He spoke low and deliberate as he gently brushed along the line of her jaw. “It was a challenge unto itself, not to ravish you the moment you became a woman, but I was certain your father would geld me for it.”

She could not help but laugh at his admission, although Father had certainly not opted to castrate her uncle for his supposed transgression with Rhaenyra.

“You laugh but only I know how it felt to resist you day after day, year after year,” he growled, voice husky with need. “I was tempted on so many occassions to claim you as my own, to steal you away to Dragonstone and keep you there.”

He leaned closer, burying his nose in her platinum tresses and inhaling deeply of her scent. “And now you’ve left yourself vulnerable, sweetling. Now that I know you want me as much as I desire you… There is nothing that can keep me away.”

“Not even the King,” he added with a huff, his lips moving to trail the smooth skin along her neckline.

She was not sure how to reply to such conviction, especially when it concerned her father. Ryna did not wish ill of him, but then she was sure Daemon would not hurt his own brother. Well, mostly certain at least.

Daemon must have sensed her hesitation, for he murmured softly against her temple. “Let me handle your father, my sweet little niece… Just focus on being my good girl, alright?” His grip was firm, but tender on her shoulders as he pushed himself away from her. “Now, you must head back, before anyone comes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Viserys hasn’t had the servants upturning the keep for you by now,” he chuckled wryly and pressed a kiss against her forehead before disengaging from her completely.

As he released her, Ryna suddenly felt an unbearable emptiness. His lips left her skin feeling warm and wanting more, but he was already taking steps away from her, retrieving his chalice from the surface of the parapet. The tone of his voice told her he would brook no disagreement in this and she knew it would be for the best that she return.

“Return to the celebration, sweetling,” he said with his back to her as he looked out over the city. “And do not worry your pretty little mind of all this. I will take care of your father. You have my word.”

Ryna had so wished to ask him if he would dance with her this evening, but soon realized something as she turned and headed back inside. That once they were wed there would be a week-long celebration and she would have as many chances to dance with her uncle as she liked.

She paused for a moment as she stood in the flickering shadows of the hallway that led back to the Great Hall. Ryna had seen it clear as day when she was only but ten and two years old. She did not understand what it meant, but had spent weeks combing the library for information trying to understand it with no answers to be found.

She’d had a strange daydream or perhaps a vision. In it, Ryna had seen a beautiful young woman with flowing silver-gold hair standing beside her uncle Daemon as he sat upon the Iron Throne.

It had befuddled her for years until finally she began to mature, her skinny, tomboyish body blossoming outwards like the petals of a flower. And, one day she looked in her hand mirror and realized that the woman she’d seen, was none other than herself.

It did naught but break her heart when she then found out that his affections, nay his ambitions, laid with Rhaenyra. And, she’d forced herself to tuck that long lost song of what might come to pass away, when she heard Laena gave birth to twins. Ryna locked it all tightly, somewhere she might never think of it again.

And yet now, it might all be coming to pass regardless. She didn’t know whether she should be excited or aghast at what might happen in the coming months.

She stepped into the Great Hall and was pleased to see that most every guest had imbibed much of her father’s generosity since her departure. Nobody seemed to take notice of her as she walked through the crowd aside from Ser Criston Cole who eyed her wearily. She cared little for the man, thinking him a miscreant since observing him beat a man to death at Rhaenyra’s wedding. Ryna wondered how it was he still held such an esteemed post regardless.

Heading right up to the King’s table, she was not surprised to see that most everyone had abandoned her father as they always tended to do once a banquet got underway. He sat alone in his chair without a soul to even pour his wine. Ryna lamented how lonely he appeared. The most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms and here he sat deep in his drink and completely alone.

Father’s eyes brightened as he saw her, a slur in his voice, “Daughter! I was wondering where you ran off to. Come and pour your father another.”

“Do you think it wise, Father?” she asked with a playful tone, knowing he would not be denied despite her pestering.

“Your King demands it, girl,” he jested with a smile and she obediently filled his cup.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she apologized, her voice demure and meek in an attempt to show him the deference he deserved, not just as her King, but as her forebear.

He waved a hand, scoffing as though it mattered not. “I should bid you apology, my child. For suggesting you dance with that Lannister fellow. He is truly insufferable.” Father’s eyes grew wide with joy as he let out a boisterous laugh and she could not help but join in the royal ribbing of Jason Lannister.

“But you still must choose a husband, Ryna,” he said somberly, the mirth still poking at the edge of his words.

“I know,” she replied with a smile, trying to show her appreciation for the years of independence he’d allowed her. “I will perform my duty for you and the realm, Father.”

“That’s my good girl. Disobedience never suited you,” he took a long swig from his ornate chalice. “Besides, I have all that I can handle of that with Rhaenyra,” he quipped with a chuckle and quick raise of his brow. “Now leave me, child. I have wont to pass swiftly from drink to slumber tonight.”

“Good evening, Father,” she bowed her head to him slightly and turned to give him the space he desired.

She glanced around the hall looking for a certain blond uncle, but did not catch sight of him. Perhaps he was being cautious by not being seen together with her in front of the masses gathered for the celebration. It was an intelligent idea that she thought she would abide by as well for now. After all, she’d had enough excitement for one night.

Ryna nodded at several lords and ladies she know of, but barely knew as she retired from the banquet hall. The path to her chambers was quiet and uneventful and after minimal effort undressing, she soon found herself comfortably lying in her bed, ensconced in plush blankets.

Thoughts swirled of the moments she’d shared with Daemon on the balcony. Ryna could still taste him upon her lips and feel his hands upon her body. As though attempting to reprise the memory, she ran her fingers gently over her breast in much the same way he had. It was too much to bear. She clenched her thighs together and turned harshly on her side with a squeal of flustered arousal.

She tried to clear her mind of lustful thoughts and peered out the window at the high moon. Would Daemon be able to convince Father that he would be a worthy suitor? Truly there was no better man in terms of Valyrian descent, but her father had been so angry with her uncle, so many times over the years. She worried he might not be able to let it go.

Given all that had occurred and the pressing marital matters at hand, she’d thought it might be difficult to sleep, but surprisingly it found her quickly.

Notes: This was the longest chapter I have ever written! I could not stop - a woman possessed!

So, I know this is not entirely necessary, but I thought I would write up a little post-chapter introduction to explain some of the setting I’ve chosen for this story.. And why I decided to make these choices.

I wanted the OC to be young, but not too young as it wouldn’t make sense that she would remain unmarried if allowed to get too old. I also did not want such a huge gap of time to pass after Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding. Ten years is such a huge amount of time, and I wanted the OC to have been within a comparable age to Rhaenyra when she last sees Daemon.

Now, with that in mind, the timeline of the show is also very confusing when you compare it against the timelines on the wiki, which is based on lore. There is an understanding of an approximate amount of time that has gone by on the show, but even when using those estimations, the years don’t come close to the dates on the wiki. I know I shouldn’t focus on such trivial matters, but it did in fact bother me while planning my own outline. I decided that I would base it more loosely off the official lore dates of events and ages of characters, and not the show's. This is something you may or may not notice, but it is worth mentioning. Any changes made are not necessarily for lack of being informed about it, they are just conscious changes.

One glaring issue is the birth of Rhaenyra’s first three children.. All of which are born in pretty quick succession, 115 AC, 116, AC and then 117 AC. That means that technically, this fic should be starting in 117 AC.. Only 4 years after the events of Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor (114AC). And Baela and Rhaena were born in 116 AC, which certainly causes some difficulty in lining these dates up with the show. Laena dies in 120 AC and yet her children look much older than 4 and the same can be said for Rhaenyra’s as well.

So, I’ve decided after much deliberation, that Joffrey’s birth will take place in 119AC instead of 117AC, meaning that instead of 10 years, only about 5 years have passed since the wedding. And Laena’s death will be moved to 118AC, 2 years earlier than in the lore, and much earlier in the show. I think if you add the time skips together.. That the (10 years later) jump that occurs ends up being about 126AC which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, except for the fact that they’re likely trying to line things up for the Dance of the Dragons, but the timing still feels off.

I also wanted to say that I had several starting points in mind for this story, but this was the one I just happened to like the most in terms of the timeline and how close it is to Viserys’ death and all the major events that take place afterwards! So please enjoy, and I do hope I can capture the tone and feel of the show and characters without stepping on my own feet too much. I have never attempted to write a story in this time period or style, so I guess we’ll see how it goes. Expect some growing pains until I’m more practiced and do not judge me too harshly.

Another thing worth mentioning is that I wrote the first chapter in a rather obsessive flurry that lasted most of one day and all of a night. Suffice it to say, it slipped my mind to add in the High Valyrian, given how much I had my hands full with grasping a more Shakespearean take on English. I will likely add placeholder Valyrian in, so that it does not hold me up too much as I write. When finished, I’ll take the time to research how to make it more accurate. So don’t worry too much if you do happen to know High Valyrian and find any glaring errors.

But! Please DO tell me what you thought! Also.. Yes, there will be a lot more. This is planned to be a rather big story... Read Chapter 2 here.

[huramuna]

wine red, tears gold - chapter 6.

king aegon II x baratheon ofc

previous chapter | next

a bit of a slower chapter. there should be about 2 more after this & we are at the end (':

word count: 2.7k

please follow & turn on notifs for @huramuna-fics for my fic postings

content: smut, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, angst, fluff, arranged marriage, touch-staved aegon, aegon isn't a r*pist in this au but he is still a bad person and has his vices, ofc and aegon need to go to therapy together, justice for jaehaera, awkward sex, kind of a slow burn, infidelity, child loss, vomiting

cloudbursting - kate bush • playdate - melanie martinez

Alicent had thought she saw the last of death for a while. She had seen her grandson killed before her very eyes, seen her daughter’s skewered body upon the ground, a grisly tale of her son skewered through his eye, her other son burnt and suffocated. 

She had seen enough death for a lifetime and then some. 

When she had been awoken in the wee hours of the morn, it was still dark outside. Her handmaiden roused her from sleep with a panicked plea— the queen was in her labors. 

Labors? Lyanna wasn’t pregnant, was she? Surely Alicent would’ve noticed, as they spent every morning together since the girl’s arrival over half a year ago. 

She slipped on a housecoat and was escorted to the maester’s offices, where the robed man swept her aside immediately. 

“What is going on? Her grace cannot be pregnant, surely?” Alicent questioned, eyes narrowed. She didn’t dare look over at the pale figure in the cot, knowing it to be Lyanna. She wasn’t ready yet to see such pain once more. 

“The Queen is… was… roughly five moons along,” he explained softly, “Her chamber maids found her semi-conscious in a pool of her own blood, the room a mess— she… is fighting, surely. But the babe won’t be viable.” 

Alicent blinked profusely, searching the healer’s face for any sign of a farce. “You say she was pregnant?” 

“A matter of speaking, your grace. She is… laboring as we speak. The babe is stuck, however— at an odd angle.” 

“… what does that mean for Lyanna?” she asked, leaning forward. Alicent knew what it meant, of course— death was in the room with them, waiting. 

The maester gave the queen mother a hard look and shook his head. “Keep her in your prayers. The King… should be notified.” 

— 

Alicent sat by Lyanna’s bed, hand in bloody hand with her. The poor girl’s beautiful face was so pale, the blue veins in her half-drawn eyelids were visible. 

The labors weren’t much of a ruckus as they usually would be— Lyanna was severely numbed by milk of the poppy, and the maesters pulled out the babe. Alicent caught sight of it— its skin was gray and scaly, with a ridged tail and little budding horns, as well as a pair of perfectly miniature wings. It didn’t breathe, nor cry. 

“A son, your grace,” the maester announced solemnly.

The sight made Alicent want to vomit, but she swallowed it back, focusing on Lyanna. “You did so well, my love,” she cooed, dabbing her forehead with a damp cloth, “You did so well.” 

“See… may I… see the… the babe?” Lyanna asked, her voice so quiet that only Alicent could hear. 

Alicent’s heart clenched, brow furrowed. “Not yet, sweetling. They’re wiping him off now. Do you have a name in mind for him?” 

“Aeron,” Lyanna breathed, “For… Aemond… and Daeron…” 

A tear rolled down Alicent’s face as she leaned close to Lyanna, pressing their foreheads together. “Oh, my sweet girl,” she whispered, “My sweet, sweet girl. You’re the purest of us all, my love.” she cried fully now, eyes closed. She cared so deeply for the Queen, as if she were her own, or mayhaps more, and seeing the girl in pain agonized Alicent. 

Alicent Hightower wept for Lyanna, Aemond, Daeron, and Aeron. 

— 

Aegon did not arrive until hours later, after he’d been found. He bursted into the room like an ignited dragon. “Where’s my wife? My son?” he demanded. Otto followed behind him. 

Alicent stood up, her white nightgown stained in a bit of blood. She stared at her son, eyes narrowed with a fury she hadn’t felt in so long. “Out, Aegon— she’s asleep, finally, out, out!” she hissed, turning the King around and shoving him out of the chamber, closing the door behind them. 

SMACK.

Alicent laid a firm slap across Aegon’s face. “What took you so long?! Your wife was bleeding out, laboring your babe into the world much too early! And I saw the marks on her— she isn’t one of your whores, Aegon! What in the Gods’ names are you doing to her?” 

Aegon’s eyes immediately watered and he was the very image of a pathetic little puppy. He sniffed. “I didn’t— ‘twas part of our game, mother, I swear!” he simpered. “I never meant it… in a bad way.”

“Your game? Your game? Marriage isn’t a game, Aegon. Sex isn’t a game. You’re the only one she’s ever laid with and that is how you treat her?” Alicent was beyond fuming, not only for her good-daughter, but something within herself that has been long locked away. “Like some toy? She doesn’t know that it’s supposed to be gentle and loving— she must think that it’s normal to be treated in such a way.” 

The king shifted uneasily back and forth, looking down at his feet. 

“You never learn, do you? You’re just like your father.” she finally spat, eye to eye with her son. Her brown eyes were eclipsed with rage, lip curled before she descended back into the room to sit by Lyanna once more. 

Aegon didn’t follow— but he didn’t leave the Keep, either. Later that eve, the outside of his chambers was littered with discarded wine bottles, broken glass strewn about. 

— 

It was a week before Lyanna finally came back to herself— she was mostly coherent, eyes flitting about the room. A chair, now empty, was set next to her cot. 

There was another chair on the other side of the bed, which was filled. A tiny blonde head bobbed up and down behind a book. 

Jaehaera. 

She was reading, outloud, from a children’s book, legs kicking softly as she read. “It’s said that beyond the wall… there are dragons made of ice. They do not breathe fire, but blow frost from their gullets. Giants with feet as large as…” she paused, squinting, “wheelhouses, are said to ride the ice dragons to battle.” 

“Do you believe that, princess?” Lyanna murmured, her voice hoarse from disuse. “Ice dragons and giants?” 

Jaehaera blinked, her eyes going wide as she realized that her audience was awake. She ducked behind the book, crossing and uncrossing her legs. 

Lyanna hadn’t spent much time with Jaehaera, to be truthful. She didn’t wish to force herself upon the melancholic girl and wished for her to take her time to open up. The young princess had attended breakfast with Lyanna and Alicent a number of times, but usually didn’t speak, unless whispering something to Alicent. 

Jaehaera peeked over the book, her violet eyes looking at Lyanna cautiously. “… yes. I believe in ice dragons. Grandmother says…” she giggled softly, pulling the book down further to reveal a small smile, “that they aren’t real n’ the book is made up. But I know the truth.” 

“And what is the truth? You must tell,” Lyanna hummed, shifting herself in the cot so she was facing Jaehaera, giving the young girl her full attention. “I must know.” 

“They’re real n’ just sleeping beneath the snow, and they lay their eggs in the giant wall in the North. But… they take two… hundred years to hatch!” 

“Two hundred years? That’s quite a long time to wait for a baby dragon.” 

“Yup. I’m patient, though. Grandmother says it's my best… quar-lity.” 

“Quality, sweetling.” 

“Qual-ity.” Jaehaera repeated. 

Lyanna gave a reassuring smile. “You look quite deep into the book— how long have you been reading for?” 

“I came with grandmother… five days ago n’ started reading this to you… four days ago. I thought it might be nice to listen, even if you were sleeping…” she nods to herself, slowly coming out of her shell. “Sometimes, when I sleep, I hear stuff around me and it enters my dreams.” 

“Thank you for reading to me, sweet girl. I thought I recalled hearing about ice dragons in my dreams,” Lyanna chuckled. “Will you keep reading to me? Even if I’m not asleep?” 

Jaehaera looked down at the book, swinging her legs again. Her cheeks puffed slightly and she looked a bit bashful. “Uhmmm… maybe. Did… you still want to hear it?” she peered at the queen, head tilted. “… I don’t get to do much with friends anymore… they’ve all gone. Grandmother likes my reading but… sometimes she starts crying n’ I have to stop. Father is… too busy.” 

The queen felt her heart clench. Out of all of the victims of the Dance— Jaehaera, in her mind, had suffered the most. She lost nearly everyone. “Of course, I’d love to hear you read more. I’m quite interested in what else is beyond the wall, and I simply won’t believe what anyone else has to say about it, it must be you, dear princess.” 

The little princess gave a little giggle before she continued to read. 

—

The queen and the princess were inseparable for the next moon– as they had found some sort of comfort in one another. Lyanna would stop to Jaehaera’s chambers and escort the young girl to Alicent where all three of them broke their fast together.

It was certainly an odd feeling for Lyanna, as she never had been really good with children, so to speak. But after Aeron, she felt something was lost from within her. She only remembered glimpses of her son before they took him away. The sight of him, so tiny and riddled with golden and red scales like a little lizard, with a tail and leathery wings. The sight of him had sickened a few of the attending maids, causing them to vomit and clutch their proverbial pearls. 

She thought him a beautiful little boy and wished to know if he had his father’s violet eyes, or her brown. 

In her dreams, he had a curly mop of white blonde hair and brown eyes with flecks of violet, like wisteria petals upon a pond, shaded by a tree. He would speak to her in hushed tones, holding and tugging on her hand, babbling all sorts of nonsense like children do. She never saw beyond the confines of the small garden they would be in, the outskirts of her vision creeping in lilting black and hazy purple. 

But, nevertheless, it was an oasis, bright and sprightly like the first warmth of spring’s sun, warming their skin as Lyanna held Aeron to her hip, peppering him with kisses and love, while they watched ducks swim around in the petal speckled water. Dipping their toes into the chilled pool, a figure would approach. Another crop of blonde hair, somehow so familiar to Lyanna. The shape and gait of the shadow would liken itself to Aegon, but Lyanna could never see his face. He was dressed in black and green, with the crown of the Conqueror upon his brow, the indent of a smile perked upon his silhouette as he sat beside them. 

Aeron would be between them, speaking a language that Lyanna didn’t understand, but it sounded similar to High Valyrian. Aegon’s shadow would converse back, but his voice sounded so far away and disjointed, like a distant memory. The specter of the king would take off his crown, and hang it upon Aeron’s curled mop, flashing a toothy white smile and singing praises. A smile Lyanna longed to see. 

But it wasn’t real.

None of it was.

Aeron would never grow to be that sprightly little boy, and Aegon… the version that she’d concocted in her head of him didn’t exist. 

It likely never would.

These dreams, ever repeating ever since she lost Aeron, would make her wake in a cold sweat, already crying, her nightgown clinging to her like a second skin, sticky and itching. She would get up and pace, trying her best not to wake Jaehaera, who had snuck into her rooms more than once when she had a nightmare, a frequent plague for the young princess.

Some might consider Lyanna’s dreams something of joy– but they seemed like a nightmare to her, an illusion that made her feel like she was going mad. It felt so real, that when she awoke, she could feel her fingers grazing through Aeron’s curls, the soft smell of him was alive and well in her room. Until a gust of wind would dissipate it. 

And she would be alone with her thoughts, her longings and her dreams once again. She would crawl back into bed and wrap her arms around Jaehaera.

One eve, late into the night, Lyanna felt the indent of weight upon her bed. She didn’t open her eyes, as she was still flitting between consciousness and sleep– but her hand wandered over, expecting to feel Jaehaera. “... bad dreams, Haera?” she mumbled, her hand searching for the little princess’ own.

“... ‘tis not Jaehaera.” a voice murmured. Aegon.

Lyanna’s eyes snapped open, turning towards her husband, whom she hadn’t spoken to or really seen since Aeron’s passing. “Aegon?”

“... yes.” he whispered. He sounded small, like his vocal chords were stuck in a shell, echoing and far-flung from his usual cocksure smugness. 

“Are you… alright?” she asked then. She should be angry, she really should– but she had just had her dream again, where he had been so alive, so lovely and right that she couldn’t be mad at him in the moment. Her mind was still swimming with the illusion she’d created of him.

“No,” he breathed, shifting closer to her slightly. “Something is wrong with me.”

“Are you ill? Shall… I get up and call a maester?”

“No–” he pressed, his hand reaching out to grasp Lyanna’s wrist. It wasn’t harsh or forceful, but urgent, like a plea. “Stay. I… I need to explain myself.”

Her muscles tensed for a moment as she felt his hand upon her. It was warm and slightly calloused, but familiar nonetheless. “... okay.”

“I haven’t… picked up a bottle in near a moon, nor… touched a whore. I-I’ve been good,” Aegon whimpered. “I’m so sorry, Lyanna. For everything– Gods, I’m a fucking monster. I-I don’t know why I’ve done the things I did or said. It’s eating me from the inside like a sickness,” he took a shaky breath, sniffling all the while. He was crying. “I-I… I wanted to push you away. The moment I saw you with your… big brown eyes, so close to tears– I felt sorry for you, to be paired with me. You were good and pure and innocent– you didn’t deserve any of this– if I hadn’t been such a fucking coward, you… might still be carrying our son.” 

Lyanna didn’t say anything, but her breath hitched slightly at his words. They were clear and concise– tear laden and full of sorrow but it was the most sober she’d ever seen him, the most lucid.

“I can’t feel that it's my fault. Because I was too weak to say no to them, to put my foot down and refuse. I basically killed them all,” he continued. “I’m just a Godsdamned coward and I should be put down like a dog for what I’ve done, for what I allowed to happen– my entire family save for three people who don’t see me as anything more than a disappointment are all dead, Lyanna– I could’ve… I should’ve… I should’ve kicked and fought against it, told them to fucking stick the crown where the sun doesn’t shine. What kind of brother usurps his sister’s throne? What… why did I let that happen?” his hand was shaking against her wrist now, his voice breaking into small blubbers. “I’m a fucking Kinslayer, Lyanna.”

She didn’t know what to say, truly. But the sheer ache she felt in the depth of her chest caused her to reach out her free hand and thread her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to her as he cried, his entire body violently wracked with his sorrow. 

It all suddenly made sense to her– the drinking, the whoring, the violence, the barbed words. He was punishing himself, his damnation pushing away everything that may even be a little good in his life. He was sentencing himself to a life of ruination until it consumed him completely, leaving nothing left behind but a husk; all because he thought he deserved it. Because he thought he killed everyone he’d ever loved.

It made sense. 

Lyanna held him close to her chest, hushing and soothing his sobs. He had let go of her wrist to wrap his arms around her in turn. “I know,” she breathed, holding him like she had wished to in her dreams, tightly as so he wouldn’t disappear. “You only tried to… please… them– didn’t you?”

He nodded slowly.

“You just wanted to be loved.”

[serenescribe]

the prince's physician Twisted Wonderland | 3.7k Summary: Malleus is the prince’s physician. He reflects on everything his role entails. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52875436 Collaboration with @ohsleepie | Potential spoilers for elements of Chapter 7

Hello everyone! This fic is directly inspired by @ohsleepie's wonderful "The Prince and his Physician" AU, and wound up being an impromptu collaboration featuring absolutely stunning and incredible art drawn by Sleepie himself! Please check him out and follow him!

I'm so happy to share this, and I hope that you all enjoy it!

The days between the prince’s passing and his inevitable reincarnation always feel the longest to Malleus.

Time, as it is, is a slow-paced thing; such is life for him as the last of his kind, a single year feeling far more miniscule for him than it does for a human. Malleus loses track of the days easily, slips up on his months and years. He is only aware of the passage of time through distant observations of festivities — celebrations to herald in a new year, for one, or the prince’s birthday, for another.

But rather than track the time through each changing year, Malleus tracks them in cycles of Silver’s life and death.

With each new reincarnation, each new cycle brought anew, something imperceptible shifts in the air. A rebirth means many things — to the kingdom’s populace, it is yet another year of a curse yet unbroken; to Malleus, it is a tangible, physical mark of his failures. But failures aside, there is something so jarring, so off-putting, about seeing the nursemaids and servants whisk a cradle through the halls of the castle, a cradle Malleus knows the contents of.

It is Silver, always Silver, a slumbering baby identical to the dozens that came before him — wispy locks of silver hair that plaster against his forehead, pudgy hands and chubby cheeks, and when he opens his eyes, those same, breathtaking hues of the brightest auroras.

Malleus always stops and stares whenever these moments occur. For an instant, his breath is stolen right from his throat by some unseen thief; his mind dredges up memories of when he, himself, was young, stirring to life old cycles when he was but a child himself, unable to comprehend Silver’s passing and subsequent return. It had taken him quite some time to grasp all of it — but then again, could one truly blame Malleus when his guardian figure, the kindly young prince his age who took him in and treated him well, had died in bed, only to reappear as a wee babe?

But when Silver returns, Malleus feels as though he can breathe again, an invisible knot in his throat loosened.

Because when Silver is gone, Malleus feels… useless, for lack of a better word. His own memories of his childhood are haphazard and spotty, mainly made up of foggy recollections of surviving in the harsh brambles of fae forests. For many, many years, he has found a purpose, was given one through being brought to this human kingdom: break our prince’s curse, and save him from Death’s unyielding grip.

There are few here who deign to interact with him beyond courteous pleasantries. They turn their noses up at him, eyes narrowing, lips twisting; it is fae, they whisper to each other, voices dripping with venom. If not for its magic, its prowess, surely we would have left it to die.

Silver is kind to him, has always been ever since he was young. So is it truly so shocking that Malleus feels so lost with him gone, and feels so relieved whenever he returns?

(And yet, intermingled with the relief, buried underneath such feelings of solace, there lurks another monster. A sense of guilt which festers, slowly growing over time.

An old memory rises whenever Malleus reflects on it for too long, of Silver’s voice:

“I wish for you to break my curse, Malleus. But I do not want to be immortal. My people have suffered for far too long, unable to grow and prosper due to my unending fate.”

He remembers a soft, sad smile.

“To relieve them of that burden, to allow them to grow with my final passing… that is what I wish for, above all else.”)

“How are you feeling today, your majesty?”

It is always odd, with each new cycle. To reacquaint himself with this new Silver — so much like the one before, in his appearance and demeanour, yet lacking the full memories of his past. Malleus knows Silver recalls just enough, especially when aided with the meticulous journals his previous incarnations have kept, but it is jarring, all the same, to reintroduce himself to someone he has known for many, many decades.

Silver blinks at him from the bed, the four-poster frame draped with too many silks and gauzes, too big for a boy of his size. His eyes are tinged with crusts of sleep, bags forming under them despite the medicines and foods they all have him eat, and yet there is such a strange tranquillity resting in his expression whenever Malleus sees him. “I’m quite alright, Malleus,” he responds, voice scarcely a whisper, soft and sweet. “And you don’t need to call me such formalities. We’ve been over this many times.”

Malleus exhales, the breath slipping through his nose.

No matter how many times Silver tells him as such — and it has been plentiful, through Silvers young and old, of different years, different decades, different centuries — Malleus still abides by such titles, at least when he first speaks to him. It gets easier as the years pass, as he acquaints himself a bit closer, as Silver inches closer to another inevitable death, but all the same—

“You are to be his physician,” a voice instructs him, the memory looming to life once more, “and you do not stand on equal ground with him. As such, you are to abide by our formalities: he is to be referred to as ‘your majesty,’ and nothing else.”

“Prince Silver,” Malleus says instead, the title a little clunky on his tongue. Silver raises an eyebrow at him, but does not push. He merely sits in place as Malleus walks over, his heels clicking against the floor, tail lashing behind the fabrics of his half-skirt. “Allow me to check you over today, if you will.”

“At this point, you need not even ask.”

The days go by the same way they always do: Malleus inspects Silver over carefully, running careful hands over every inch of his body before he adjusts his magic, and delves deeper into the beyond. His instincts are carefully attuned for any little change, anything he has never seen or felt before — any anomaly at all could give a new direction for him to research in, and a new possibility of a means to break the curse.

(He refuses to let himself think too hard about what breaking the curse truly entails. Malleus has ruminated over it over the course of many, many cycles, laying wide awake in bed, staring up at elegantly painted murals on the ceiling in the dark of night. It is always the same thing — should he abide by the kingdom’s wishes, or by his prince’s?

In the end, regardless of which route he chooses, Malleus shall break the curse. But it is the eternal dilemma presented to him that tangles his soul day after day — what would truly be better, to let Silver live past the ages of youth and mature into an all-powerful, immortal king? Or to let him die in peace, freeing his people from the burdens of a monarchy, their hopes and dreams all inextricably tied to their young and dying prince?

And, to another extent, the other part of the question Malleus thinks about, what does he want himself?

There is a part of him that feels such vibrant joy and pride at the thought of Silver thriving — to live as long as Malleus shall, if not even longer; to rule with his steadfastness and kindness, resolute as he heralds a new, immortal age of glory. Malleus knows little about the history of his own kind, but what tiny bits he can dredge up have taught him of a group of creatures with such power and perfection, such beauty and bravery. They thrived in the night, ruled from the shadows, creatures of such majestic, nigh-immortal magic with an arrogance that led to their own downfall.

As a fae himself, Malleus wonders if it is only natural for him to desire such things for Silver. To watch him grow into the ages he has never been able to reach before, to witness him at his fullest might and glory.

And yet, the mere thought of the stabbing betrayal in those auroral eyes, the sadness that may overcome those soft features, is enough to give him pause each and every time.)

He was young when they found him skulking about the brambles.

For as long as Malleus can remember, he has always been alone. Though he’s certain he remembers some sensations of warmth from before he came into being, of being cradled close in a loving embrace, all he remembers, through to his earliest memories, is of being alone.

And for such a lonely fae child, wandering about an overgrown, abandoned valley, what else was there for him to do but survive? To pounce about and gulp down whatever meals he could find, to curl up in the nooks of trees and little rock caverns to try and keep warm… and to hide in the brambles, slitted eyes peering at civilisation from afar.

He’d watched the daily lives of the human kingdom after finding out about their existence, when he was old enough to try and mimic a form similar to their own. Still, Malleus had been too scared to venture too close, some innate part of him screaming at him to stay away, and so he had simply observed from a distance… until one day, they found him.

He remembers little of that day now. It’s all a blur when he tries to recollect it — sharp grips tightening around his limbs as he kicked and thrashed, searing magic that ripped through his veins, burning those who tried to hurt him, being thrown and tossed about, immobilised by something that seared at his skin… All while screaming and yelling flooded the air, his heartbeat thumping chaotically in his ears, head spinning as his surroundings whirled about him—

And then it stopped.

And then there was Silver.

He was young then. That, Malleus recalls. He remembers everything after the pain and the panic with ease, of the way the young boy — just as young as he, with silver hair and such pretty, colourful eyes, and oh-so gentle hands — had removed the searing things that hurt him, and rubbed something that stung before it began to feel better.

“My name is Silver,” the boy told him, in a soft, kind voice that made Malleus feel… safe. “I’m sorry about the pain they caused you. I hope you’re feeling better now.”

Malleus understood him, of course, in some strange, innate way. But his tongue could not shape the same sounds that he heard, no matter how hard he tried. When he spoke, all he could manage was something that chimed and clicked, something Silver didn’t understand.

And yet, in spite of all that, Silver had such patience with him anyway. He allowed Malleus to stay by his side, to stay in his room, eating the same foods that he did — and what a treat they were, for a child who starved as long as he had! — and sleeping in his bed.

Time passed; his wounds healed. His tongue began to curl in all the right ways, taught painstakingly by Silver how to speak in his tongue in-between the periods of time where he had to disappear. Malleus relished in each and every day, the loneliness that haunted him for so long no longer looming over him like a shadow. Now, he had Silver—

Until he didn’t.

Silver hadn’t woken up one day, no matter how hard Malleus tried. Nudging him, shaking him, calling his name until his voice rose in a panic, and the door slammed open, footsteps thumping into the room. He’d been dragged away, kicking and screaming again, the same terror from years ago swelling up once more in his heart; the fire that sparked through his veins, the sheer agony and pain, the lurking realisation that he was alone again.

He remembers very little of those in-between days, the foggy haze of nothingness only pierced by a baby’s cry and the realisation that Silver had somehow returned. But it hadn’t been until years later, years of being stuck in a tiny little bedroom by himself, that Malleus could finally see him again.

Silver was younger now. Younger than Malleus himself. And finally, he explained it to him.

“I have a curse on me,” Silver told him, as simply as possible, as Malleus curled around him in his bed. “And other humans believe you can break it.”

Malleus blinked up at him, raising his head from the soft, downy cushions. “I… can?”

“You can,” Silver affirmed with a gentle smile, his voice high. He reached out, wrapping his arm around Malleus and bringing him close. “Because you’re a fae. You’re so strong. If anyone can help me, it’s you.”

The truth, of course, was far more complex than that simplistic explanation. The truth was that Silver’s curse itself was fae-inflicted and, considering the immense strength of the fair folk, only another fae’s skills would be able to eliminate the curse. But Malleus had been young, and Silver, despite his youth and the fact that he still barely recalled his own memories, was kind, trying to explain everything to Malleus as simply as possible: You are strong, and we believe in you. I believe in you.

And Malleus had accepted it, taking on his new role as the prince’s physician with a regal sort of pride.

Magic slinks through his veins as naturally as blood, the two intermingling and intertwining. It comes to him so easily, far more than even the most expert mages of the kingdom, who have spent decades of their mortal lives honing their skill to a perfect shine.

But for as naturally gifted as Malleus is, he lacks the proper training one should have. That is, not the training of human mages, for he has gone through many cycles worth of such a thing, but the training of a fae.

Fae magic is so distinctly different from that of humans, rooted in their very heart and soul, and in the power of the natural world around them. And though Malleus can adapt to his circumstances, taking what the reluctant tutors teach him and twisting it to suit his own strengths, there is only so much he can learn and do until he hits a wall, and gets stuck in one place.

If only there were other fae still alive, still out there. If only, Malleus thinks longingly, a swell of frustration burgeoning within him as he hits yet another blockade in another theory he’s been trying to test, the ink of his feathered quill dragging to a blotchy halt across the parchment as he struggles to pen what he’s been theorising into written words.

He hears the whispers of the court, day after day. Why isn’t there any progress? the humans ask, as though Malleus can flick his wrist and cure anything instantly. How many years has it been here? How much longer must we suffer? How much more must our prince wait?

And the thing is, Malleus desires nothing more than to be able to snap his fingers and dispel that wretched curse, all at once. But beyond other factors, such as Silver’s private request to him all that time ago to grant him a peaceful death and free his kingdom from the shackles of his immortality, there is the very fact that this is a fae curse, a complex, interweaving system of magic designed to loop Silver’s death, all while bringing him back every time. There is intent behind this convoluted spell, and save nothing short of somehow speaking to the caster himself, there is little Malleus can do but break it all down in reverse.

He rakes a hand through his hair, a growl spilling from his throat. The quill clatters to the table as he drags his hands down his face, biting back a haggard sigh.

The sound of knocking against wood.

“You may enter,” he calls, twisting in his chair to stare at the door.

The hinges squeak as it cracks open, revealing a guardsman who leers at him. “Your presence is requested,” they state, not bothering to hide their disdain, yet having enough basic courtesy not to let it spill into their words. “The council wishes to learn of your progress on breaking his majesty’s curse.”

Dark lips twist into an ugly sneer. The council, Malleus seethes. A group of uppity, stuck-up human nobles, who constantly die and get replaced with equally awful replacements, who keep breathing down his back about any meagre bits of progress he’s been able to make despite Silver’s attempts to get them to stop.

The downsides of Silver constantly reincarnating, needing to relearn everything all over again as he dives back through journals and jostles his own memories, is that he can’t always chase them away, telling them to leave his physician alone, and let him work. This is one of those times, it seems; Silver is too busy learning how to be a human being again, leaving Malleus stranded against a group of men who seem hellbent on making his very existence hell throughout what little bits of life they live.

But it is not as though he can deny a summons. For all his title as the prince’s physician, Malleus knows — has known for such a very long time — that his rank is meaningless without the very prince he serves.

“Tell them that I shall arrive in five minutes.” Picking up his quill, Malleus dips it back into a pot of ink, a furious frustration igniting the spark within him as he turns back to his incomplete report.

It is better than nothing, and that is worth something.

Malleus holds very little loyalty to this kingdom. What else is there for him, when he is destined to outlive everyone within it, and when they are all so bent on treating him as though he personally killed their families?

He is aware of the history between them and his own ancestors, the plentiful fae who used to share these lands until they waged war against the humans, slaughtering them in a painful, bloody battle. The humans had emerged victorious, all the fae driven out or slain, but it had come at the heavy cost of all their royals killed — except for one.

And for years, they had watched their prince grow with pride, until he had died before his coronation. And then it had happened again, and again, and again — they would find him as a baby nestled within a clearing in the nearby woods, identical in each and every iteration, and they would watch as he always died before arriving at his years of maturity, always while he was far too young.

A fae curse, they realised, far too late. How foolish they had been, to dismiss the magic struck against their prince! It is a fate worse than death, they lamented, their spirits growing weary with each new cycle. What shall we do?

Malleus is their answer to their conundrum, a solution to a problem his ancestors made. And yet, for all the supposed salvation he represents and is supposed to bring, he knows what they think of him. And though he understands it, understands the reservations and hatred for everything he represents, he also cannot help but resent them for it.

Why is he treated like he is lesser, when he is trying to help them?

His loyalty lies with their prince, with Silver, for the kindness Malleus has been shown over and over, throughout countless identical reincarnations, countless ends and beginnings. It is the reason why he stays, why he endures it all, why he works painstakingly at dissecting a curse only he stands a chance of understanding, in hopes of shattering this cruel fate once and for all.

He carries the hopes and dreams of the kingdom on his shoulders — a cruel irony, Malleus knows, considering what most of the populace think of him. He is their only hope, in the end.

But the thing is — and this, Malleus has come to realise over time:

It is easy for the humans to root for their prince. It is easy for them to hope, to pray, to plead with whatever higher forces exist out there for the fae physician to break his curse, bringing them all into a golden age of their royal’s immortality. It is easy because they are human; for many of them, they will not live long enough to witness more than perhaps four or five of their prince’s life cycles, forcing them to tell their descendents of their desires to carry on the flames of their hopes.

When one does not live long enough for their awe and admiration, their all-consuming anticipation, to melt away into something far more pessimistic, it is easy to stand strong and proclaim, “I wish for my prince to live forever; I wish for him to lead us into a new age.”

But for Malleus? For the only fae in a kingdom of mortals, destined to outlive each and every one of them by proxy of his heritage alone?

He has lost count of just how many cycles he has witnessed, from the tender years of childhood into the grown fae he is today. He has lost track of how many times he has met Silver for the first time, the servants and guards and nursemaids who care for him and guard him all switching out cycle after cycle, as more of them die and more of them are replaced.

The humans see not what Malleus witnesses over time: the piles of journals that stack up higher and higher; the heavy bags that marr the underside of those striking auroral eyes; the pure exhaustion that sinks into their prince’s every movement and word, the way he gazes upon his kingdom from towering windows.

In the end, this miserable curse can only end one way: Silver must die.

(The question still remains, pressing down on Malleus’ shoulders, an invisible burden weighing him down with each soft smile and greeting he receives.

Shall Silver live forever? Or only once more?)

[kelcemenow]

As The Snow Falls - Chapter 6.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 1781

Warnings Mentions of emotional abuse, strong language, the fluffiest Travis and a wee bit of smut.

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

You squinted your eyes, attempting to shut out the bright light reflecting through the bedroom window. After your second night of sleeping with Travis by your side, you awoke rested and content, his arm still curled around your back. You moved slightly to stretch your legs, causing Travis to stir.

"What time is it?" He groaned, his gruff morning voice cutting through the silence.

You craned your neck, glancing at the small digital clock on the nightstand, "Just after 5am." You whispered.

Travis tightened his grip on you, "You gotta be fucking kidding me? More sleep...more sleep." He yawned.

You giggled as you lifted your chin, pressing a small kiss onto his stubbled jawline, "I'm skiing this morning, and I thought you were too?"

Travis opened one eye, looking down at you, "Just me and you?"

"I think so." You grinned.

Quick as a flash, he clambered out of the bed like an excited child at Christmas, rummaging through his suitcase for suitable clothing. Your eyes scanned his body, your gaze drinking in his toned muscles and athletic physique.

"Hey, my eyes are up here." Travis joked.

"Sorry." You said with a breathy laugh, "I just, can't believe how good you look." You looked down, your cheeks darkening, "God, I feel 20 again."

Travis took a few steps closer to you, "I know what you mean. It's weird how quickly feelings can come flooding back, right?"

You raised your head, "Especially when those feeling never really went away."

A wide smile slowly crept up on Travis' face, his eyes twinkling with happiness, "You and me both, babe." He bent forward and gently kissed your lips, "You know I'm not gonna rush you into anything, right?"

You lowered your brows at him.

"I mean, anything that you're not comfortable with...last night-"

You reached up and rested his hands on his forearms, "Travis, I like you. I really do, and I'm so happy that you're here but I don't know what's going to happen when this trip ends and you go back to Missouri and I go to...wherever I'm going back to."

"Y/N-"

"Please, let me say what I need to say." You pulled him back down onto the bed next to you, "You've been so kind and sweet and holy shit, you're hot."

Travis breathed a laugh, a faint blush appearing onto his cheeks.

"So, I want to be completely honest with you."

You stared deeply into his eyes, feeling a sense of warmth radiating from him, further clarification of the trust and safety that you were looking for. Travis waited in silence, his hands gently holding yours.

You took a deep breath, "About three years ago, I dated a guy, Aaron." You closed your eyes and shook your head, "He was perfect in the beginning, I fell completely head over heels in love with him and he treated me so well. My friends loved him, my family loved him. But after about a year, things started the change." You dropped your head into your hands, "Jesus fucking Christ, I sound so cliché right now."

Travis lifted your hands away from your face, dipping his head to catch your eyes, "Hey, hey. No you don't."

"It started off with little things. The odd comment, a sentence here, a sentence there...something to upset me or make me doubt myself. Then it got bigger, arguments would come from nowhere, nothing I ever did was right." A lump was rising from your chest into your throat but you swallowed it down, determined to hold your nerve, "Slowly, I felt like I'd lost myself. I wasn't the person I was before and he would continue to say that to me. And I never had the confidence to tell him that it was his fault that I had changed. It was because of him that I was frightened, scared, nervous, shy...I wasn't the person that he'd fallen in love with. I didn't love me so why would he?"

Looking up, you noticed Travis was clenching his jaw, his eyebrows lowered.

"Yesterday marked a year since I left him. And for the last year, he has been harassing me."

Travis' face changed immediately.

"At first it was calls, texts, messages online but then he started showing up to my house, work...anywhere he could find me really. So I moved, and everything was good for a while but then he found me. I couldn't leave my house in case he was following me, I didn't dare go anywhere on my own, I didn't answer the phone unless it was call that I was expecting. So I moved again, and he found me again."

"Son of a bitch-"

"Travis, it's fine-"

You watched as he stood up from the bed, his fists balled up by his side, "No, it's not. It's not okay that you can't live your life because of some asshole. Fuck, if I ever see him-"

"Travis, you're not going to do anything because you're not going to see him."

He paced the wooden floor, his chest puffed out, "Have you called the police?"

"Travis, please, calm down. It's fine. I haven't seen him in a while, I think he's finally got the picture." You reached out for him, trying to keep him still. "But I'm worried that he finds out that I'm dating someone, someone like you, he'll come back."

He stopped to look at you, his expression softened and his shoulders relaxed. He kneeled down in front of you and his hands cupped the sides of your face. "I will never ever let anything happen to you, you got me?"

You smiled and nodded silently, tears rushing to your eyes.

"I mean it. Ever." He took a breath, "You are so incredible and don't let anyone make you feel any different, okay? You deserve to be treated like a Goddess and if I get the chance to, I'm the luckiest guy in the world."

You let out a small whimper as Travis' thumb wiped away the tears that were quickly rolling down your cheeks, "I always knew you were a sap."

"Keep that shit quiet, I gotta keep up my tough guy image." He winked with a smirk and pulled you closer to him, "Come on. I hate to see you upset."

"I'm fine, I'm fine...really. It's just tough talking about it sometimes." You cleared your throat.

Travis nodded, "Break ups are hard, but I can't imagine how you were feeling during all of that. You're brave, you know that?"

You snorted a laugh, "I don't think so."

"Well, I do. You're so strong and resilient...and you're so smart...and beautiful-"

"Travis, stop-" You said, waving him away.

He took your arms and turned you to face him more, a serious expression on his face, "I'll never stop telling you how awesome you are, okay? So, get used to it."

He leaned towards you as one of his hands snaked around your lower back, the other carefully holding the back of your head. Your eyes fluttered closed before you felt his lips on yours. Travis moved slowly at first but as you sunk into the kiss, the pressure deepened, pushing you down onto the bed. His arms were still holding onto you as you writhed underneath him, mouths colliding as waves of pleasure crashed over you. You could feel your body pulsating and Travis' hands got to work, exploring your body. The cropped shirt you were wearing was quickly lifted, his fingers massaging your breasts, your nipples hardening.

Travis' mouth moved from your lips and onto the soft and supple skin of your chest. You grinned as his beard hairs tickled your sensitive areas and when you arched your back upwards, Travis took this as a sign of permission to go harder. His tongue rolled along your nipple, occasionally using his teeth to increase the pleasure. You hissed through your teeth at the gentle pain, your nails dragging along his solid and toned back. Your hips instinctively bucked forwards and as you closed your eyes and threw your head backwards, Travis lunged down onto your neck, his lips pink and swollen.

"Fuck, baby." He groaned breathlessly in your ear between kisses.

He quickly pulled down the waistband of your pyjama pants, and as you wriggled underneath to help in pulling them down, his fingers were already making contact with your underwear. Travis rubbed in circles over the top of the thin fabric, his touch causing your clit to throb and a surge of goose bumps to appear on your skin.

You pulled your legs apart slightly, bending them at the knee, allowing Travis undivided access to you. A trail of wet, tender kisses made their way up from your neck and onto your mouth, his eyes hazy and focused solely on you. You relaxed into the moment, pleasure shooting through your body as he continued to expertly work your clit. A small wet patch had begun to form, and Travis noticed that the fabric of your panties had darkened.

"Do that feel good, babygirl?" He said deeply, his eyes flashing with lust.

You nodded, "Yeah, so good."

Travis leaned close to your ear, his chest pressing onto yours, "Tell me what you want." His warm breath brushed against your neck.

You let a loud exhale escape your plumped lips, "I want you. I want to feel you."

His fingers had settled into a slow but steady rhythm and your clit was becoming increasingly more sensitive with his firm touch. Breathy gasps filled the air as you felt yourself become undone, the warm tightening in your stomach slowly letting go. You let out a quiet squeal and grasped onto the sheets underneath you, balling them up in your fists and clenching your muscles as Travis' movements slowed.

Travis smiled against your neck, "Fuck. If that's what happens when I'm barely touching you, I can't wait for more." He removed his hand before looking down to see the sticky wet mess he had caused.

You allowed your breathing to slowly return to normal and reached down to pull your crumpled pyjama pants back up your trembling legs. Craning your neck, you checked the time that was showing on Travis' cell phone that he had dropped onto the bed next to you. "Come on, let's hit the slopes."

Travis watched as you rose from the bed, smoothing your hair and wiping underneath your eyes, "What?"

You leaned down, placing your hands onto his thighs, your face only inches away from his, "I wanted to go skiing this morning, you knew this. And maybe when we get back, we can warm ourselves up in the hot tub?"

His eyes sparkled, "Alright nah!"

______________________________________________________________

I have to apologise, but I got a bit distracted with some stuff and I couldn't get my head around writing anything. I tried...I promise! But my brain couldn't think of anything decent! So, I hope this is okay! If you want to keep up to date with this series and anything else that I'm writing, just let me know and I'll add you to my Taglist!

Taglist @rd14 @dandelionwrites8 @keiva1000 @fantasywritersstuff @caelipartem @anacarangel @she-lives-in-her-dreams @kkrenae @kristencochefski1125 @countrygirl120983 @charmed2000 @nouis-bum @cixrosie @delicateearthquakellama @wordsaresimple-imnot @amylouwho9 @queenisa17 @talicat713 @luvvtrent @purecinnamonextract @savaneafricaine @caelipartem @beyxgrande @caitdaniels @ezgirl1108 @vir-tual @lightsoutstyles @macey234 @s294749w @kelcemesoftly @calirindo @livinginmyfantasies @bernelflo @secretmywritingfictionlawyer @killatravtramp @there-goes-thefighter @unicornblueberry @calirindo @tjkelce87 @kristinamae093 @kmc1989 @ajbird18 @triski73 @ctn26 @kgcaputo07

[unanswered-stars]

Thank you so much for tagging me @jules-writes-stories @highlordofkrypton @achaotichuman

1. How many works do you have on AO3? I'm a but a wee babe in the ao3 world so just 7 but I have several WIP's that are on pause currently. I had originally had a fic planned for each day of Eris week but haven't been able to write in awhile so might be some time before those are published but once I start posting again you can expect Eris chaos to reign.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 36,487 I struggle to write long chapters and most of my works end up being around 2,500.

3. What fandoms do you write for? A Court of Thorns and Roses

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Shadows of Regret and Redemption| Azris - My first published work. A oneshot that grew legs and started to run. I am not completely happy with it thus far but I have the end plotted and I'm excited to eventually bring that to life.

Daughter of Autumn | Azris - Now this one absolutely shocked me with its popularity. Started as a fun little drabble for Gwyn Week 2024 and of course turned into Azris central.

The Beginning and End of Friendship | Azris - So many people screaming in the comments at me on this one. More screaming to come when I post part two I’m sure.

Two Souls Entangled| Azris - A tiny part of my soul via a short poem for Azris Week 2024.

Heaven Help the Fool Who Falls In Love: The End | Azris - This is the first piece I wrote for fanfiction and it is my precious baby. Only one chapter posted but I have several in need of editing before I publish the remainder. It's very heavy and I haven't had the mental space to read through it again.

5. Do you respond to comments? Every single one! They bring me so much joy. I have currently stayed away from my comment section for my own mental health but when I start posting again I will get back to everyone's comments, promise.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? All of my works are fairly heavy on the angst. TBaEoF comes to mind but I think for published works I’ll go with The Ending of Darkness which is a short little piece about @jules-writes-stories OC Mithras x Sylvan which I have a part 2 almost completed which is equally as angsty (sorry). Unpublished works definitely The Burning of Leaves and The Death of Shadows which are two fics I had planned for Eris week but are currently on pause (poor Eris I was really putting him through the wringer for Eris Week).

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Daughter of Autumn. Mostly because Cassian has the closing line and he just always says the darndest things.

8. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? I have not, nor do I plan on it. Please don’t hate me 😅 Just not my writing jam. I love finding unique ways to explore a relationship and conveying those same emotions and feelings without the smut. That being said some of my favourite stories and authors use smut as such a wonderful exploratory storytelling device and it is delightful. I love reading others contributions to the smutsphere. So so many talented writers out there giving us all our smuttiest dreams. I truly do not think that my smut contribution is even necessary when you have things like To Become a Vanssera by @acourtofladydeath and Why Not Me by @thomasisaslut both absolutely rife with smut and use it beautifully to convey their story (albiet in very different ways).

9. Do you write crossovers? Not yet, and probably not ever because I can hardly keep up with writing ideas I have for one fandom.

10. Have you ever had a fic translated? No.

11. Have you ever co-written a fic before? No, but it sounds delightful.

12. What is your all-time favorite ship? Azris most definitely for writing. I definitely have a big soft spot for Samwise and Rosie from LOTR (my husband is Samwise reincarnated and I am irrevocably in love with him). I have a WIP for Thesan and his lover and that dynamic and storyline has been so incredibly fun to explore as well.

13. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I started writing a Tarquin UTM oneshot that is incomplete and while I am still in love with the story I really struggled with writing the voice of Tarquin. This one will only ever get finished if I can finally figure out the right tone for this man’s internal dialogues.

14. What are your writing strengths? I have been told my writing reads like poetry which is one of the biggest compliments you could ever give me. I also love writing parallels but there’s definitely a lot of room for improvement there.

15. What are your writing weaknesses?  Editing haha. But actually, I find that my characters voices don’t feel very distinct and that there is a lot of overlap in the way they speak and think and it can be hard to distinguish who’s talking/thinking. I feel like my characters resemble a cookie cutter suburban neighborhood where the walls and trim might be a different colour but they’re all built exactly the same. If anyone has some tips please feel free to comment or message me!

16. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? I absolutely love reading it but unfortunately the only other language I know isn’t really a language at all. Pidgin, which is basically just native slang. I was playing around with it in my Tarquin fic a bit but seemed a tad too niche.

17. First fandom you wrote for? LOTR in middle school. I have a printed multi chapter booklet that is a rewrite of Sam and Frodo’s journey through Mordor that I made for my English class one year.

18. Favorite fic you’ve written? My favourite multi chapter by another author is undoubtedly A Court of Shadows and Ashes by @futurehunt Mother Save Us From Your Twisted fate by @chunkypossum which got a stunning part 2 for Eris Week this year! My favorite of my own published works is either HHtFWFiL:TE or The Ending of Darkness. Of my unpublished works honesty The Burning of Leave or The Death of Shadows are both strong contenders. For non Azris I have a Beron fic WIP for @sjmvillainweek day 1 that will probably get prioritized over the other two.

No pressure tags (and sorry if you've already been tagged): @the-darkestminds @born-to-riot @chairofchaos @thomasisaslut @chunkypossum @acourtofladydeath @shadowsandlint

[cherrycola27]

false god

Series Warnings: Mythology!AU. Language, alcohol, drinking. Military inaccuracies. Mutual pining, unrequited love. Allusions to and full smut. Minors DNI. 18+. Individual chapter warnings will come as needed. Banner Credit @thedroneranger

Masterlist Previous Part Next Part

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Chapter 17: Something Just Like This

Space. A place in this world to call your own. It's something you had always wanted—something you craved.

For a while, you had that here in your apartment with Hydra and Cerberus, and now Bradley. And you had loved the space you shared with them. Until she came along and contaminated it. Your home, the place that was supposed to be your safe space, had been desecrated.

Maybe that's why, when you woke up in the wee hours of the morning on Tuesday, with Bradley still fast asleep, you found yourself scrolling through real estate sights looking at houses. You hadn't lived in an actual house on earth, ever.

The thought of having one never crossed your mind. Buying a house meant staying somewhere. It was a physical representation of permanence. Something you never had before.

But now, with Bradley, your husband, you wanted a place for the two of you. A place to raise your future family because you were done running. You'd found your place in this world.

You scrolled and scrolled until you found the perfect house. It was a four bedroom colonial. Two stories, fenced in backyard, and a large front porch. It had a pool, which you weren't thrilled about, but you knew Bradley would love.

It was in a quiet neighborhood in Coronado. The house had hardwood floors throughout, and the listing said it had been newly remodeled, which was evident in the pictures.

The outside had beautiful landscaping, which complimented the lime-washed brick of the exterior. The only drawback was the price. For most, it would deter them, but for you, who'd spent over a thousand years saving and investing on earth, it was a drop in the bucket.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you filled in your information to set up a meeting to tour the house at ten in the morning. You didn't want to tell Bradley because it's not something the two of you had talked about, but it felt so right.

So, in the morning, you told him you had some errands to run and a surprise for him when you returned.

When you came back home around two that afternoon, you were giddy with excitement. "Love, pack a bag." You announced to Bradley as you came through the door.

"For?" He asked you with a raised eyebrow.

"For Virginia Beach. I figured we might as well take advantage of this time off that we have. I know you've been wanting to go home for a bit, and I'd love to see where you grew up. So, I made a few calls, worked out a few things, and I booked us two first class tickets. Our flight leaves at five. You announce proudly as you go to your bedroom and pull out some suitcases and start packing.

"Woah, babe, slow down. What about Hyrda and Cerberus?" Bradley asks as you toss clothes at him.

"Penny agreed to pet sit for us." You tell him.

"Well, what about a place to stay? I normally stay with my aunt, but I can't just spring this on her." Bradley asks you concerned.

"Bradley, it wounds me that you don't have faith in me." You mock him as you turn around to face him for the first time. "I got us a hotel. Everything is taken care of. Now start packing!" You scold him as you return to your suitcase.

Bradley exhales, knowing that it's fruitless to argue with you. So, he relents and starts packing alongside you.

An hour and a half later, the two of you are being dropped off at the airport. You decided to Uber rather than leave either of your vehicles there.

The moment you get your bags out, a young man greets both of you. "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw. I can take your things for you, and then you can follow me to the lounge."

Bradley looks a little surprised but hands your luggage over. The two of you follow the steward to the first class lounge and take a seat before getting a drink.

Bradley looks around as he settles into the plush chair with a glass of expensive scotch. "This is something else." He remarks. "Have you never flown first class?" You ask him.

"Never. When I fly commercial, I always try to upgrade to business because I'm too big to fit comfortably in economy." He shrugs his shoulders and continues to look around.

"You know, I sometimes forget that you're like, wealthy from being around so long. But then you buy me fancy watches and first-class plane tickets and I remember." Bradley chuckles.

"Bradley, Love." You lean forward in your chair. "I'm not wealthy. We are wealthy. You're my husband. For better or worse, what's mine is yours." You remind him.

"If you say so—still—it's a lot to take in." He sighs as he checks the time on his aforementioned expensive watch that you bought him.

A little while later, the two of you are on the plane tucked into your first class suite with all the bells and whistles, complete with lie-flat seats and a door.

Bradley is engrossed in finding out what all the buttons do when a flight attendant comes by with two glasses of champagne as you wait for take off.

"We didn't order these." Bradley says, but you pat his shoulder and chuckle. "They are complimentary. Perks of first class." You smile at him before grabbing the glasses and toasting. Minutes later, a dinner menu appears, and Bradley marvels at all of the choices, unable to decide.

You lean back in your chair and watch him over the rim of your glass. He's like a kid in a candy store. It warms your heart that you are able to give him all of this. You thought maybe completing your quest for worthiness was your purpose in life, but looking at your husband, you realize loving him is your true purpose.

The roughly six hour flight goes smoothly. After dinner, your suite is converted to a bed so you and Bradley can get some sleep. However, the two of you decide that joining the mile-high club was a better idea. You came with Bradley's hand firmly covering your mouth and his chest pressed against your back with him whispering absolutely filthy praises in your ear about how you were such a good girl for him.

By the time the two of you made it to your hotel late that evening, you were both thoroughly exhausted. You took a quick shower together before curling up to get some much needed sleep before meeting his family tomorrow.

....................

You woke up the next day extremely nervous.

Today, you would meet Carole's sister, Bradley's Aunt Marsha, her husband Tom, and their three children.

While the two of you were getting dressed, Bradley could sense that you were worried. The entire drive there in your rental car, he assured you that they would love you, and everything would be fine.

You felt nauseous as he pulled into their driveway. His aunt and uncle had a lovely home, and Bradley told you that they were great people, but this was all new to you.

You held his hand tightly as you climbed the couple of steps that led to the front door. Bradley rang the doorbell, and the two of you patiently waited for someone to answer. He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze just before the door opened, and a lovely middle-aged woman with short blonde hair opened the door.

"Oh my goodness! Bradley! What are you doing here?!" The woman, who you knew had to be his aunt because she looked just like Carole, exclaimed as she pulled him in for a hug before cupping his face. She hadn't noticed you yet.

"Hey, Aunt Marsha! I had a few days off, so I thought I would fly out here and surprise you. I also wanted to introduce you to someone." Bradley said as you pulled you closer to him. "Y/N, this is my Aunt Marsha. Aunt Marsha, this is Y/N, my wife." Bradley smiled.

Bradley's aunt stood there silently for a moment before a wide grin spread across her face. You turned her head over her shoulder and called into her home. "Tom, Conner, Alyssa, Maddie, meet me in the living room. Bradley is here, and he brought his wife!"

Marsha ushers the two of you inside and directs you to her living room, where you sit down on the sofa.

"Marsha, what are you going on about?" And older gentleman, whom you assume is her husband, comes into room holding a cup of coffee before stopping in his tracks when he spies you and Bradley sitting on couch. You aren't sure what to do, so you shyly wave at him. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything, Bradley's cousin burst into the room. "Mom, what do you mean Bradley brought his—" a tall boy who has blonde curls similar to Bradley's stops short when he sees the two of you. "—Wife." He finishes in a choked tone. The two girls stand there silently, each mirroring their father's shocked expression with wide eyes and mouthed slightly agape.

Marsha stands up and scolds her husband and children. "Don't just stand there, introduce yourselves!"

All at once, the four of them move toward you. You and Bradley both stand up, and you shake hands with his Uncle Tom and his cousins Conner, Alyssa, and Maddie. You a sit back down, and there is an awkward silence in the room.

"Well, Y/N, tell us about yourself, honey." Bradley's aunt breaks the silence as she brings in cups of coffee for all of you. You take the mug and take a deep breath.

"Well, I'm a pilot like Bradley is, I'm originally from North Carolina. I'm thrity-one. I'm Greek. I have a dog and a cat, my rank is Commander, I graduated from the Naval Academy, and my parents passed away when I was nineteen. Oh, and my call sign is Hades." You say, telling them what you'd practiced on the drive over here.

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry to hear about your folks." Marsha says. "It's fine, Mrs. Edwards." You shrug your shoulders. Bradley's aunt shakes her head.

"Mrs. Edwards is my mother in law. I'm Marsha or Aunt Marsha, whichever you prefer. We are family now." She smiles at you coming to sit by you on the couch and resting her hands over yours.

"Aren't you just the most beautiful woman. If there's one thing those Bradshaw boys can do, it's pick a beautiful wife. My goodness Bradley, she is gorgeous." Marsha compliments you. "Thank you." You smile back at her. "And she went to the Academy and is a Commander. That means she outrank you, doesn't it?" Marsha asks him.

"She sure does." Bradley chuckles. "Beautiful and smart. No wonder you couldn't stop talking about her when you came out to Maddie's graduation!" Marsha laughs, and Bradley blushes. You turn to him a quirk an eyebrow.

"Oh, honey, you should have heard him. He wouldn't stop talking about you!" Aunt Marsha says. "So, tell me the story, how did you two meet and all that jazz?" She asks you.

"Bradley was assigned to be my wingman, and we became friends and found out by accident that we were neighbors. We kind of danced around the fact that we liked each other for a while until Bradley asked me out on a date on my birthday. We went out the next day. Dinner and the boardwalk amusement park. He won me a stuffed shark!" You cheer as you tell them.

"Then Bradley got hurt, and I convinced him to move in with me, and last week, he proposed, and we eloped on the beach." You say, leaving out some of the more supernatural details before showing her your ring.

"This was your mother's ring, wasn't it?" Marsha asks with a few tears in her eyes. "Yes, yes, it was." Bradley says to her.

"She and Nick would have loved you." Marsha smiles at you. "You know, I never met two people who were more perfect for each other than my sister and Goose. You know he proposed after four dates. I guess when you know you know. I know Carole never loved anyone else after him. I hope they found each other in the afterlife and are happy together." Marsha sighs.

"They are." You sigh, and she looks at you confused. "I mean—I'm sure they are. Bradley has told me so much about them." You recover quickly. Marsha sighs before getting up to take your coffee cups. You offer to help her and follow her dutifully into the kitchen. You set the mugs down on the counter and turn to ask Marsha if she'd like help washing them.

But as you turn, your elbow catches the handle of one, and it crashes to the floor, shattering into a million pieces. "Oh no! I'm so sorry! Let me clean it up!" You drop to your knees to grab the broken fragments of ceramic. A sharp piece catches your index finger and you wince, drawing back at the pain.

You bring your finger up to examine yourself and notice the fresh, crimson blood leaking out of the cut. Your eyes go wide with shock. This isn't supposed to happen.

"Are you okay, dear? Here, let me get the broom." Marsha says as she scoops you to your feet and sweeps up the mess. "I'm so sorry." You say to her again.

"Oh, honey, don't you worry. There's a hundred more where that came from. Do you need a bandage? Come over to the sink and grab a stool, I'll clean you up." She says.

"I'm fine." You assure her as you wash the blood from your hands.

Hours later, you and Bradley's family, well, your family now, are gathered around the dining room tabled eating. The cut and dropped mug from earlier long forgotten.

The atmosphere is warm and welcoming and it's nice to sit down and have a family dinner where everyone wants you around.

It's nice to have a real family.

That night, when the two of you leave, Marsha and Tom insist that they have enough room for the two of you to sleep over, but Bradley tells them you already have a hotel room. His aunt makes you promise to come over again before you leave so she can show you some photo albums of Bradley through the years. When you return the next day, you spend hours flipping through them with her. Bradley blushes every time Marsha shows you one that he deems embarrassing, but you love every minute of it.

The two of you spend the next few days exploring. The day before you're set to leave, Bradley takes you to the graveyard where his parents are buried.

As you drive into the cemetery in your rented car, you hold tight to Bradley's hand. Afraid of what might happen if you don't.

He drives up a hill and stops at the top, pulling the car over to the shoulder and shutting off the engine. You both unbuckle, but you reach for his arm before exiting. "Bradley, wait," you say, catching him by the elbow.

"What's wrong, Angel?" He asks you with a soft expression. "I just—I just need to do something before we go out there. C'mere." You say to him as you pull him closer.

You lean over the console of the rental car and thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of Bradley's neck before pressing your foreheads together. You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths hoping that your idea works.

You break apart and look down, and a smile graces your features as you see what you were hoping to see.

"What was that about?" Bradley questions you. "I was seeing if we were tethered." You tell him. He cocks an eyebrow, still unsure.

"Graveyards and one of the places that I can easily travel back to the Underworld. When I'm in my true goddess form, I can see the portals inside them. But when I'm in my mortal form, I can't. If I would accidentally pass through one, I don't know if I would be strong enough to make it back. But if I'm tethered to you, I have something connecting me here to the mortal world. It keeps me safe." You explain to him.

"How do you know we are tethered?" Bradley asks. "Look at your ring. You should be able to see it." Bradley looks down, and there's a gold string running between the two of you. "Holy shit." He breathes out. "How—how is that possible? How can I see this?"

"Because you're the King of the Underworld. And as much as I never thought they existed, Bradley, you're my soulmate. Only soulmates can be tethered. It's how they find each other in the afterlife." You explain to him.

"But, but I thought you said we couldn't be soulmates. That our marriage could never be real?" Bradley shakes his head.

"Ancient laws are tricky. But I think you made it real, Bradley." You say as the pieces fall into place in your mind. "How?" He retorts.

"Because you made me an alter the first time we made love. You said you would worship at my hips, worship me. You made me an alter, and so when we got married—"

"We married at an alter of the Gods, an alter for you." He finishes. "Exactly." You smile. "So what does that mean, Angel?" Bradley presses further. "It means they can't take you from me. Gods can't tear apart soulmates. Looks like you're stuck with me." You chuckle.

Bradley smiles and kisses you before stepping out of the vehicle and coming to open your door. You slip your hand in his as the two of you walk to the headstone that marks his parent's resting place.

The two of you walk up, and Bradley introduces you as if they were actually standing in front of you. He starts talking about you to them, and you can't fight the tears that slip down your cheek at his one-sided conversation.

It's moving to watch him talk about your love and your marriage to his parents. He does it in such an enthusiastic manner that it makes your heart swell. Bradley wraps an arm around you and pulls you close after a few minutes and the two of you bask in the silence.

"I've met them." You say after a few long minutes. "What?" Bradley whispers as he looks down at you.

"I've met them. In the Underworld. The day your mother passed. I was in the Underworld trying to figure out a way to stay. She walked into Paradise asking about "her Goose." I thought she was talking about a pet until she explained that Goose was he husband's call sign. I got to see them reunite. It was— beautiful." You say to him.

"So they really are together. You meant it when you said that at Aunt Marsha's house?" Bradley tears up.

"They are together and happy and still in love. I'm sure you've heard this before, but you really do look so much like your father." You say as you cup his cheek. Your thumb brushes away some of his tears.

"I'm sorry I never told you before." You apologize. "It's okay. I understand why you didn't." Bradley says as he places his hand over yours. "I'm also sorry that I can't take you there to see them. If I was stronger—if I had my full powers—I could." You sigh, angry at yourself.

"It's okay, Angel. I know you could if you would." He whispers before kissing your forehead and pulling you in for a hug. The two of you stand there for a moment before you ask Bradley the question that's been on your mind. "Bradley, where do you want to be buried?"

He pulls back and thinks for a moment. "I never really thought about it. I always figured I'd either burn in, and there wouldn't be anything left of me or that I'd die alone and get boxed up and put in some military graveyard. But I think— I think I'd like to be buried here, with my parents. I'd like to have this view forever." He says as the two of you watch the hues of red and orange paint the evening sky.

"I think I can make sure that happens. Right here is going to be the perfect spot to spend eternity with you." You say. Bradley shakes his head. He doesn't say it, but he knows that he's going to die before you. But you've already promised him that you won't let him go without you. He just hopes you're both old and have lived a full life with that happens.

The two of you say goodbye to Goose and Carole with a promise to visit again soon before leaving.

Your flight home the next day is uneventful.

It's mid afternoon by the time you make it back. The two of you Uber back to your apartment before going to pick up Cerby and Hydra from Mav and Penny. You insist on driving to go get them. Bradley makes a fuss about it but ultimately gives in and hands you your keys.

"Angel, this isn't the way to Mav and Penny's." Bradley remarks as you make a turn. "I know." You hum back. You drive for a few more minutes before you pull into your final destination.

"Honey, who's house is this?" Bradley asks you as you pull in the driveway. "It's for sale. Let's go take a look." You say before hoping out of the car and bounding up the steps to the front door.

"Angel—baby—Hades, wait! We can't just go in a house that's for sale. We don't know if someone might be here!" Bradley scolds you as he follows you up the steps.

"No one is home, and we can go in if we have the key." You reply as you hold up the shiny piece of metal before unlocking the door. "How did you get that?" Bradley interrogates you as you step inside. "I have my ways." You laugh. "C'mon, Bradley, look around with me. Don't be such a kill joy." You tease him as you begin to flit throughout the space.

The bay windows along the back wall let in tons of natural like, and the floor plan is open concept with the kitchen, living room, and dining room flowing into one another. Gorgeous amber colored hardwoods run throughout the house and there is a fireplace along one wall.

The kitchen has beautiful light grey cabinets with white counter tops, and all the appliances are stainless steel. Bradley follows you up the stairs as he takes in all of the bedrooms before you lead him downstairs to the back patio and outdoor kitchen and the pool.

"Isn't this place amazing, Love?" You say to him with starry eyes.

"It's great, but—"He says hesitantly. "But what?" You ask him as you wrap your arms around his middle. "This is an expensive neighborhood and I know that you have money—"

"We have money." You correct him.

"We have money." He sighs. "But I don't want to spend so much of it. You earned that, and it's not fair."

You chuckle. "Bradley, I can't take it with me. And I've never had a reason to have a house until now. I mean, think about it. The yard would be perfect for Cerby and later on some kids. I mean, this would be the perfect home to raise our family in. You could teach them to swim in that pool while I make snacks in the outdoor kitchen. We could have our friends over. Heck, your aunt and uncle and cousins could come visit us. This place would be the perfect home for us!" You try to reason with him.

"I guess you're right. A place like this would be perfect for us to have a family. I guess we could talk to a realtor." Bradley laughs as the thought of you standing in the kitchen round and pregnant with his child while a toddler is running around the back yard with him creeps into his mind.

"We don't have to talk to a realtor, Bradley." You tell him. "I'm pretty sure we do, honey." Bradley chuckles.

"I'm pretty sure we don't. When we pulled up, you asked me whose house this was. Well, it's our house, Bradley. Welcome home." You say as you take a step back and dangle a key in front of him.

"You—you bought us a house? When? How?" He stammers, taking in your words. "The morning we left for Virginia. You'd be amazed what you can get done for the right amount of money.

"So you, you own this?" Bradley sweeps his hand around.

"We own this." You smile.

Bradley is silent for a moment before he picks you up and spins you around and carries you out the front door and onto the porch.

"Bradley? What are you doing?" You laugh. "I'm supposed to carry you across the threshold. It's tradition." He says with a matter of fact tone before doing just that. You break out into a fit of giggles as he sets you down and starts going through your home in earnest.

.................

Two weeks later, the two of you are all moved in. Your furniture fills the room, your photos and decor fill the walls and shelves. Your dishes sit in the cabinets, and Hydra and Cerberus have settled in nicely.

You've just come out of your huge new shower and are doing your nighttime routine when you notice a bruise from when you hit the corner of the kitchen island when making dinner, but you shake it off. As you apply some lotion, you notice the small scar on your hand from the mug you broke in Virginia.

When you go to inspect it further, you suddenly realize just how tired you are as you let out a yawn. You don't dwell on it because Bradley is calling you to come to bed, and the idea of being wrapped up in his big strong arms is the only thing you can be bothered to think of right now.

Taglist: @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @wkndwlff @roosterforme @daggerspare-standingby @dakotakazansky @startrekfangirl2233 @hecate-steps-on-me @na-ta-sh-aa @katieshook02 @je-suis-prest-rachel @soulmates8 @diorrfairy @eli2447 @xoxabs88xox @djs8891 @roosters-girl @sebsxphia @rosiahills22 @dempy @callsign-magnolia @alchemxx @gretagerwigsmuse @withahappyrefrain @lt-spork @bradshawsbaby @seitmai @kmc1989 @bcarolinablr @roosterisdaddy36 @itsdesiree86 @waywardhunter95 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @whatislovevavy @asshlyyyy @inkandarsenic @tomanybandstolove @jiminie-08 @dingochef @skipchat @sunlightmurdock @princess76179 @supernaturalvikingwhore @schoollover @cheyrenee @briseisgone @angelbabyange @marvelouslyme96

[friedbaekhyunandeggso]

found you - ch. 4

pairing: gojo satoru x female oc (ara natsuna)

tropes: psycho! rival! athlete! yandere! gojo x introvert! booksmart! sheltered! rbf! oc

warnings: 18+ only babes, stalking/possessive themes, profanity, coercion, chokehold, pet names (kitten), gaslighting, manipulation, manhandling, parental abuse (verbal & physical), physical assault (jus a wee bit gruesome), mentions of blood, size kink, begging, hyperventilation/panic attack, lots of toxic 'couple' arguing, sexual assault, psychotic break, downplaying trauma (kinda)

word count/plot: [8.6k] ara catches gojo's attention when news breaks that she is the top academically ranked student in their grade. he is ranked second. he tries to befriend her but she ignores him. despite her obvious disinterest, his obsession begins...

a/n: hiii a lot of you have prolly been looking forward to this happening so it here it is (this'll make sense after u read it) but basically shii goes down (when does it not). Anyway there were multiple times where I personally wanted to throw a boulder at Gojo bc he pisses me off LMAO and yet I still write him the way I do (smh). Anyway ik this chapter is short compared to the others so don't b upset :,) hopefully the next chapter (whenever I finish writing it) is longer. enjoyy..

ch. 1 , ch. 2 [ part 1 | part 2 ] , ch. 3 , chapter 4 , ch. 5 [ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 ]

Everyone knew they were together now. It didn’t even take a day for news to hit the school like wildfire. She hated it—every fucking second of it because people looked at her so much more now. Not only boys but girls.

She hated the way girls looked at her. As if she were so fucking lucky whenever Gojo walked beside her in the halls. Then there were the other girls-like half of the cheerleading squad-who eyed her like she was a dead rat walking.

She supposed she couldn’t blame them-they we’re all Karina’s lackeys in a sense. And Karina was delusionally infatuated with Gojo in every sense of the word-and, unfortunately for her, everyone knew it.

Everyone also knew that Karina was a bitch. Ara had expected some sort of reaction from her but-to her surprise (and great relief)-the other girl didn’t even look at her. Even when her girlfriends were around and would purposely give her the stankest looks known to mankind whenever she passed-Karina never spared her glance.

And Ara wanted to know why.

Ara didn’t know much about her and Gojo’s relationship, other than it had been more of a friends with benefits thing. But from what Millie told her eons ago-she faintly remembered it being an on and off thing that lasted a while.

She technically could ask Millie for more details, but she knew it would get back to Gojo and the last thing she wanted was him knowing that she was snooping around in his past. It would bother her for two reasons. One, it was sure to bring him an uncanny amount of joy that she was even curious and secondly, she wasn’t doing it because she was ‘jealous’ or whatever he would think.

She was doing it to see how he treated her. Shoko had said that Gojo didn’t date before her but she had no idea how he’d treated girls in the past-if it was anything like how he treated her then maybe.. maybe they could help each other. 

She knew it was a big reach—a risk even. It meant disregarding the rumors of Karina being obsessed with him, but Ara took rumors with a grain of salt anyway. Besides, if there was anything she knew about Gojo, she knew he could manipulate anything. He could manipulate a rock if he wanted to.

Ara just needed the chance to speak to her alone-to encourage some honesty-and the perfect opportunity presented itself just now.

She closed her gym locker and swung her bag over her shoulder. She turned around-intending to head out the locker room only to freeze when she heard another locker door shut close not too far away.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw it was Karina-none of her other friends with her. Ara slowly scanned the rest of the locker room, it seemed they were the last ones here.

Ara slowly approached her, gripping the strap of her tote bag nervously.

She cleared her throat, “Hi.”

Karina glanced towards her, immediately double-taking when she saw her.

Karina was undoubtedly pretty-it was obvious in every aspect of her. Her posture, her voice, her style. They all wore uniforms but bags were all up to the student's discretion-and she always had the latest designer purse on her shoulder and a fresh face of makeup on every morning.

The girl had recently dyed her hair dark. Ara could only speculate why because her loosely waved, light blonde hair was rather iconic but-after an up-close view, Ara decided she liked the black hair better.

Karina’s brown eyes widened, “H-hi.”

Ara immediately felt a bit better-at not having gotten completely ignored-but quickly gathered herself, “Ah, um-I know this is a bit out of the blue but I.. could you tell me how Gojo was like when he was with you?”

She saw something flash through her eyes, “Did he talk about me?”

“No.”

Katrina blinked, “Did he cheat?”

Ara’s brows furrowed, “No..”

Karina stared at her for a long moment, “You're just asking.. just to ask?”

Ara shifted slightly-trying to get a read on the girl but her poker face was pretty good, “I just-I wanted to know if he..” she had no idea how to phrase herself discreetly, “-he treated you well.”

“Treated me well?” Karina repeated.

Ara suddenly regretted speaking to her. The girl was good at deflecting her questions. She couldn’t pinpoint if she was deferring her questions because she wanted her to bring up his psychotic behavior first or if it was because he hadn’t done anything to her.

She decided her next question would clarify-

“If he let you date him, would you still date him?” 

Karina flushed, her mouth partially opening and closing multiple times-as if unsure how to answer.

Suddenly the locker room door swung open and both girls glanced over. It was her friends-and they looked just as astonished to see them interacting.

The other girls quickly crowded them, indiscreetly trying to communicate with Karina with their eyes.

Karina fumbled with her words, “Um-how about we talk about this at my spot tonight? Just come to my party.”

She saw one of her cheer friends turn to look at Karina in shock.

Ara hesitated, “Um..”

Karina snapped her fingers, “Your friends with Millie right? She’s invited, just come with her. See you!”

She watched as Karina waved her fingers, dismissing her. Ara paused, before deciding to play into whatever front she was putting up-if it even was a front.

Ara slowly stepped back, “Sure..”

She readjusted her bag over shoulder before heading out the locker room—feeling all the girls' eyes on her back like lasers.

Ara walked out of her last class of the day. The second she stepped out the door, she flinched when she saw Gojo waiting outside with his arms crossed.

She continued walking and he easily stepped into stride with her.

“Araa,” his tone whiny, “You should at least greet me with a kiss or hug.”

“You had both this morning.”

He smirked, “True,”

He threw his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to nuzzle his face into her cheek, “But that was this morning.”

He kissed her cheek, “You got anythin’ to tell me?”

She tensed slightly, “Like?”

She felt him grin against her cheek, “Like you talked to Karina, and she invited you to her party.”

Fuckin’ hell—she couldn’t keep her mouth shut for one second?

“Why’d you talk to her?” She could hear the undercurrent of amusement in his tone.

“Is there something wrong with me talking to her?” she quickly deflected.

He shrugged, “Not really. You jus forgot to tell her your not goin’-she’s tellin’ everyone you're comin’ to her party.”

“I’m not?”

She felt him glance down at her, “Of course you're not.”

She didn’t dare meet his eyes, “I kinda wanted to go with Millie.”

He dropped his arm from around her shoulder, ‘tsk’-ing her, “That’s not how it works, sweets.”

She finally glanced up at him. They stood outside the school’s main entrance, which was a little ways away from where the buses were parked.

“We go to parties together or no one goes.” He tilted his head, “I have practice late tonight, remember?”

She hadn’t forgotten. She hadn’t forgotten about his little rule regarding parties either-not after he stated it in front of all his friends at Shoko’s party that one night. She never planned to drink again after that.

He ruffled her hair, “I’ll make it up to you this weekend.”

She swallowed—trying to keep her voice as innocent as possible, “I really can’t go with my friend?”

His blue eyes widened imperceptibly. She couldn’t tell if he was shocked by her pushback or by her even expressing a morsel of interest in a party-she hoped it was the latter.

He scanned her face expressionlessly, “That’s correct.” There was no humor in his tone.

She hated the feeling that settled in her gut. It was the same thing she felt whenever she asked her father for things and he’d say no. Except it wouldn’t always ever just be a ‘no’-it would be worse, depending on his mood.

It didn’t matter how simple or burden free the request was. If it wasn’t related to school, he didn’t want to hear it. So she stopped asking. She barely asked him for things-unless it was necessity or school related.

And this, this was no different. She was asking for permission and something about that left an incredibly bitter taste in her mouth.

So much so, she couldn’t keep the lighthearted tone she intended, “It’s just a party.” she bit out.

His crystalline eyes sharpened imperceptibly, “I’m aware.” his tone was oddly light, before taking a step towards her.

She immediately stepped back-her growing fear twisting into anger as she spit, “Can’t you trust Millie to stalk me in your place?”

He took another step towards her, this time his tone crisp, “You’re not going.”

Her response died on her tongue when she saw the buses beginning to depart behind him. Just as she opened her mouth to tell him she had to go, his hand clasped around her throat-forcing her eyes to him.

“Did you hear me?” his tone completely deadpan. He tilted his head, “You’re not going.”

She gasped, staring between his bright eyes before grasping his wrist at her throat, “I-I have to go, the buses are-“

His fingers twitched around her throat-he leaned closer to her, “You’re not going.”

He stared intently into her wide eyes, “Do you understand?”

She swallowed before nodding.

He slowly looked her up and down, “I want to hear you say it.”

Her voice came out shaky, “I-I won’t go…Toru.”

He loved that stupid nickname ever since she said it when she was drunk. She hoped it’d make him let her go, she truly couldn’t miss the bus. 

He was quiet for what felt like a long moment before a slight chuckle escaped him.

He released her neck, “I’ll see you at home, kitten.”

She touched her neck the second he let go. Merely nodding in response before running towards her bus.

She stared at the clothes she laid out on her bed. It was a simple brown zip up hoodie and boyfriend jeans. It wasn’t your typical party attire but she could care less about that. She was only going for information, not for a good time.

She already told Millie that she wasn’t going only so Gojo didn’t find out—since she apparently reported everything little thing to him for no fucking reason. But it didn’t matter, because Millie already sent her Karina’s address earlier.

She’d call a taxi service, that way she could use her spare cash. She couldn’t call an uber because her Dad would see it on her bank statement. God knows how he would react to that.

She glanced at the digital clock on her desk. 8:39 pm.

Gojo didn’t get back from basketball practice till 10 pm. An hour was all she needed. Just in and out of Karina’s place.

Her Dad already thought she was asleep. She’d also stuffed extra clothes underneath her blanket in a human-ish shape to make it look as if she were sleeping there in case he checked.

Everything should be fine. Her hands unclenched and clenched into a fist repeatedly. Everything’s fine.

She couldn’t help but feel nervy. The last time she snuck out by herself was in middle school and her Dad had given her a black eye.

She prayed this was worth it. She couldn’t help but question it-Karina didn’t look like Gojo did anything to her, but how does anyone look like they’ve been assaulted?

She herself had never seen Gojo and Karina talk before so she could only hope that the rumors surrounding Karina being infatuated with him were false. Possibly fabricated by Gojo to keep himself in the clear. Maybe he had something on her to blackmail her with in case she tried to snitch.

She raked a hand through her hair, unease swirling in her gut. She needed to calm down. If her thoughts didn’t slow down she was bound to hyperventilate.

She exhaled shakily. Just wash your face, change and call the driving service.

She opened her eyes and went to the attached bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face and immediately felt better. She patted her face with a towel while walking back into her room.

The towel immediately slipped from her fingers onto the floor.

Gojo stood in her room, his back to her. His hand hovered over her clothes on the bed before shoving them all to the floor. She flinched.

He turned around-revealing the front of his built stature in the black compression t-shirt he wore. His platinum hair was stringy-damp, as if he’d just showered.

The second his diamond blue eyes met hers, fear charged every atom in the air. She stopped breathing.

“Why’d you take these clothes out, Ara?”

She stared at his expressionless face, unable to come up with a single word. The silence felt so loud.

Suddenly, he was laughing-his laugh was nowhere near kind. The room felt colder. She wished he would stop.

He rubbed his chin, “I couldn’t stop thinking of it, y’know. The face you made when I said you couldn’t go-“

He chuckled once more, “I kept thinking about it all practice, but she wouldn’t lie to me—you’d never lie to me, right Ara?”

She was speechless.

He shook his head, smiling sardonically to himself, “I thought I was goin’ crazy. I told Coach I had to leave for a family emergency—family emergency.”

He was full-on laughing now, maniacally.

She covered her mouth with her hand, “Stop, Gojo, stop-“

“I should stop?” he snapped, completely deadpan, “You fuckin’ lied to me.”

He took a step towards her and her hand immediately flew up between them.

“Don’t come near me.” she instinctively demanded.

His eyes lit up, “What’re you gonna do, stop me?”

Her heart rate went up when he took another step towards her. She immediately scurried back.

“It’s just a party.”

“I don’t care.” He didn’t stop moving towards her.

Her fear-stricken mind came up with something-to gaslight him, “Why are you being like this? Is it because of Karina?”

That made him stop-confusion flickering within his eyes.

She immediately continued, “You still care about her don’t you? That’s why you don’t want us to meet.” She slowly moved around the room, keeping her back to the wall as she subtly headed towards her nightstand.

“I don’t give a flying fuck about Karina.” he spit out.

The first drawer of her nightstand had a flashlight, maybe she could use it to hit him.

“Y-you’re lying.”

Suddenly she froze, realizing she was cornered. She couldn’t make it to her nightstand without crossing him.

No. no. no.

He stepped towards her, only an arms length away.

He tilted his head, “I’m not a liar. You are. You lied to me.”

She froze, holding eye contact with him for a moment before darting past him to her bed. She scurried atop it, her fingers clasping around the nightstand drawer handle only for her leg to suddenly get dragged.

She was dragged further onto the bed and flipped over. Just as a scream ripped from her throat, a firm hand cupped her mouth. He was over her, an untamed glint to his azure eyes.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, “You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy.” she cried quietly into his hand.

His hand over her mouth tightened. His eyes blazing, “I am. For you-I am.”

He pressed his forehead against her temple, forcing her face aside into the bed. His voice ragged, “You make me like this.”

Suddenly the doorknob rattled and he disappeared from atop her.

Her eyes widened as she shot up on the bed. The door swung open a second after Gojo stood behind it-the door keeping him hidden.

Her father stood in the doorway. She didn’t have to look at him too long to know he was mad.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

Her hands trembled as she fisted the bedsheets. Her voice wavered, “Baba?”

He walked further into the room, holding up a partly crumpled piece of paper-due to how tightly he was holding it.

“Why the hell did I get an email with this picture?”

He threw the paper at her-making her flinch. She picked up the paper from the bed with shaky hands. The paper was a printout of an email. The email account it was sent from looked like a spam one-with more numbers than letters-but it showcased a big picture of an assignment she got an ‘89’ on.

It was the lowest score she’d ever received in her life and it happened on an assignment she did last week. She thought she had gotten away with it-

“EIGHTY NINE?!!!” her father yelled.

She flinched, immediately crying, “I’m sorry, Baba. I’m sorry. It won’t happen aga-“

“Again? Why would it happen again?!” his voice suddenly rose, “I DIDN'T RAISE YOU TO BE A DUMB LIL BITCH LIKE YOUR MOTHER!!!!”

Suddenly he grabbed her by the hair and pulled his hand back to slap her. She felt the heat of his palm a hair’s breadth away from her cheek.

She squeezed her eyes shut, readying herself for impact only for her father’s hand in her hair to disappear. A loud crash ensued.

She gasped, eyes flashing open to see her Father on the floor. His eyes wide in shock as Gojo stepped over him.

Before her Father could even speak, Gojo sat over him and his hands didn’t stop. Blood splattered across the floor.

“GOJO!!” she screamed, as deafening sounds of brutality ensued. She stumbled up to her feet-her body felt like it was made of jelly with how unbalanced she was.

His hands moved so fast she couldn’t even see them, they were simply a blur of red over her Father’s face. The gruesome sound of bone cracking echoed within the room.

She couldn’t hear her own voice as she screamed, “GOJO, STOP!!!!! STOP-STOP!!!!!!!”

He didn’t stop.

She jumped onto his back-sobbing. Her arms slid around his shoulders, trying to hold him back but he was so strong. Her frail arms did nothing. Instead her small body shook with each lethal blow he unleashed on her Father's beaten body.

“SATORU!! STOP! STOPPPP, GOJO-STOP!” she cried in his ear, gripping his shoulders tight as she screamed- “IF YOU LOVE ME, YOU’LL STOP!!!”

Suddenly, his body went still—eerily still. She felt the muscles in his body tense in her hold. All the forcefulness running rampant within him coming to a complete halt.

She felt him lean into her slightly, his breaths shallow as he looked down. He looked down at her shaky arms around him. He reached up slightly to touch her-his fingers barely skimming her forearm when she wrenched herself away.

His hand was wet.

She stared at her forearm in horror. There was a streak of blood. Her Father’s blood.

She shoved Gojo, too panicked to care. “Get off him! Get off-“

He complied, standing up smoothly with his hands cradled to his chest. They were covered in blood.

She gaped the second she saw her Father. His face was covered with shiny, deep-red blood, the white of his half-open eyes the only other color. His forehead and cheeks swollen with welts. His nose was indistinguishable-a complete bloodied mush that continuously poured more and more red. His jaw hung open at an awkward angle.

She screamed, scrambling off her Father’s body while covering her mouth.

“WHAT DID YOU DO-Wh-what did you.. do..” she broke down-sobbing-before crawling to her Father’s side.

She didn’t care about the blood getting all over her as she hyperventilated. She pushed wildly at her Father’s limp chest—“BABA!! Baba-“ she sobbed, “Baba, wake up. WAKE UP!!”

“He’s not dead.”

She froze. Gojo’s eerily calm voice was the equivalent of dumping a bucket of ice-water over her.

She immediately stood up, facing him. Her gaze didn’t waver as she slowly walked up to him. He was emotionless, his bright blue eyes never leaving her.

She shoved him, he didn’t budge.

“Why did you do that.” she asked, completely deadpan.

He didn’t answer.

She shoved his chest again, “WHY DID YOU DO THAT!”

This time she didn’t stop-her small fists hitting his chest erratically while he stood completely still. Her hits had no coordination, no impact on him. She sobbed through gritted teeth.

“Enough.”

He grabbed her elbows, his fingers digging deep enough to hurt. She flinched, only to yelp and fall to her knees when she saw his hands.

They were drenched in blood-upto his elbows. They dripped at his sides as she hunched over before him, breathing unevenly.

“I’ll handle this.” his voice was faint to her ears.

He dialed a number.

Ara stared outside the wide glass windows. She could see so much of Los Angeles from here. The world looked so big. People looked like tiny dots moving below.

Her gaze flickered to the window's reflection, noticing the nurse leave.

She turned around and faced the vast executive suite. She didn’t even know hospitals had luxe suites. This room was on one of the top floors of the building as well—which made the window-side view all the more daunting.

She walked over to her father’s bedside. His face was covered in bandages as he lay eerily still. He would survive, that was all that mattered-and he’d never have to worry about a single thing.

Gojo made sure of that.

The alibi was that a robber came through her bedroom window and she’d yelled for her Father-who immediately went to her room to deal with the intruder but got beat instead. And Gojo happened to be the young billionaire scion driving by who’d overheard her screams and ran in to help. The robber-conveniently-being gone by the time he got there.

And-of course-Gojo being the kind soul he was, immediately got her father transferred to the most renowned hospital in California. She was pretty sure Kim Kardashian gave birth to one of her children here.

The alibi was well fleshed out but she couldn’t help but question if her father would remember something. Gojo-kindly-reminded her that even if he did remember, it wouldn't make a difference because by the time he woke up the case would be closed. Two uninjured witness statements would be considered more viable than his injury muddled recollection of the incident anyway, if he were to report it—according to Gojo.

She hadn’t even been concerned about her Dad reporting any discrepancy in his memory anyway, but the fact that Gojo brought that up first only made her more aware of how well versed Gojo was in law enforcement proceedings. She didn’t even want to know how or why—All she knew was that his efficiency with this matter revealed how he wasn’t a novice to these kinds of things.

She didn’t want to think about what else he’d gotten swept under the rug.

She stared at her Dad’s limp hand—merely grateful he was alive. The doctors had realigned his jaw and saved as much of his nose as they could. The welts and bruising along his face would go away with time.

There was a chance her Dad’s mobility could get affected by the brain injury that had incurred. The surgery had gone well so the chance of permanent damage was low but if he hadn't gotten the high quality care at the speed he had, his chances would've been very different.

Her Mom still hadn’t answered any of her calls. She supposed that was expected.

She reached out, her fingers shaky as she contemplated holding her father’s hand for a moment.

But image after image of those same hands hurting her flitted through her mind. The impact that single part of his body had on her mental health, confidence and life… It made her want to cry.

She withdrew her hand, blinking rigorously before walking out into the hallway that led into a wide ceiling, hotel-like common room. It was so silent-the only sound being the hum of her father’s patient monitor. Gojo had booked out the entire floor.

She walked towards a set of double doors and pushed them open. Gojo sat in the modernly furnished room, hunched against the couch as he faced the TV-despite it being off. He had enough decency to let her be alone with her Father it seemed.

His blue eyes flickered towards her when she entered. He leaned forward in his seat-posture still slumped as he raked a hand through his platinum hair. They’d been at the hospital all night and this was the first she’d spoken to him since her Father’s operation a few hours ago.

She didn’t even know what to think when she looked at him.

He looked up at her, something in his turquoise eyes seemed to waver, “I’m sorry.”

She froze in her stance, “..What?”

He spoke a bit fast, “I-I didn’t know, okay? I didn’t know your Dad was like that-Millie told me he was strict about your grades so I jus thought he’d ground you or some shit-”

She blinked, an undercurrent of agitation in her voice, “What are you talking about?”

“—You never told me. If you told me he was like that..“ he drifted off before shaking his head subtly.

Her brows furrowed, “You would’ve what? What, huh?”

He was silent, his countenance somewhat conflicted.

“Killed him?” she mocked.

His bright eyes met her in an instant, “If you let me, yes.”

She stared at him-completely stupefied. He hadn’t hesitated for a second.

She scowled, “How can you even say that? That’s my father-my father!”

He stood up-a crazed quality to his eyes as he spoke, “You didn’t see your face, Ara. You looked so..“ his eyes drifted off elsewhere, as if envisioning it, “..so scared. And he was jus being so fuckin’ rude to you-I couldn’t jus—I had to—“

She stared at him in complete disbelief-unable to keep the anger from her tone, “You didn’t have to do anything!”

He stepped towards her, “I did it for you. I told you-all of your problems are mine.”

Tears swam in her eyes, “No they aren’t, Gojo! They aren’t.”

“They are,” he insisted.

She stepped back-voice shaky, “I would never want you to kill my father.”

“You’ve thought about it though, haven’t you? Even in passing-you’ve had to, at least once-“

“No,” she whispered.

“How much easier life would be if he was just dead.”

“NO!” her shaky hands were fists at her sides.

He laughed dryly, plopping back down onto the couch, “It’s okay, Ara. It’s okay to think those things...”

He lay his head back on the couch's headrest, “I already told you, there’s no line I won’t cross. Jus say the word and he won’t be an issue again.”

Her eyes widened in horror.

He lifted his head to peek at her before sighing, ”Oh, c’mon. Don’t look at me like that. You want him gone. Admit it.”

“I don’t.” she gritted out.

“I know you.”

“You don’t know shit.”

Suddenly he was out of his seat, walking towards her. He was so fast she barely had time to move backwards. Her back hit the wall and she gasped–fear rendering her frozen when she realized she was cornered.

His hand slipped around her throat as he spoke-his voice barely above a whisper, “I do know you, Ara. I’m the only one who knows you.”

She felt tears touch her eyes. Her throat tightened underneath his fingers, swallowing down the low sob that threatened to spill past her lips. 

His thumb caressed her racing pulse before slowly lowering his hand. His fingertips skimmed over her collarbones as he rested his palm atop her chest. His hand felt cold against her skin.

His voice was soft, “Why are you protecting him?”

She closed her eyes, inadvertently holding her breath. His palm pressed further into her chest–making her erratic heartbeat pump faster.

“And don’t say cuz he’s your Dad,” he spat, “He still hurt you.”

She flinched.

She felt his hair tickle her forehead. He was closer now. The air felt more weighted.

“Do you love him?” he asked, ever so quietly.

The question felt like a punch to her gut. Did she love him? She didn’t know. She never thought about it before. All she knew was one thing…

Her eyes fluttered open, finally looking at him. He was so close—too close.

“I-I don’t want him to die.” she choked out.

His sky-blue eyes slowly ran down her face, taking in her every feature. His eyes latched onto the tear that slipped out of the corner of her eye.

He cupped her face, “Relax, kitten. I’m not gonna kill him.”

She was trembling so bad, she didn’t know how to stop. He stroked the sides of her face lovingly.

“I know I almost did but I stopped, didn’t I? I stopped.”

She bit her lower lip, trying to contain the urge to cry. He drew her close, pulling her into a hug–trying to quell her trembling.

His hands ran through her hair comfortingly, “I still don’t regret hitting him.”

She was too caught up in her emotions to fully register his words.

He continued stroking her back, “Only thing I regret is sending the email.”

She froze.

He drew her closer against his chest, “I only meant to stall you. I figured you might try—“

She tried to shove herself out of his grasp, “YOU sent that email?!”

His grip around her didn’t budge, “Ara-"

She miraculously managed to slip out of his grasp. 

She shoved him back-simultaneously staggering backwards as she did so, “What the FUCK is wrong with you?”

His eyes never left hers, “I didn’t know your Dad-“

“You think that makes it any better?!” she shouted in disbelief-too angry to think. Her Dad would’ve been completely uninvolved and unharmed if he hadn’t sent that stupid email. “Why do you always have to take things so far?”

His brows furrowed-tone crisp, “Because you don’t listen to me.”

“So?” she spat, “So?”

At his silence, she continued-her voice gradually rising, “Am I not allowed to disagree with you? Am I not allowed to make my own decisions? Am I not a human being?!”

His eyes narrowed, but she couldn’t stop—all of her frustration was pouring out now.

“I’m tired. I’m sick and goddamn tired of people trying to tell me what I can and can’t do and I’m sick of getting hurt everytime. Everyone I know hurts me. Everyone!”

“I don’t hurt you.”

She stared at him before a soft, delirious, laugh slipped past her lips, “Are you kidding?”

He stared at her, expressionless.

“You don’t think you hurt me?” she questioned.

The corner of his mouth twitched, “Not in the way your Dad has.”

Her eyes widened, “No, but you do worse! Your always with me-you try to control me a-and y-you touch me-“

His blue eyes flashed with something indescribable, yet his tone remained calm, “You like it when I touch you.”

“No!” she yelled, “No, I don’t. I cry every time we fuck, Gojo-how is that normal?”

The corner of his lip tugged upward, “That’s cuz you're still not used to my size.”

She stared at him in shock-filled contempt, “You're insane.”

He waved his hand in the air, “Normal. Insane. You keep throwing these words around—who gives a shit?”

“I GIVE A SHIT,” she yelled, “I GIVE A SHIT BECAUSE ITS AFFECTING ME!”

Suddenly he was right in front of her-his hands grabbing her throat—forcing her to look up at him.

“Well-maybe-if you wanted something normal so damn bad you should’ve answered me the first time I talked to you. I would’ve given you flowers, dates—the whole charade. I can still do the same, but it’s not the same now—is it?”

She was too angry to be scared. She stared up at him with so much anger as she spit back, “I didn’t talk to you because I didn’t want to. Don’t you get it?!”

She grabbed his hands at her throat, “I never wanted you.”

She watched his intricate eyes widen and she swore she saw her life flash before her eyes. But instead his eyes softened—his white lashes fluttering open and close before the crease between his brow deepened.

His fingers around her throat tightened, “You need me.” he whispered, and something about his whisper scared her more than her Father’s yelling ever did.

She fought to keep her voice even, “W-we never should’ve started, Satoru.”

He was frozen, as if stricken. Something in his light blue eyes seemed to fade as his expression darkened, “I don’t believe that.”

She ignored the chill that went down her spine at his words. She grabbed his wrists, attempting to pry his hands off her.

“Believe it.” she spat-channeling all her anger to keep the blaring alarms of fear and crawling paranoia at bay. Her voice was tight with venom as she spoke, “We’re over.”

Suddenly his eyes sharpened-any conflict or barely restrained anger slipping off of his face in an instant. His gaze was so sharp-so magnetic-she felt like he was harming her despite not feeling a thing.

His fingers around her throat were loose and his posture was lax-he was merely standing over her, looking down to face her. Nothing was technically off, but she knew what she felt.

She knew what strength he had stored within every part of his tall frame. How each limb of his body didn’t lack the uncanny amount of solidity he had. She felt it every time she was with him, whenever she spoke a bit too honestly—whenever she dodged his touch—how easily the mood could shift because of her shortcomings. How easily the invisible lines could be crossed.

It was like a mouse in a trap—squealing wildly against its restraints, beady eyes staring helplessly at its captor.

Except her captor didn’t want to kill her.

He tilted his head, “We’re over?”

She was so still, she wasn't sure if she was even breathing. His eyes dropped to his hand at her throat. She wondered if he could feel her flighty pulse.

She fought to keep her voice even, “We’re over.”

Suddenly his lips were on her-kissing her so hard that any breath she’d been holding came rushing back at full speed. She gasped, unable to refuse his lips-his tongue-as he held her by the throat. His hold unrelenting.

Her hands pulled at his wrists to no avail—until his grip loosened. She shoved herself away from him, moving so fast that she fell to the floor—a couple feet away from him.

He watched her breathe shakily before him, on her knees—just the way he liked.

He took a step toward her, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. She didn’t bother looking up at him.

“You need me, Ara-you need me.”

She felt him go on one knee before her and quickly turned her face aside. She couldn’t look at him.

He gently moved her hair out of her face as she trembled.

“I’ll wait for you.” he murmured.

He twirled a strand of her hair around his finger before standing up. He left the room without looking back.

He didn’t come back to the hospital after that. It was radio silence. Not one text. Not one call. Not one single word.

She almost didn’t believe it. It felt too good to be true. It nearly felt like everything went back to the way it was before her rank was announced–except for his lingering stares.

She always felt it-that odd nagging sensation-before letting her eyes follow it. He would confirm her instincts everytime her eyes landed on his unnaturally blue ones. It didn’t matter if he was just passing by on the other side of the hall or if he was gazing past Geto’s locker to watch her walk into homeroom—she always knew when he was looking at her.

At first, it would leave her startled but gradually she chose not to think about it-as long as he stayed away from her, nothing mattered. Even if the whole school thought he mattered—

Everyone noticed it the first day. He didn’t enter the school with her or meet her in between classes to shower her with kisses or obnoxious hugs. By the time last period came around, half of the school had asked her if they had broken up. All she would respond with was, “Stay out of my business.”

She hated every second of dealing with that. Especially when all she could think about was her Dad. If she wasn’t at school, she was at the hospital. She took the bus back and forth until a meek, suit-clad boy near her age approached her and told her that he was assigned as her personal driver. She told him she had no idea what he was talking about. He went on to explain that his service was pre-paid for and handed her his business card. His name is Ijichi Kiyotaka.

There was an emblem on the back of the business card that she later googled—apparently it was the Gojo family symbol. She didn’t think those still existed.

At first she stubbornly took the bus until Ijichi ran up to her at the bus stop when it was raining. He begged her to use him since he was bored out of his mind-his only job was to be at her convenience, even if that meant following her by car in order to be more accessible to her. She was startled at first before deciding to humor his desperate confession due to the bad weather. She never intended to use it again until she realized the private car took less than half of the time the bus did.

She wondered why Gojo felt courteous enough to leave such a thing for her to use—maybe he felt bad or maybe he knew she’d need it since he wouldn’t be around to drive her everywhere. Or maybe this was his way of keeping tabs on her-not that he needed to since her phone glitched every time she tried to turn off ‘location sharing’ with him. Of course, the bastard tampered with her phone.

She wasn’t the least bit surprised. But what had left her shell shocked was when the nurse first took off her father’s bandages. His entire face looked different. His nose reconstructed, subtle dents along his now bald head—it seemed the doctors could only salvage so much.

He didn’t move for a few weeks. The nurse and her took turns propping him up and feeding him meals. It always made her uneasy whenever it was her turn to feed him. Her father had never looked this vulnerable in her life.

Around the third week, he started to talk again. At first it was one word responses, then a string of words and then-after a couple days-full sentences came back to him.

But he was different-different from before. He was.. lighter-as if some type of weight had been lifted. He didn’t remember anything about the incident, and wasn’t the least bit angry when she recounted the details of the ‘alibi’ to him.

He was even kind to the nurses. Offering them smiles when they told him it was a miracle that his speech and mobility were returning at the rate they were. She’d never seen him smile in her whole life.

After several weeks of physical therapy, her father was back on his feet. They went back home after two months at the hospital.

It felt so weird to be back home. She hadn’t been home since the incident. Her father still remained oddly nice. He was still somewhat bed bound due to not being clear to work yet.

She wasn’t used to seeing him home this often, but it wasn’t as much of a nightmare as she thought it would be. In fact, he seemed to look forward to greeting her whenever she came back from school. 

His newfound kindness was so absurd to her she couldn’t believe it. It felt like a front. She almost wondered if her dad had gotten swapped out—especially after he took her hand once and thanked her.

She couldn’t help but stare at him after he said that. The only thing she could say was ‘for what’ and his response was a quiet ‘everything’.

She cried so hard in her room that night.

Two nights later, the peace ended.

The sound of something shattering echoed throughout the house.

Ara awoke with a jolt, her eyes instinctively going to the window before flitting to her bedroom door. It had come from further down the hallway.

She stepped out of her room to see her Father’s office room door left ajar. She slowly walked up to his door before shakily grasping the doorknob.

“Baba?” she asked before opening the door completely.

Her father was on his knees beside his desk. A broken mirror at his feet. His fingers were bloody.

He stood up, his hands out in front of himself, “What did you do to me, Ara?”

She stared at her father, shell-shocked.

His voice was hoarse as he ran his hands over his face, “This isn’t my face. THIS ISN'T MY FACE!”

He began to grab things off his desk and throw them across the room. She ducked.

“THIS ISN'T MY FACE. THIS ISN'T MY FACE. THIS ISN'T MY FACE. THIS ISN'T MY FACE. THIS ISNT MY FUCKING FACE!”

She was crying while holding her arms over her head.

Suddenly her father’s voice came from above her. He grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to look up.

“DO YOU SEE MY FACE? DO YOU SEE IT, ARA?”

She stared at him through tear stained eyes—trembling, “Y-yes.” she whispered.

“DOES IT LOOK LIKE YOUR BABA? HMM?”

She flinched. The slight scars along the sides of his face hadn’t completely healed and the indentations were there to stay. His nose was different but it was the best the doctors could do. He’d already seen his face unbandaged before so she couldn’t imagine why he was acting like this now.

He snarled, his grip around her hair tightening, “And don’t fuckin’ lie..”

She inhaled shakily. Anxiety made her throat tight. There was no right answer.

She lightly grabbed the wrist of his hand at her hair, “Baba, please, let go-“

Suddenly something flashed in eyes and he yanked her hair-making her yelp, “Who was that white haired boy? Hmm, WHO?”

Her eyes widened.

He yanked her hair once more, making her cry out, “I know he was in your room first. He was there before me.”

His grip on her hair was hurting her, “B-baba! Please-“

He shook her, “Did you send him to attack me? You hate me that much? HMM?”

She was kicked to the floor. She cried out when her shoulder collided into the hardwood.

“You HATE YOUR BABA THAT MUCH!” he bellowed.

She cried, curling into a ball as she knew-she knew-what was coming. It seemed her father hadn’t changed after all.

She closed her eyes the instant the kicking ensued.

He swung the door open and shoved her out. Her legs were too weak to stay upright as she stumbled, before falling to her knees on the porch. She sobbed.

“GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY HOUSE!”

He kicked her, forcing her off the porch. She caught herself a second before her head connected with the asphalt.

She weakly stood up, “Baba, please-don’t do this-“

He bounded in her direction and she immediately scrambled backwards.

“I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT! I DON’T WANNA SEE YOUR FACE AGAIN!” He yelled while pointing at her.

She watched him retreat to the house and slam the door through tear stained eyes. The windy night air only made her eyes more watery.

She crumpled to her knees, crying into her hands. Why? Why? Why?

She was so tired. So tired.

Of course his kindness only lasted so long.

She grabbed the duffel bag from underneath her bed. She limped to her closet before stuffing as many clothes as she could within.

She winced when she heard things getting thrown downstairs. It seems he was still in the midst of his episode. Her heart thumped wildly in her ears-the only thought going through her head was to move fast.

She quickly went to her bathroom, grabbing a few necessities before her hand accidentally knocked into her toothbrush stand. It hit the floor with a loud crash.

She gasped. Oh no.

Suddenly all the ruckus going on downstairs went completely quiet. Shit.

She was frozen in shock until she heard the sound of someone bounding up the steps. Adrenaline shot through her veins as she tossed her half full duffel bag over her shoulder and ran towards the window-ignoring all the pain within her body as she scrambled out the way she came.

Just as she slipped out she heard her father burst into her room, yelling insults of every kind.

“YOU STUPID BITCH! YA THOUGHT YOU COULD COME BACK, HUH? HOW FUCKIN’ DARE YOU!!”

She flinched as she sped walked across the lawn-unable to run due to the pain her father’s cold hands and brutal kicks had inflicted.

She heard her father’s voice clearer now. He must’ve spotted her out of the window.

“YOU USELESS LIL SLUT-JUS LIKE YOUR GODDAMN MOTHER!! IF I SEE YOU AGAIN I’M THROWING YOU IN A MENTAL ASYLUM, YA HEAR ME?!!! DON’T EVER COME BACK! DON'T EVER COME BACK!!!”

She grit her teeth, forcing herself to not look back as his yelling grew more irrational. She moved as fast she could, half walking-half limping further down the street. She didn’t look back.

The night was dark. The only light keeping her company were the streetlights along the road but it wasn’t enough. It was still too dark for comfort. No stars, no clouds-her eyes couldn’t get used to it.

She nearly dropped her phone when a car zoomed by.

“Can yo-ou hear me?” Millie’s voice crackled through the phone. Her phone service was acting up.

“Yes, yes. I can.” Ara cleared her throat-trying to dispel the croakiness of her voice, “Millie, please. I-I’m begging you. Just sneak me in this once-please.”

“Ara, you know I would but I’m already grounded. If my parents find out I snuck you in they would actually kill me. Like legit-they’d freak out.”

Ara squeezed her eyes shut-trying not to cry, “Millie, please, I-“ her voice cracked as she whispered, “I have nowhere else to go.”

She hated begging so much, and yet it’s all she seemed to do.

Millie was quiet for a second, “Are you sure you can’t like-sneak into your basement or something? Hopefully your dad will have cooled off by morning.”

That would’ve been a great idea if her basement wasn’t only accessible from the garage. Her Dad had multiple cameras and motion detectors installed around the garage. I don’t know what he’ll do if he sees me..

Ara tried to keep her voice steady, “He said he didn’t want to see me again.”

“Yeah, but parents say crap all the time. I’m sure he didn’t mean it-“

“He did.” she deadpanned. Her Father never said those words before, nor had he ever physically kicked her out. She’d seen the violence in his eyes, the spitefulness in his words—it was different. He was ready to hurt her if she came back.

“You really think so?”

Her father’s ferocious expression flashed within her mind and she flinched, resisting the urge to sob. Would anyone ever believe her?

Her voice was faint, “Yeah.”

“Shit-“ Millie was suddenly cut off when a womanly voice came from her end.

“Millie! Who the heck are you calling this late? Gimme that-“

Suddenly the phone line was cut, leaving the dull beeping sound behind.

He paced beside the main entrance. The sound of his dress shoes clacking against the spotless floor echoed throughout the foyer.

Suddenly a feminine voice arose from behind him.

“Sir, your Uncle requests to speak with you.”

He snapped his head around to see a maid outstretching the phone to him with both hands.

The corner of his lip twitched in annoyance, “Just end it. I already told him I left and won’t be back for the rest of the night.”

The maid knew better than to question it-even if colorful words of dismay arose from the other end of the phone. In all honesty, he hadn’t told his Uncle that he wouldn’t be back but was it really that much of a concern? The soirée was boring as shit anyway. Too many old people.

The second he got Ijichi’s call nothing else mattered anyway.

He peered out the bullet proof glass doors when he saw headlights flash past. It was hard to see clearly due to the downpour but he immediately recognized the all black Rolls Royce that pulled up to the entryway.

A subtle grin tugged at the corner of his lip as he sauntered backward a couple steps. He leaned against the stone and marble centerpiece of the dual staircase foyer. The excitement simmering in his veins was unmatched.

Just as he crossed his arms, the double doors were pushed open—revealing her.

Any thoughts about posing left him the second his eyes landed on her. He’d never felt so awake—so drawn to someone.

He was up and off his perch within seconds. He walked up to her, pacing his long legs to move steadily despite everything in his body telling him otherwise. He wanted to rush to her.

He stopped right in front of her. She still hadn’t stepped inside yet.

She was completely drenched-from head to toe. Her clothes stuck to her skin. Droplets of water slipped down the waist length tendrils of her hair. The edges of her pretty lips were raw and reddened-she always had such a bad habit of gnawing at them, didn’t she? Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy as she stared up at him.

She looked so.. lost.

He exhaled silently. His fingers twitched at his sides-the heedy urge to touch her returning at a thousandfold.

Why’d she have to look so pretty when she cries?

He couldn’t tell if the droplets of water caught between her lashes were rain or tears but it didn’t matter. She was here.

She came to him.

She needed him.

He peered down at her before tilting his head, “Hi kitten.” His voice ever so soft.

He saw her eyes widen before her bottom lip quivered. She fell into him and he instantly caught her trembling frame. He drew her close to his chest, hugging her tightly as she sobbed against him. Her tiny hands fisted his dress-shirt, clutching onto him-she didn’t want him to let go.

The rush that coursed through him was incomprehensible. It went straight to his head as he smoothed down her wet hair. His arm around her waist tightened impossibly. He never wanted to let her go.

Her touch was terribly sweet—overwhelmingly so. It’d been the most agonizing two months of his life without her.

Wherever her delicate body met his, warmth surged underneath his skin—like a craving being satiated. It felt so right. Her with him like this. It was perfect. She was perfect.

And she was his.

They both knew it now. The second she stepped onto his doorstep she must’ve known.

She could cry all she wanted in his arms now, if that soothed her. It’d be the last time she cried over anything meaningless anyway. All of her tears would be his alone from now on. He’d never let anything hurt her again.

Precious things ought to be cared for, after all.

a/n: hi thanks for reading this crazy ish bc honestly idk how anyone does LMAO but i want to apologize if the way some things were worded/the grammar is off bc i feel like i've been off my writing game. i haven't been reading a lot in my personal life and that usually helps me format things better :,) i need to get back to reading asap. anyway, if anyone is curious here's the house inspo for gojo's place -> https://imagelocations.com/mansion-31

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[nausikaaa]

WIP Wednesday

thanks for tagging me @alexalexinii @artsyunderstudy @prettygoododds and @blackberrysummerblog!

technically it's the wee hours of thursday, but i just finished the first chapter of my Dracula and War Of The Worlds crossover fic, so here's a little of that from Mina's journal:

After that, we found a cafe where we could enjoy lunch. While the food was delicious, Arthur and Jack were visibly tense throughout our meal.

In private, they are as close as Jonathan and I- in fact, I often forget that they are not married in the eyes of the law or Church. After all, if two men love each other as a man and woman do, why should they not be called a married couple? Arthur believed himself married to Lucy because their blood intermingled, and nobody would dare challenge that notion, so none of us shall speak a word against his and Jack’s relationship either, when they share a home and life.

Meanwhile, in public, they sat apart and stiff. It grieves me to think how frightened they are that if their true feelings were to be discerned, they could be arrested. As if overcompensating for their usual affection, they were short and formal with each other.

Later, when we were back in the cottage, I came across them dozing together in the living room, Jack’s head resting upon Arthur’s chest, and left them to enjoy their moment of peace.

for those who saw my post last week with the goats, here's some more! we've had a few sunny days, but now nothing but rain projected for a week, so i wouldn't expect so many nice photos next wednesday.

tags: @forabeatofadrum @j-nipper-95 @that-disabled-princess @confused-bi-queer @imagineacoolusername @ic3-que3n @aristocratic-otter @larkral @hushed-chorus @ivelovedhimthroughworse @shemakesmeforget @fatalfangirl @ebbpettier @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @cutestkilla @youarenevertooold @shrekgogurt @thewholelemon @bookish-bogwitch @supercutedinosaurs @shutup-andletme-go @theearlgreymage @ileadacharmedlife @alleycat0306 @carryonsimoncarryonbaz @comesitintheclover and @orange-peony

[the-californicationist]

Guile & Guilt (Ch. 03)

AO3 Link

SEPTEMBER

“I’m not askin’ you to hang the moon, Johnny! I’m askin’ you to drive to Glencoe. I told you, I dinnae ken who made the appointment, but it cannae be changed. Please, just do this for me. I’m your sister.”

“Don’t pull that shite. I dinnae mind makin’ the wee drive to Glencoe, but I dinnae ken fuck all about cakes! I just got back from fuckin’ Faridah, didn’t I? What do I ken about fuckin’ buttercream? Tell your maid of honor to go. She’d pick a fine cake!”

“She is going! Haven’t you been listening, you eejit? You’re takin’ her with you. She’ll help you…” a pause, and then, “I know, I know. I’m sure you were gonna meet back up with Bekah, or Cherise, or Anjali, or -”

“Hey! Tha’s no’ fair. Take it back right now, or I’ll tan your hide.”

“Come on and try, boyo! All those wee military exercises and I’ll still have you whingin’ for mum like you did that one Christmas when -”

You knocked on the door, hoping to prevent fraternal bloodshed, and the voices stopped. A long pause stretched out into infinity. 

You had been standing on the porch of the MacTavish house for quite a long time. At first, seeing his Jeep in the driveway had kept you trapped in the cab, much to the cabbie’s chagrin. Over the past three months, you’d had plenty of thoughts about Johnny MacTavish and his sister. He had taken you home from the bar and put you to bed, but not in the way you might have thought, given his…reputation. The next morning, he was gone again. Pidge said they’d given him only two days away, and then he was back to Urzikstan to do whatever sandy, nasty job he had to do there. 

You’d been planning on leaving as well, needing to return to the endless slog of your studies, so you booked a train home. Back at your flat, you’d started overthinking and obsessing. 

How embarrassing was it that you’d gotten so drunk? He must think you’re such a loser! A girl who can’t even hold her alcohol. They all must think that about you. And now you have to do a whole wedding with them! You were never drinking again. Well, that resolution lasted about half a day, because when you started rehashing the feeling of being carried in his arms and the smell of whisky as it hung on his breath as he tucked you into his bed, you needed a fucking drink. 

So, wine in hand, you began to unpack.

You weren’t completely sure if it had been a drunken accident or not, but you found Johnny’s shirt in your bag, and you immediately felt a pang of regret. Perhaps you were a thief after all. You didn’t remember putting it in there. What else had you done that you didn’t remember? 

Damnit . 

You thought about it for a moment, but then you caved and you put on the shirt. You rationalized it, claiming you’d wash it. No big deal. 

But then, three months went by and you had found a small hole in the sleeve from overwearing it. 

“Fuck!” You lamented, fingering the threads as if it couldn’t be true. 

You were not a seamstress by any stretch of the imagination, but you threw a stitch in it and prayed he wouldn’t notice. 

Now, it was September, and he was back to attend the official MacTavish-Hamilton engagement party. You had planned to stay the whole week with Pidge, canceling your meetings and bringing your laptop with you. You had a chapter due next Wednesday, and it was crunch time. But now, apparently, you were going to Glencoe. 

With him. 

Alone. 

You knocked again, a little louder. The door creaked open and only Pidge greeted you over the threshold. 

“Hey, babes! Come in! We’re in the kitchen. Got loads to share. So much to do… Oy, your bags are so heavy! What did you bring in here, hen? Bricks?”

“Close,” you half-smiled, “Books.”

“Och, Jesus,” she struggled a bit and then dropped them in front of Johnny’s door unceremoniously. 

“Thanks, Pidge.”

She plodded into the kitchen, and you followed behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw him busying himself with the dishes, putting away cups and plates. The kettle was on, and in a few minutes, there’d be tea. He stopped as soon as he saw you, drying his hands on the striped tea towel and smiling at you. The grin didn’t quite meet his eyes, and his obvious disappointment with needing to babysit you for this Glencoe outing put a stake right through your heart. 

“So,” Pidge broke the news to you in front of her brother, “I know you were going to come with me to the dress fitting, but I double booked, and now the cake shop wants to do a wee tasting. I will owe you my literal first born if you go in my place, babes.”

You tried to act surprised,

“But, wasn’t I supposed to do a fitting as well?”

“Yeah, I told them the situation, and they booked you tomorrow bright and early. Please? Don’t let my fuckin’ brother pick out my wedding cake. It’d be chocolate on chocolate and nothin’ else.”

“What’s wrong with chocolate?” Johnny was indignant. 

Pidge gave him a warning look and then turned her attention back to you, 

“Will you pretend to be me for a day?”

The look in her eyes told you that an option for denial wasn’t even on the table, but the look in his as he gazed down at his white-knuckled grip on the counter, said there wasn’t room for anything but. 

You didn’t care what he thought (liar), and you were there for Pidge, not him.

“You know I will. They think I’m you?”

“Yes, and you need to sign for it as well. Bring back the receipt, if you would. God, you’re the absolute best.”

She kissed you on the cheek and grabbed her bag from the counter, turning to you once more before she walked out of the door,

“And don’t let this dafty give you any shite. If he’s not on his best behavior, I’ll injure him, so help me God.”

As she walked out of the house, Johnny rolled his eyes and grabbed his keys,

“C’mon, lass. It’s a trek, so we need to get petrol before we head out.”

“Sorry that you have to go with me,” you apologized, acknowledging his disdain. 

He smiled and shook his head, walking you out to his jeep. The top was off, along with the doors. You quickly braided your hair back, realizing it was about to be a wind-swept drive. 

“Not your fault, hen. My wee sister’s just plottin’ against me, that’s all. You ever been to the Three Sisters?”

“No,” you told him, “Not much of a hiker.”

You knew about the famed mountains, and you had heard of their stunning beauty, but you hadn’t had the opportunity to go north to see them for yourself. Without a personal car, it was hard to get out of the city much less to the mountains of Glen Coe. 

You climbed up into the Jeep, using the handle to hoist yourself inside. He jumped up into the driver’s seat with ease, pulling a pair of sunglasses down from the visor and shoving them onto his face. Johnny reached over you and into the glove compartment, digging around for a bit before handing you a matching pair. They were extremely sporty, and you were certain you looked ridiculous in them, but he made them look so stylish. 

“Here ya are, lass. Gonna be a long drive. We’ll go the scenic route. Cannae believe you’ve never seen the mountains. Tha’s a bloody crime.”

As you drove, he pointed out landmarks, good coffee shops to visit, and sang loudly to the radio (which was muffled by the roaring wind). He made you feel so at ease, and now that Pidge wasn’t lurking around every corner, you let yourself explore him with your eyes indulgently. You laughed at his jokes when they were funny, and smiled freely. Johnny was constantly talking to you when he wasn’t signing, asking about your work, about America, and about the places you’ve been while you were in his country. 

“Oh! I know you know this one! The Cranberries? C’mon, lass, don’t break my heart,” he turned up the song as far as it would go and watched you to see if you’d sing along. 

“Who doesn’t know this song?” You smiled, singing right along with him.

“…You know I'm such a fool for you. You got me wrapped around your finger…”

He smiled at you, pleased that you were playing along, practically screaming the lines.

By the time you’d made it through the gorgeous landscape to the base of the Three Sisters mountains, you were sore from laughing, and hoarse from singing, and you’d fallen head over heels for the handsome soldier again and again and again. 

Eventually, you made it to the town of Glencoe, and you pulled up your map on your phone, giving him directions to the bakery. He parked in the street. It was misting a little, and he helped you out of the Jeep to bring you under the awning of a small Nero cafe. You zoomed in on the map to get a better view, and he leaned over your shoulder to see it. 

He beamed,

“Aye, just ‘round the wee corner. And it’s right by the pub! Stop in for a pint after, what do you say, lass?”

“Only if we get out of there without arousing any suspicion. We have to convince them that we’re getting married.”

“Don’t worry about that. If you were my wee hen, I couldn’t keep my filthy paws off of ya. Havin’ a hard time now as it is,” he wiggled his eyebrows at you, keeping up with his jokester attitude. 

“Easy does it, Hammie. I’m saving myself for the wedding night, you know?” You joked right along with him, playing coy.

“Dinnae worry your wee heid, lassie. I’ll take you to confession tomorrow, and all the sins of tonight will be washed away,” Johnny grabbed you by the hand and led you back into the street. 

He paused for a moment, looking down at you as your palms touched, fitting together like a glove, almost as if he had forgotten something. He shook the thought away and walked with you to the store in companionable silence.

When you arrived, he held the door open and let you step up into the warm, quiet bakery. All of the wind and the noise of the street disappeared in the little shop, and the smell of sugar overwhelmed your senses. You heard Johnny sigh, enjoying the smell himself. 

“Hello! Welcome to Stiff Peaks,” a cheery little grandmother of a woman greeted you from behind the counter.

Her earrings were tiny whisks, and she had a bit of flour on her cheek. She came out from behind the register and shook your hands, 

“You must be the Hamiltons, or I should say the future Hamiltons.”

“Yes ma’am,” you smiled, downplaying your American accent, “We’ve come to try your wedding cake offerings.”

“Of course, right this way.” 

She led you both down a tight corridor to the back room where a single two-person table waited for you. A black camera hung obviously in the corner. You eyed it when she wasn’t looking, and Johnny met your gaze, giving you a wink.

“Here you are, Pigeon, have a seat,” he held out your chair for you to sit down, adding a level of romantic gentlemanly affection that you were not expecting, kissing your neck from behind as you sat. 

The feeling of his lips sent a shock through your system. They were so soft and plush, and when he pulled away, you could feel the cold air rush across the wet spot he left behind. The sting of it tortured you, and you felt your cheeks flush. He saw them, and instead of ribbing you, he averted his eyes with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. 

“Och, you lovebirds,” the baker beamed, “Warms my heart, it does. I’ll be back in a spot.”

She was gone from the room, and you were about to make a comment to him, and then you remembered the camera. He was looking at it, too, and then he focused back on you. He spoke to you in a voice that was low and deep, a slow rumble that covered you like a fog, blocking out everything around you,

“Feeling alright, Pidge?”

“Just fine, mo chridhe,”   you used Hamish’s favorite nickname for Brigette, and smiled sweetly at Johnny, testing out your accent. 

He looked like he’d seen a ghost, but he recovered quickly, whispering, trying not to be heard by the camera,

“Do you know what that means?”

“Babe? I call you that all the time, babe.” You raised your eyebrows as the baker came back in, warning him.

He shook his head slowly, as if fighting making a comment, drinking down most of the water she had brought to the table. She also set down the first course of cake bites, one plate for each of you. 

“Okay, dearies, here is the first selection. We have the classic vanilla, Italian creme, lemon custard, and a black forest. These are less adventurous, and suitable for just about any wedding, no matter how formal. Gave you a pair of wee score cards there to keep up with your winners. I’ll leave you to it!”

You looked down at the scorecard and back up at the cakes. Johnny grabbed his and immediately crossed out the black forest and the lemon custard. 

“Hey!” You protested, “You haven’t even tried those. And, besides, Pid- uh, I love lemon!”

“Aye,” he cut his eyes at you, “You do love lemon, Pigeon. But, you’re the only one in the family who does. It’s out.”

“Well, I think you, Hamish, would balk at vanilla and Italian creme. Too pedestrian for a man of your exotic tastes, wouldn’t you say, mo chridhe?”

“Sure, mo mhèirleach, I’m an adventurous sort of man,” his tone turned darkly suggestive, “You ken that well enough, don’tcha?”

You felt his hand on your leg as he skated it up your thigh, giving it a hard squeeze, making you gasp. Just before you could chastise him, he cut you off, whispering in your ear,

“Careful, bonnie. Tha’s a sound I’ll like to hear again.”

You whispered back, too low even for him to hear - almost,

“Johnny…” 

He gave you a look that contained that same nameless emotion as when he first grabbed your hand outside in the street. You lingered there for longer than you should have, and you were interrupted by the baker.

“Annnnd…” She gave you both time to return to your seats politely, pretending like you hadn’t just been caught breathing each other’s air, “Here is the second round. How did we like the first set, lovebirds?”

You shrugged,

“They’re beautiful, but we’re looking for something a little more…”

“Sexy,” Johnny said in a matter-of-fact voice. 

You backhanded his chest, hard. 

“Hamish!”

The baker laughed,

“No, no! I get it! I agree. I think you’ll like these much more. Can I get you some more water, dearie?” She asked him.

“Aye, tapadh leibh.” Thank you . 

“Se do bheatha. An ann à Gleann Comhann a tha thu?” You’re welcome. Are you from Glencoe?

He shook his head, the only part of the conversation you could understand,

“Chan e, dìreach an seo a’ fheuchainn ri cèic a bruadar fhaighinn dha mo bhean bhrèagha.” No, just here trying to get my beautiful bride the cake of her dreams.

“Is urrainn dhomh innse dhut gu bheil thu dealasach.” I can tell you’re dedicated.

He laughed,

“Aye. Barrachd na thuig mi, tha mi a’ smaoineachadh.” More than I realized, I think.  

Then, the baker was gone. You whispered to him,

“What did you say to her?” 

“Just told her I’m allergic to almonds.”

 You searched his face to see if he was lying. You couldn’t tell.

“Are you?”

“No,” he smiled, looking down at his cue card. 

In the end, you went with the hummingbird cake and coconut creme filling, with a cinnamon cream cheese frosting. It was perfect for Pidge’s love of citrus, and adventurous enough for Hamish’s tastes. The baker left you with a bag of goodies; cookies, slices of the cake you selected, some macarons, and a copy of the contract.

“Thank you so much for having us. We can’t wait for the big day,” you shook her hand again and she smiled at you. 

“Of course, dearie. Looking forward to it. You two enjoy each other. The days go by so fast,” she winked. 

Johnny opened the door for you and let you out into the street again. 

“So, Mr. Hamilton,” you said, keeping up the charade a little longer, “About that pint…”

“Mmm,” Johnny grinned rakishly, “I have a better idea, lass.”

He took you back past the cafe and ducked into a Spar. He said he needed to pick up a bottle of scotch for one of his mates, an Oban 14-year, and while he was there, he grabbed two cold pint bottles of Caledonia cider from the refrigerated section. He loaded up the Jeep again, and you waited patiently in the passenger seat, thinking you were heading home. 

“You ready for your surprise, bonnie?”

“Surprise?”

He laughed, shoving his sunglasses back on and smiling as he turned off of the main road and onto a smaller lane. As you drove, the greenery became more verdant than ever. It was early September, so even though some of the leaves began to change colors, most of them retained their deep emerald hues. The branches and brush rushed by you, and from the open door of the Jeep, if you weren’t so afraid to lose a limb, you could have reached out and touched the leaves. Then, just as you rounded a corner, the hillside gave way to a stunning view. 

A valley stretched out before you, showcasing the high, sloping peaks of the Three Sisters. You’d seen them from the other highway, but this road made it seem like you had entered into another realm. Just when you thought you’d have to pass them by, Johnny pulled off the road into a small car park and shut down the engine. 

You got out, phone in hand, ready to take some photos. It was too beautiful not to, and if you were honest with yourself, you wanted to remember this day. 

“Well, go on then, get my good side,” you spotted Johnny over your shoulder on the screen.

He put his hand around your body and squeezed you in, making sure you were both framed in the screen. You took the selfie, and then he made a noise of discontent,

“Ahh, that won’t do. Another!” 

When you took this one, right as you reached for the button, he planted a kiss on your cheek. He pulled away and grabbed your phone out of your hands to look at it,

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

You watched as he texted it to himself, leaving his number in your phone as “Mo Chridhe”. 

“Is that how you spell it? I never would have guessed that,” you tried to keep your voice level, pretending like the cheek kiss hadn’t phased you.

“Yeah, we just keep all the other letters in there to confuse you foreigners,” he winked, “C’mon, bit of a walk.”

He pulled the bag of drinks from the back of the Jeep, shoved a towel in the sack, nicked the macarons from your goodie bag, and left everything else in the car. You followed him up the hill quite a ways, but it wasn’t an impossible climb. By the time you reached the top, however, you were out of breath. He kept going up, motioning for him to follow you, and you found yourself next to a shallow pool, no larger than a hottub, out of view of the highway. It was quiet, and none of the tourists had followed you up even half as high. You were very much alone together. 

He pulled off his shirt and glasses, tossing them on one of the towels, and went to shuck off his pants and boots. You raised your eyebrows,

“What are you doing?”

He looked up at you, knowing he was shocking you a bit,

“Braw days like this don’t come often. You heard the baker, yeah? The days go by fast. Live a little, mo mhèirleach.”

There was that nickname again. You vowed that you would look it up online later, if only you would be able to spell it. 

“Johnny, we can’t just swim here, surely. Someone will come and -”

“And what? Tell us to get out?”

He dunked his head under the clear pool and came back up for air, panting from the chill of the fresh water.

“I don’t have a swimsuit…” You put the bag of treats down and sat on the edge of the pool.

“Aren’tcha wearing any knickers, mhèirleach? Gods, say no, hen. Say no…” He swam up next to you to tease you some more. 

“I am!” You told him, and he gave you a look, rolling his eyes. 

“Well, go on, bonnie. I’ll even turn around, since you’re savin’ yourself for our wedding bed and all tha’.”

You laughed in disbelief, unsure of everything and yet going along with his plan anyway. You waited for him to avert his eyes before pulling off your pants and as you went to take off your top, you thought you saw him peek under his lashes, but he averted his gaze again so quickly, you couldn’t be sure. 

You dipped a foot into the pool. It was cool but not cold. You could stand it, but you wanted to complain a little anyway. 

“Jesus, it’s cold in here. Brr!” You feigned a shiver. 

“Och, c’mon, lassie. It’s no’ tha’ bad. Here. Have a wee seat by me, and I’ll get some drinks to warm us up.”

He popped the cap on the ciders using the edge of a rock, and handed you one. You drank it, savoring the dry, apple taste and soft fizz.

“There, mhèirleach. All better?”

You nodded, sitting next to him in the pool and laying your head back on the large stones, relaxing, taking in the view. It looked like something you would put on your laptop screen. It was unreal. 

“You made a pretty good Hamish today,” you complimented him.

“Spent a lot of my life pretending to be other people. Comes natural at this point, ye ken?” He stared off at the mountains with you, enjoying the view. 

“I’m sure you’re ready to be back in the action instead of tasting cakes with your sister’s American friend,” self-deprication was your bread and butter, so you offered it up to him to punish yourself with. 

“No,” he turned his eyes away from the grandeur and focused them on you, “What did Pidge tell you about me?”

“Well, she…”

“Ah ah, no. Don’t sugar-coat it.”

You sighed, looking into your cider for courage,

“She told me not to let you get too close. Said you’re a bit of a playboy.”

He laughed in a bitter way, taking a sip of his cider,

“Did she, now? And what do you believe, hen?”

You paused, not knowing what to say. So, you just told the truth,

“I think she’s probably right. I don’t know why she’d lie to me. And Bekah and Cherise -”

“Bekah and Cherise are full of shite. And so is my wee sister.”

He shook his head, clearly upset by your appraisal. You stayed silent, not knowing what to say. You decided to try to lighten the mood,

“Bet you take all the pretty girls to this spot, playboy.”

You elbowed him in the ribs, and he spun on you, quick as a shot. He grabbed your arm that had elbowed him and faced you, standing in front of you in the clear water. It rushed along his chest, moving around the plump muscles and dusting of chest hair, matting it against his skin. He smelled so much like oranges right then, and it was invading your senses. 

He ignored your attempt at a joke, and his face became serious instead,

“I ken why she kept you from me now. You’re off-limits. She knew how I’d feel. My sister knows me better than anyone, and I hate her for it.”

“Hate her?” You tried to understand what he was saying, but you didn’t pull away. His breath smelled like alcohol and apples and his eyes gleamed in the low light of the afternoon sun. 

“Well, not hate, maybe. But, she must’ve known. She had to.”

“Known what?” You knew what. Some animal part inside of you bared its teeth and warned you, but you asked it anyway. 

“She knew I’d like you.”

It was so quiet in your little secluded glade. 

He pressed his hands to the sides of your face, staring into your eyes, looking into them, his own eyes searching them for an answer to a question you couldn’t hear. 

You let him kiss you. You even kissed him back. He was cinnamon and apples and cake and sugar and tobacco and some other human taste that you chased and chased and chased. 

Then, you pulled away.

“We can’t. I…I promised.”

“Aye, as did I. But, she’s a hypocrite.”

“She’s my best friend.”

He looked into your eyes and saw your desperation there, knowing he’d won but surrendering anyway. 

Johnny let you go and finished his drink in a single gulp. He sat behind you, and you didn’t turn around. You felt him pull you into his lap to sit on the rough stone ledge, and he whispered,

“Tell me the sonnet you like, bonnie. You said you studied it.”

You tried to make excuses, not in the mood to show off,

“It’s not a very good one. A lot of people -”

“Say it for me. C’mon, lass. Just this once. I promise I’ll bring you back to your friend. But, just this once…”

You paused, feeling his arms wrap around you, not too tight, and nothing inappropriate, hugging you to himself platonically, waiting. You cleared your throat and tried to enunciate,

“Those lips that Love’s own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’, To me that languished for her sake…

His fingers made little circles on your ribcage, rubbing your skin beneath the water. 

“But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue that ever sweet Was used in giving gentle doom; And taught it thus anew to greet…”

You grabbed his hand with your own, lacing your fingers together like a tied knot.

“‘I hate’ she altered with an end, That followed it as gentle day, Doth follow night, who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flown away. ‘I hate’, from hate away she threw, And saved my life, saying ‘not you’.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. You couldn’t breathe. Johnny MacTavish liked you, and you couldn’t do anything about it. 

“Thank you, mo mhèirleach. Time to take you back. Been away with the fairies too long, I ken.”

The drive back was quiet. You held hands through the mountains. You let go as you pulled into the driveway. Your bones ached. Your wet bra and panties were making you cold, and you had tangles in your wet hair from the drive. 

Johnny had left his phone in the Jeep cupholder, so you grabbed it along with the wet towels you had used. Pidge came out of the house to greet you and help with the bags, 

“Jesus! What happened to you two?”

“Caught in the rain. Here’s your contract, Pidgie. I need a shower,” he covered for you.

“Roger’s here,” she reported. 

Roger was Hamish’s younger brother, just a teenager. Johnny paused, looking at Pidge with a hard stare,

“And where’s he gonna sleep? We cannae put the lad on the floor, Bridgette.”

“You sleep on the floor then, you numpty,” she slapped his arm.

You interjected, torturing yourself,

“We can sleep in his bed. It’s not a big deal. It’s just for a few nights. Is that alright with you, Johnny?”

Pidge was standing between you, so she missed the pale face of fear plastered with Johnny’s open, shocked mouth.

“Shite, are you sure, babe? He snores like a bear.”

You nodded,

“No worries.”

“Johnny MacTavish, I swear on -”

“Go ‘way an’ bile your heid with that shite, Pigeon. I’m not in the mood to be your whippin’ boy.”

He walked into the house, leaving you outside with your best friend, just as he promised.

Something vibrated in your hands. It was Johnny’s phone. He had one missed call from Bekah, and as you were dismissing it, trying to close the lock screen, you saw her text pop up in the banner bar:

Ettrick’s for pints again, Soap? xx

You felt a cold shiver tremble through you as you followed Pidge inside.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Notes:

mo chridhe (moh HREE-yuh) - my heart mo mhèirleach (moh MER-lakh) - my thief

Chapter 04

[dapperhannah]

Feeling Human Again (part 1)

Chan x Reader

Chan's been too invested in working on music that he's neglected almost everything. You are over waiting for him to finish and take matters into your own hands. Until he takes them into his.

content warning (this chapter but probably the next one): sex, oral, dirty talk, subxdom, please dont ever read this chan or i will jump into the moon

Somehow it had never gotten easier on Chan's studio days. He warned you off the bat that he was almost completely unreachable.

"I really focus on those days, babe. I need you to know it's kinda like I drop off the face of the earth for 12 hours."

"I'll be fine! I'll just text Felix to give me attention. He's pretty good at keeping me entertained with goofy videos or coming over to play games."

But when deadlines would get closer and closer, almost everyday was a studio day. A week would go by with the only messages you'd get from Chan were a good morning and good night both at the wee hours of the night. You knew it was taking a toll on him when you could see the dark circles under his eyes during the few moments you would get with him.

Today was going to be different. Chan's good morning text came around 6AM as usual, with the same kissy face emoji. Great, you think, He's in the studio. Mission is a go.

Sneaking into the studio wasn't very hard. Hyunjin, Felix, Minho, and Jeongin were all practicing in the dance hall. They didn't even question when you came through anymore. It was pretty normal just to come hang out while they rehearsed. They hollered for you to come hang out, but you waved them off.

Passing by the gym, you saw Changbin deeply focused on weight lifting while Jisung very leisurely walked on the treadmill, eyes closed and mumbling the song he was singing. It was always such a treat to see how each of the kids spent their freetime. The album was still a few weeks away, but their managers had them on a short break to catch up on just feeling human.

Chan's studio was right around the corner now. There was nothing in the way of you and distracting your man to feel that human way. But, of course, there was Seungmin.

It was no surprise to see him wandering the halls, but to bump right into him caused both of you to jump.

"Minnie!"

"Y/N!"

You comically clutched at your invisible pearls, Seungmin pretending to cover himself up as though you'd caught him in the shower, both laughing up a storm.

"What are you doing?" Seungmin asked, his little puppy head cocked to the side, "I'm just about to join the guys for dance practice if you wanna join!"

"Thank you, Minnie, but I've got... other plans." You eyed the door to the recording studio, the windows blacked out and the "DO NOT DISTURB" sign plastered on the outside.

Seungmin nodded knowingly.

"He's been in there so much recently. Even though we still see him every night at the dorm, it's like he's not even there. I miss him."

"Me too. I'm going to try and get him to come back to reality - even just for a bit."

The sweet puppy boy nodded again, a goofy grin spread across his face, before he ran off down the hall. It was both sweet as well as heartbreaking that the guys missed him. Whenever you'd text back and forth with Felix, it would eventually go from stupid memes to talking about Chan. You both really loved and admired him so it wasn't very hard to get to the topic.

Turning the door handle quietly, you slid into the dark room. The front room that was usually lit up and comfy was filled with shadows. A glow was emitting from the soundboard and you could see the shape of your favorite Aussie. His headphones were on so you knew he couldn't hear you, but it still felt necessary to tiptoe.

Chan's eyes were closed, lost in whatever music he was listening to. His outfit was lazy comprised of the same hoodie and sweatshirt you'd seen him wearing the last time you two had a whole day of rest together. It took everything in you not to pull open the door and jump on him.

But that wouldn't be necessary when Chan's eyes flashed open and glanced your way. You were in the dark, there's no way he could see you... right?

"You don't have to hide, I know when the door opens and closes."

You felt like a deer in headlights. You'd never bugged him during his producing session. It felt like a sacred time for Chan and who were you to intrude on that.

"Y/N, please. Just come here."

You sheepishly entered the soundboard room, head hung down, looking like a guilty puppy who just ripped up the couch.

"Babe, I just missed y-"

Before you could even finish, your sweet love wrapped you up in a tight embrace. It was warm, needy. The touch of someone who was so starved for any sort of affection.

"Miss you too. I'm sorry."

Pulling out of the hug, you can see the tears well up in Chan's eyes. You felt them in your own as well, overwhelmed by his and your own emotions.

"Baby, Chan, please. Do not be sorry. You've been busy."

"I know, but I've been neglecting everything. It's amazing I at least eat a little bit and shower."

You run your hands through his hair, absorbing the serotonin that just came from the fluff on his head.

"You need to take more breaks - and not just for me. The guys miss you too."

He hung his head down the same way you had before. You took his face in your hands, turning to face you directly.

"And don't give me that pouty face anymore please. I'm here now."

Wiping the wetness trapped in the corner of his eyes, Chan's demeanor changed. Something took over him in that moment that was so out of pocket.

"You are here, huh?" He whispered with a smirk. His arms wrapped around you, where they slowly melingered from your back to your waist to your butt.

"Yes... Chan, what's up? You know we're here. At your studio. With your management and other memebers literally down the hall."

The mischevious look on his face only intensified as you spoke.

"Well, this is a soundproof room. And the doors lock."

[letsdeerintheheadlightsuniverse]

<<Previous Chapter<<

**Masterlist**

>>Next Chapter>>

==================================

Pairing: Izzy Hands x gn!reader

Synopsis: Some bad habits are hard to break, and despite his best attempts to be kind, Izzy still manages to mess things up between you.

A/N: And we are back with the second chapter! Thank you for giving this fanfiction a chance. Every like and reblog means the world to me.

Content Warning: Self-depricating inner monologues, reference to the Kraken's torment and torture in Season 2, mutual pining and Izzy being a dick. This series is 18+, so minors dni. Go away (politely).

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, REPUBLISH, OR TRANSLATE MY WORK ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION. I DO NOT OWN OFMD OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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It had to be noted that, the First Mate of the Revenge was indeed, a man of few words. And the few words that left his lips, were usually either a command or a curse. Though that was not quite strictly true when it came to addressing someone such as yourself. It had not gone unnoticed by the crew that, there was a certain softening of Izzy's tone, whenever he addressed you directly. His curses were said more in jest, than in true anger and there was something akin to fondness in his gaze, as he stared at you for longer than what was considered appropriate from a friend.

While some called Buttons a Sea Witch, perhaps it was you, who was the true magic wielder. Had you not ensnared the First Mate with your powers of compassion and competency? Though you sang no siren song like Swede, you had managed to captivate the mind and heart of the most austere person on the Revenge. If that were not the work of sorcery, then what else coukd it be?

Even now, as Izzy patrolled the deck, barking his usual commands and vulgar threats, there was no denying he kept glancing at the entrance to the hull, where you would be found within the ship's kitchen, helping Roach plan ahead for the upcoming storm.

"I mean look at him, the man's like a lovesick puppy." Lucius scoffed, as he watched the silver-haired pirate like a hawk, scrutinising over every movement and twitch with a level of surveillance that would put even the keenest-eyed night watcher to shame.

Cringing at the verbal observation, Oluwande dared to look in the general direction of the First Mate, whom had thankfully, not seemed to have paid attention to the scribe's declaration. "Sssh, Lucius. He'll hear you."

"Yeah, babe. I love you but you gotta keep your voice down." Pete agreed, taking the rope from his betrothed and making quick work of the shirked task, seeming happy enough to complete the work for them both.

Smirking at the horrified reactions, Lucius looked like a cat who had gotten the cream. Since his lover had taken charge of securing some nearby barrels, he took the opportunity to light himself a cigarette. "Good. I want him too because then, maybe if he does, he'll grow a pair of balls and actually do something about the situation."

"Have they seriously not confessed anything to each other yet?" Archie questioned, genuinely surprised that it had taken you both so long to finally couple up. In the same amount of time, she herself had managed to acquire two partners. Your dire situation did cause the pirate to question whetger or not you were absolutely useless when it came to the matter of love.

"Not according to (y/n), no."

"I wish they'd hurry up. I've got good money riding on them getting together before the next full moon." Wee John grumbled, as he carried a barrel passed the gossiping group. He had invested several coins into the outcome of your poorly-timed love life and by he'll or by high water, he was going to get a good return on his investment- even if it meant locking you and Izzy in the store cupboard himself. Hell, he'd shove you both into a burlap sack, if he thought it would boost his chances on winning the bet.

"You and me both." Archie scoffed.

He could hear them. Not clearly enough to make out what they were saying but enough to hear the sound of constant nattering. It was incessant, irritating. Like having tge constant buzz of a pesky wasp in you vicinity. Izzy longed for his days on the Queen Anne, where tge crew we focused on work, not idle chatter. Judging by the way that Lucius fellow kept glaring at him, the First Mate surmised that he was the topic of conversation. "Oi! You lot," he yelled, having finally reached the end of his patience. "I told you to prep the ship, not stand around gossiping like washer women!" leaning heavily against the railing, Izzy let out a string of curse words. Whilst not a religious man, he did ask whatever deity was listening, to give him strength and the will power to not throw someone overboard. "Fucking useless."

"Hey, Izzy."

He tensed at that familiar sound, that voice that never failed to stir something dark and wonderful within his soul. It brought to life a part of him he thought permanently dead. Turns out, it was just in a state of dormancy, waiting to be awakened at the right time. Or, at least of Izzy, the right person. "Aren't you supposed to be helping Roach lock down the pantry?" to an untrained ear, his lack of greeting might have sounded barbed and unwelcoming but you knew him better than that. The silver-haired pirate might have even gone so far as to say, you were the only one who knew him as well as himself.

The average person started a conversation with 'hello' but your dear Israel Hands was less conventional in his approach. "Yeah, we just finished. Oh, I brought you some tea. Thought you might appreciate it." you offered him one of the steaming cups of tea in yiur grasp. With a word of thanks, you both took a moment to savour the first sip, letting the warmth run through your veins and stave of tge slight chill in the air. "How's it going up here?"

"We'll be dead in the water come daybreak, if this lot don't do their fucking job right!" he all but screamed the final part of the sentence, easily earning himself a chorus of 'fuck off, Iggy' and 'we're doing our best here, dude!'

Your cheshire cat grin only grew, as you relished in the harmless feud between the crew and the First Mate. "Wow, that good, huh?" you teased, nudging Izzy with your elbow.

"Can you go down there and help 'em when you're finished with your tea? I need someone with half a braincell to check the sails are secured properly." he implored, pinching the bridge of his nose, as a migraine already started to form. Already feeling overwhelmed, the last thing Izzy needed was to add 'check the twats had correctly prepped the rigging' to his never-ending list of chores.

Sensing his palpable stress, you were quick to place a gentle hand on his shoulder in reassurance. Though public displays of affection were not common between you both, you speculated that since the pirate had not flinched but in fact, leaned into your touch, that he was comfortable with the gesture. "No problem, boss." his returned smile did not quite meet his eyes but a win was a win. You had at least eased Izzy of one burden. "How bad is the storm looking?"

When your hand eventually dropped from his arm, it took everything in Izzy's power to keep his voice steady, as he gave an answer to your question. Oh, how he longed to take your hand in his and place it back in his arm, so that he may feel your gentle warmth through the material of his shirt once more. "If Ed's calculations are correct, which they usually are, then...bad."

"Sounds like it'll be fun." you sighed, your attention now on the looming, dark grey clouds the besmirched the periwinkle skies with the promise of rain and turmoil.

While you were distracted by the landscape, Izzy was preoccupied by you. That was it, just you. There were not a multitude of opportunities in the day, where the First Mate had the chance to be this close to you. Where he could drink in your appearance, under the guise of merely being invested in your conversation. It felt wrong to him to be so infatuated with someone, who quite frankly, would never return his feelings but he was a starved man. Taking in every moment, every snippet of closeness he could get, until one day, your heart belonged to another.

Sometimes, he liked to delude himself and believe- just for a moment- that your kindness, your patience towards him, were all a hint towards you sharing his adoring sentiments. That perhaps, you could indeed fall for someone so wretched and broken as him.

The illusion never lasted long. Such fairytales of beauties falling so hopelessly in love with a beast were nothing but children's stories. The very same fairytales found in Stede's library, no doubt. And Izzy, well, Izzy was nothing if not a realist. He knew that you only tolerated him because you felt forever in his debt for saving your life. The silver-haired pirate had told you time and time again that you did not owe him anything but being as stubborn as you are, he doubted that you had paid him any mind. "Where are you staying tonight?" he asked, tone softer than he would have liked. Keeping up appearances around you was nearly impossible.

"I'm gonna bunk up with Oluwande, Jim, and Archie. They've got space on the floor of their cabin."

It was a relief, he mused, that at least you would be sleeping somewhere safe tonight, rather than in the communal space with the others. Still, Izzy could not help but wonder what it would be like, to offer you his own cabin to stay in. He would sleep on the floor, of course, he was a gentleman after all- well, that was debatable but he did possess some morals and understanding of social etiquette- and the last thing the pirate would want to do, was force you into an uncomfortable situation but no. Instead, he kept his yearnings to himself and responded in his usually curt manner. "That's good."

"What about you?" you asked, wondering if Izzy had plans on how he was going to ride out the storm. You assumed alone. Although, you felt a pang of jealously towards the non-existent crewmate, who may one day occupy the same living quarters as the man you were hopelessly besotted with. It was silly really, to feel resentment for someone who had not yet joined the team of misfit pirates and yet, it was inevitable that they would soon in the near future, waltz into Izzy's life and give him the love he most deserved. And as much as it pained you to accept your fate, you knew that could never be you.

"What about me?" he shrugged, unaware of your inner turmoil.

Correct, it could never be you who had the privilege to wake up beside him everyday or have the chsnce to call him yours. He would never see you as anything but some wounded creature he had saved from the brink of death. Certainly not worthy of courting the infamous Israel Hands. "Well-"

But before you could answer, Izzy caught sight of something. No, someone watching you both talk. Lucius. Fuck, he loathed that young man. He could not quite fathom what it was about the scribe that made his blood boil but just seeing him standing there, occasionally whispering something to Pete and smirking, as he cast a glance in your general direction, made Izzy see red.

Then it clicked. The oncoming storm. Of course. Those bastards. They knew of his past, thanks to Fang. No doubt they had told you the story too about how as a young sailor, he had not been able to keep down the contents of his stomach during a storm. Fuck, that nicknane too. You must have been revolted by him. Thought him completely and utterly pathetic. "-Look, whatever those twats have been saying, it's not true. I threw up one time-" Izzy began to defend himself, hoping it was not too late to salvage his reputation.

"-Oh, shit. No, I'm not referring to that. Fuck." you were quick to interrupt his rambling explanation. Sure, yeah, you knew the origin of his nickname, Izzy the Spewer but the story had not altered your opinion of the pirate. So, he threw up! Big deal. So had you during your first storm, and no one had bothered to call you, (y/n) the vomiter. "I just know that, storms bring up a lot of memories for some of the crew." you further explained, hoping he woukd catch the underlying meaning behind your words. "If you catch my drift?"

It took a moment but then a flicker of understanding sparked within Izzy's eyes, as he fully understand your insinuation. "Ah."

"Yeah." you smiled meekly, hoping not to trigger any unwanted memories for the pirate. All you wanted was to assure him that, if he needed comfort, you would be more than willing to provide him with comfort and company until the rain ceased and the skies became agate blue once more. "Will...will you be okay? Tonight, that is."

He knew, somewhere deep down. Deep, deep down, that your asking after his wellbeing was not an attack on his character, that you did not view him as weak for what had happened those many moon cycles ago, when the Kraken had stole him of his leg. This was your way of saying, "Hey, I'm here for you. If you need me", right?

Wrong. The poisonous voice of reasoning whispered in his ear, reminding him not to bet soft and be so sentimental. Of course you pitied him. How coukd you not? He was a disgrace. A washed up has been of a legend, who could no longer ride the coat tails of Blackbeard anymore. You were not offering him anything in the way of kindness, you were just reminding him of yet another mistake in his checkered past.

Before he could stop himself, the words left his lips and it was too late to take them back. "I'm not a fucking child, (y/n)." Izzy almost winced at how hurt you looked, as you flinched at his sudden outburst. Each time- and unfortunately, there had been more than one occasion- your pained expression left a lasting scar upon his heart. A fresh wound of regret that bled out over and over again. He did not mean to be this way with you. It was a defence mechanism, not that was much of an excuse really. Izzy should have- no, he did know- better. His sharp tongue was going to drive you away one day and he would only have hinsekf to blame. What's done was done.

There was nothing he could do, except keep up the charade and retire quickly from sight. He did not have to glance in the direction of the crew to know that they had all played witness to the entire exchange. No doubt he would have to sleep with one eye open tonight or maybe Roach would just spit in his food like last time. "Finish your tea and go fucking check the rigging. That's an order."

"Yes, boss." only minutes earlier, that nickname had been fondly used, now it just felt bitter to the taste.

Without another word, the First Mate abandoned your side and disappeared below deck.

Under the guise of work, your friends had been watching the entire exchange through side eye glances or in Lucius's case, just straight up staring.

Though idle hands appeared busy, Pete had in fact, tied the same knot several times. It was important to get everything secured ahead of the storm but in that moment, his mind was distracted. Casting a glance at the love of his life, his suspicions were confirmed, Lucius felt the same way as him- completely and utterly livid on your behalf. "Yeah, you ain't winning that money back, mate." he muttered to a frozen in rage Wee John, who merely stood holding another barrel, looking like he was contemplating throwing it at Izzy.

"Fucks sake, what a dickhead." he hissed, seemingly deciding against the idea, as he placed it with a resounding thud upon the deck.

Lucius could not stand to see you looking so hurt, as you stared longingly after the bastard who had dared upset you. The scribe knew he always teased you about your intense crush on the First Mate but it was during moments like these, where he really had to question what it was that made you so smitten with Izzy the Spewer. The man was volatile and about as pleasant as a cup of cold sick. Worst of all, this was not the first time he had stormed off after saying something cruel, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your hurt emotions. "I'm gonna go and see if they're okay."

"Maybe give it a moment, babe. Look." Pete urged his partner to take pause and watch you down your drink.

Despite wanting to abandon his post and assume the role of comforting friend, Lucius instead watched as you fought back tears and climbed the rigging, towards the crow's nest, no doubt seeking some privacy away from the watchful eyes of your friends.

"He really is the fucking worst. I genuinely do not get why (y/n) likes him so much." Archie mused, as she wondered if it was possible to find a snake at sea and put it in the bastard's bed?

With all the mysticism of a Sea Witch, the conversation was quickly intercepted by Buttons, whom decided to impart a great wisdom upon those in his vicinity. "'Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind. Therefore, is winged cupid painted blind?'"

There was a pause, as the gathered crew ruminated on his words. Well, partially ruminated. Most just sat there, looking confused or proverbially scratching their heads, unsure what to make of his revelation. Not one to admit his lack of knowledge, Lucius made a conscientious effort to nod his head and pretend he had understood the poet musings of the fellow pirate. "Right, yeah. What he said. Makes total sense."

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A/N: Thank you for reading up until the end of the chapter! I look forward to updating you all with a new instalment soon. Before I go, can anyone guess where Buttons's quote comes from?

[kaaaaaaarf]

Chapter 11 of everywhere, everything by @lynxindisguise is up, so you know what that means.

I hope you like theremin.

Universe 981,966: Spaceship songs and explanations under the cut (beware: possible spoilers)

+ Mr. Blue Sky by Electric Light Orchestra

Rootmus dancing to this made my whole fucking day. Couldn't make the playlist without it!

Hey there, Mr. Blue We're so pleased to be with you Look around, see what you do Everybody smiles at you Mr. Blue, you did it right But soon comes Mr. Night creepin' over Now his hand is on your shoulder Never mind, I'll remember you this I'll remember you this way

+ Lost in Time and Space by Lord Huron

A special request by Lynx herself! A perfect song for a perfect chapter. The lyrics really pack a punch.

Lost in time and space Aimless drifting in a far off place Hurtling through the vast unknown Staring straight into the pure, black void Drowning in the sea of stars Lost in a galaxy of cocktail bars Blinded by the neon lights I lie awake and say your name into the night [...] Why go wander unknown worlds? Stay right here and let the cosmos twirl Blind without her source of light I light a flame and say her name into the night I don't know who I am, I don't know where I am Lost in time and space Aimless searching for a long, lost face Haven't got a thing to lose If I don't find her, gonna tie that noose I quit my job and packed my car Left in a hurry, and I've sure come far Driving fast with no headlights I'm wide awake, I say her name into the night Oh, I'll find a way, I say your name into the night I don't know who I am, I don't know where I am

+ Always Forgetting With You (The Bridge Song) by Spiritualized

I think the lyrics on this speak for themselves—wolfstar in all universes would do anything for each other, and long to be together. I also love the way this song sounds...extremely space-y.

If you want a radio, I would be a radio for you If you want an aeroplane, I would be an aeroplane for you If you got a lonely heart, I would be a lonely heart for you If you want a rocket ship, I would be a rocket ship for you If you walk the galaxies, I would walk the galaxies for you If you'll be my lonely girl, I would be a lonely boy for you If you want a shooting star, I would be a shooting star for you If you want another world, I would be another world for you If you wanna universe, I will be a universe for you [...] Always Together With You If you'll be a lonely heart, I would be a lonely heart

+ Everybody's Groot by Daniele Leppi

Instrumental. A fun wee song for our favourite treeboy, Rootmus.

+ Worry Not There Are Galaxies You Haven't Heard Of by Tom Rosenthal

I wanted a song for young Mossy & Sirius, and this one felt right. 🥲

"What d'you wanna be when you grow up?" Oh, the empty cry for certainty They want to know what you want to be But why have I got to be something? Oh, aren't we all dumplings? Take a minute, wallow in it, float around Give it all a second glance or three Today is its own entity And you are its beautiful painter And you still will be later So worry not, there are galaxies You have not heard of There are eyes you have not seen shine And there are so many people Waiting to love you It just takes time

+ I Talk To The Trees by Martin Denny

Instrumental. Listen to that theremin go!! I thought the title was very appropriate, and theremin always make me think of vegitation for some reason, anyways.

+ Moonage Daydream by David Bowie

Listen, this song had to be here!! Since this chapter was partially a take on Guardians of the Galaxy, and that movie's soundtrack is very much 70s rock heavy, this just felt right. Pretend it's called Mossyage Daydream. 🤭

Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe Put your ray gun to my head Press your space face close to mine, love Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah!

[ohforficsakelibrary]

You Brought Me Poison Flowers

Chapter 6: Cherry - The cherry has long been used to stimulate or attract love. A beautiful Japanese spell to find love is simple: tie a single strand of your hair to a blossoming cherry tree.

prev / series masterlist / masterlist

Series Summary: Joel and Ellie settle into life in Jackson, one more easily than the other, until Joel is reminded of what normal feels like. The kind of normal that he perhaps never had. A series of one-shot glimpses into a relationship (no true plot here, people.) Soft!Joel. Two touch-starved babes. Slow-ish burn.

Chapter subtitles taken from Cunningham’s Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs by Scott Cunningham. Although herbal preparations are consistent with historic uses, nothing herein is to be construed as medical advice.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Herbalist!OFC (age-appropriate age gap)

Word Count: ~4.2K

Rating: Explicit 18+ / unprotected piv, multiple orgasms (f, and m too I guess if you count last chapter), brief mention of oral (f receiving). Minors DNI.

A/N: Joel and Lennie talk (and fuck) into the wee small hours.

“Talk to me, Len,” he whispers, hot and damp against her neck before his tongue laps against hers. “Oh god…” he growls against her collarbone as she swirls her hips on the downstroke. 

In truth, when he followed her upstairs into her bed he wasn’t sure that his cock would be of any further use, but Joel Miller is a determined man who had every intention of using his mouth and his fingers and everything else God gave him with the singular purpose of seeing bliss on her face again. 

It turns out his cock just needed forty minutes, fingernails scratching at his scalp, and Lennie gasping his name as she fell apart on his tongue to be ready to go again.

“Joel,” Lennie sighs, one arm hooked around his neck, the other braced against the headboard as he meets her halfway with a particularly deep thrust.

“You close, baby?”

She moans and cradles his head in her hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he pants, his forehead pressed against hers as his palms spread across her back, reaching down to rest on her waist.

She makes a non-committal noise before Joel takes over, pulling her hips down as he bucks his up before guiding her into a slow, back-and-forth roll of her pelvis against his that puts pressure on her clit.

Dark eyes are fixed on her face and he reaches up to catch her head as it falls back. 

“That’s it baby, go on.” 

Her fingers dig into his shoulders when he feels her walls tighten and pulse around his cock and he guides her through until she stills and exhales with a moan and melts in his arms. 

“Oh my god,” she breathes, nose pressed against his temple and he inhales deep lungfuls of soft-cedar scent where he’s drowning in her hair.

Joel nips at her collarbone. Trails the tip of his tongue up her throat. Bites softly at her jaw.

He’s still hard, buried inside of her.

“You okay?” He softly checks in.

“Mmhm,” she hums, one hand skimming over his shoulder and down to flatten her palm against his chest. 

Fingers soothe over her ribs and dance up her vertebrae over the velvet of her skin, one arm wrapping around the small of her back, the other snaking up to cradle her skull, locking her against him with strong forearms.

“Can I?”

“Mm, go on, Joel,” Lennie purrs against his jaw.

She lets out a surprised yelp when he shifts to lay her on her back.

He props himself up on his knees and pulls her ass up onto his thighs, palming at her breasts a moment, making her arch up into his touch. 

"So fuckin' soft, Len."

Joel licks his fingers and eases his cock back inside of her with a satisfied groan before massive hands encircle her waist. 

He’s not slow about it now. 

He chases his high at a frantic pace, the angle causing him to hammer against her g-spot and it builds something so quickly that she doesn’t have time to warn him.

“Oh shit Jo–EL,” Lennie screeches before both hands fly to her mouth and she writhes in his hold, Joel’s pace unchanged, even as her cunt grips his cock tight as she comes again for him.

“Oh fuck, yeah, yeah, yeah baby oh—” at the last second he pulls out with barely a moment to take his cock in a fist before he shoots hot ropes of come onto her stomach.

Snarling through his teeth.

Joel lets out a long, low moan as his hips spasm on their own accord, finally craning low when they still to lave his tongue over one pebbled nipple before he collapses. 

Laying his head against her heart. 

Lennie’s breathless, idly raking her fingers through the sweaty roots of his hair.

“Shit, sorry Len,” absently, still panting as he sits up with a groan, fingers searching rumpled sheets for his boxer briefs. He gently cleans his spend from her stomach before wiping at his chest and tossing them on the floor on top of his jeans. 

He finds enough strength to pull her up with him to sit on his lap, sucking softly at her bottom lip as she wraps her arms around his neck.

“Fuck, Len,” he buries his face against her collarbone, ribs heaving. “Feel like I’m dyin’.”

“I suppose you’re in the right place if that’s the case.”

She tangles her fingers in the curls at his crown, gently pulling to guide his head backwards and takes his pulse with her lips this time as he holds her flush against him.

“You’re not dying,” he feels her smile against his skin. “I’ll get you some water though.”

And she takes his flushed face between her palms and presses a kiss to the high bridge of his nose before leaving his hands to scramble after her as she steps down off the mattress.

He climbs to the floor at the foot of her bed, hand on his chest, willing his heart out of frantic rhythm as he hears her move from the bathroom to the kitchen, down the stairs to the shop and back up again.

The fridge door. Ice against glass. The creak of wide wood planks.

She finds him laid out on his back when she returns in a fresh pair of underwear and a robe thrown over her shoulders to guard against the chill.

“Don’t,” he points up at her, “I told you I’m old.”

“Haven’t said a word.”

She kneels and encourages him to sit up with a hand on the back of his neck. She fits a mason jar of ice-cold water in one of his hands and a bowl of cherries and cheese in the other.

Joel takes small sips from where he's hunched on the floor, dark eyes tracking her as she pulls a throw from her rocking chair and spreads it out next to him. He places the bowl onto the blanket between them, but keeps the water.

“Against the footboard. For your back.” She directs and he complies, shuffling onto the blanket, stacking his vertebrae as he sits, head thumping back against the oak with a groan. Lennie grabs the lit candle from the nightstand and sits next to him, bringing fire to rest where lamplight doesn’t quite reach.

She takes the jar he offers, swallowing a sip before fishing a out a chip of ice, pressing it into the back of his hairline and down over the nape of his neck. Strands of hair dark with sweat stick to his forehead, spent cock resting heavy against his left thigh.

And yet he feels no need for modesty.

He pops a cherry into his mouth, lazily chewing on the flesh around the seed as she continues soothing until the ice is gone.

“Better?” She asks, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

And between the sugar and the ice and just having her here, he supposes that yes. Yes, he is.

“Can’t remember the last time that happened.” 

“Last time you almost died? Was like three weeks ago," she plucks a cherry from the bowl.

And he huffs at first before it bubbles over into a belly laugh.

Frankly, that’s his longest stretch in years.

“No,” he swings an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in to settle against his side and kissing into her hairline, “can’t remember the last time I went two rounds.”

“I’m honored.”

“And satisfied?”

“Mmhmm,” Lennie presses her lips to the bare patch at his jawline. “Very. Gimme one,” she whispers, soothing a hand over his stomach as he deposits a cherry pit and grabs another from the bowl.

And in the silence of her absence he thinks about the last time.

It’s been seven years since Tess drew a line in the sand because he didn’t—couldn’t—give her what she needed. He’s too stubborn or too stupid or just that addicted to the pain to feel anything but the wash of self pity, and she couldn’t have her heart fucked every time they did.

He still doesn’t think he’s changed.

But Lennie isn’t asking for that when she returns, glass of now-watery gin in one hand, bottle in the other.

She’s just asking him to be here, on this blanket on her bedroom floor, a candle, one glass of gin, and a plate of cherries and cheese between them.

Just for the company as heated skin takes its time giving up its flush to the night air.

Lennie settles to his left, lying on her side just within arm's reach, robe knotted loosely around her waist, head propped up in one hand. There’s still a light sheen of sweat catching the candle’s glow in the valley between her full breasts.

“I really thought I was gonna break first, you know,” she smiles with her sip of gin, huffing a laugh into the glass.

“I had no idea.”

She arches a brow, reaching for a piece of cheese.

“I’m serious, I couldn’t read you, Len.” 

But he can now. 

Lennie’s not a woman who believes in words.

She doesn’t allow herself to feel until she does. Until everything is within her grasp. 

And only then does she feast on feeling. With greedy lips and starving skin. 

Get close enough to touch and she’s poetry in all caps, composed of breath and moans and need enough to drown in.

And as if to prove his point, she reaches out and idly runs a hand over his forearm and down to lace her fingers with his.

“And now?”

“‘S like puttin’ glasses on.”

She throws her head back with a laugh. It scrunches her nose and flashes her teeth and he wants to kiss her again and he does.

Now that he knows he can. 

She’s cherry-sweet against his tongue.

Lennie sits up when he pulls back, sweeping hair off of his forehead and replacing it with a kiss and Joel grabs her by the hip and hauls her against his side once more. He wraps her shoulders in the weight of his arm again and slips his tongue into her mouth once more.

“What’s Lennie short for?” After a pause for breath.

It’s the first of many questions he’ll ask, tangled like this, hormone-hazed and pliant, walls down from where hers milked him for his soul.

“Lenora.”

“Lenora,” he whispers against her lips. 

Tastes good.

“What's that mean,” he kisses her again, sucking languidly on her upper lip.

“Ray of fuckin’ sunshine,” she whispers.

“No really,” Joel pulls back to look down into her eyes.

“Really. Light. Sun ray.”

Flame.

Moth.

“Suits you.”

“Like onion peel?”

“Actually, exactly like onion peel,” he laughs. 

Because onion peel is ochre, warm against the rich brown of her skin. 

Onion peel is candlelight glinting off of dewy cheekbones. 

It’s the gold in her eyes.

“And what does Joel mean?”

“Nah, mine’s stupid.” She feels him freeze up against her side.

“Hey,” she tips his face back towards her own, “I don’t mind your stupid.”

“Well,” he breathes deep and clears his throat, “aside from the religious…stuff. It either means ‘foolish’,” he swipes a hand down his face, “or it means determined.”

“Some would say those are the same thing.”

“What would you say?”

She pauses a moment, considering her words. “I’d say you kept your daughter safe across an entire country laced with danger and somehow found your brother and this place in the process.”

“So both?”

“Unbreaking.” She plucks another cherry from the bowl. “I’d say unbreaking.”

And he sees himself briefly without the haze of self-doubt. The narrative of failure he cloaks himself in.

He sees himself in a ray of fleeting sunlight.  

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t shrink away.

_____

They stay like this until the cherries are gone. Until ice is melted and the remainder of the bottle of gin she retrieves is finished. 

Until the candle and its replacement burn down.

Lennie shows him her one party trick and ties a knot in a cherry stem with her tongue. Joel tells her that getting it up a third time will surely kill him before making the stem vanish and then pulling it out of her hair. 

She’s unimpressed but he kisses her with his clever tongue and she forgets that he isn’t actually magic. 

They talk of cities they visited in their heydays. 

Of concerts they’ve seen and albums that shaped them. 

And they fill the rafters of her cabin with laughter the likes of which the heavy wood beams haven’t heard in years.

And when sleep starts to creep in they both help each other up off the floor with soft smiles through pleasant aches.

“I can head out the back,” Joel says from somewhere inside of his inside-out t-shirt. 

“Front is better. The Bradleys are behind and they’ve got the dogs,” Lennie pulls her robe tighter around her frame.

“You hidin’ me Len?” He teases as he zips up his jeans with a small hop.

“I’m just defending your honor, Miller,” she winks. “Besides, everything on Main is closed, so no one’ll see you at,” she checks her watch, “3:42 in the morning.”

“Fuck is it that late?”

Lennie rakes a hand through mussed curls. “What can I say, the old man still goes like a freight train."

Joel barks a laugh and reaches for her waist, pulling her tight against his chest, pressing his nose and a kiss to her forehead as she wraps him in her arms.

He sways her gently in his hold because he isn't quite ready to let her go.

Lennie nuzzles his collarbone and he tucks her head under his chin.

And surprises himself with what’s out of his mouth next.

“Can I make you dinner this weekend?”

And she starts a laugh with her face buried against his chest. 

“That’s what I was going to ask you. That day you came in for coffee when Tommy’s horse got bit.” 

Yesterday, two days ago.

Time’s a blur when you’re falling in love. 

He holds her just short of arm’s length and stares down into her eyes.

“I was going to ask if you would like to have dinner with me.”

And Joel tucks her into him again, humming when she melts into his hold. 

“Guess we did this backwards, huh?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she squeezes his waist tighter in her arms. “I’d love for you to make me dinner this weekend.”

“Haven’t made a proper one in a long time, but ‘m sure it comes right back.” When one stands in a real kitchen. In front of a real stove.

Which he has now.

“Mmm.” She burrows her nose in his chest once more and inhales the scent of him.

Ponderosa and sweat and come and Joel.

“Deal.”

“Saturday, 7:30.”

“I’ll be there,” she nuzzles into him and he buries his nose in her hair and she doesn’t let go until he does.

It’s so normal.

So goddamn normal.

And yet.

Joel has never actually had this before.

She follows him downstairs and he slips into his boots and his flannel and the night after another kiss, or five. 

Head on a swivel out of habit. 

Smile on his face like a fuckin’ teenager.

next

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[stephiethewephie]

We Certainly Aren't in the Hundred Acre Woods Anymore: Chapter 1

I JUST PUBLISHED THE FIRST CHAPTER OF MY FIRST AO3 FIC LETS GO!!! After writing, rewriting, and revising this for MONTHS, the first chapter of Piper Finch's Twisted Wonderland Story is now of AO3 for everyone's enjoyment! Here is a quick sneak peek at the first few parts. If you are interested after reading it, please consider going to the link below to read the rest of the chapter!

Here we see Piper Finch as she spends her last moments of summer in the woods behind her house.

With her, some of her best friends in the whole world: An owl, a donkey, a piglet, a rabbit, a tigger, a kanga and roo, and, most of all, a pooh bear which she had since she was a wee babe. All her friends were plush and stuffed with fluff (in the donkey's case, sawdust), but to her, they were just as friends as those of flesh and blood.

All of them were sitting around a picnic table, which has been dressed in a white table cloth. Plastic silverware, dishes, napkins, and cups surrounded the sides of the table. A cake was placed in the middle of the table, infused with honey, with a pitcher of honey lemonade which stood beside it. Honey flavored frosting adorned the top of the cake with writing that said, "Happy Last Year of Boarding School!"

Piper got up from her seat to slice the cake. She gave a slice of cake as well as poured a drink to each of her friend, who were dressed with party hats and white bibs, before serving herself. She herself was also dressed in a white bib and party hat, plus a pretty blue sundress. She raised a glass before giving a speech.

"My dearest friends," she started. "It has been a great pleasure to have you by my side again for this, our last summer break, together. For I may be gone, have joy that this is my last time away. While adulthood and university will be within my grasps, and with that comes the fact that we may need to... say goodbye to these woods for a while longer..." She lowered her glass as if to mourn the loss of a loved one before continuing. "Know that when that time comes, you shall be with me on my journeys. Till then, let us enjoy this final get together, before the one that will be forever. And I will wish you farewell! Cheers!"

She took a sip of her glass before sitting back down at her place on the bench. She began to eat her slice of cake. But, before she could swallow her next bite, she heard a voice in the distance shout her name. The surprise caused her to choke on the piece of cake she had in her mouth. She pounded her chest with her fist to get it out before looking at the direction of the voice.

"Piper!" The voice yelled again, upon glace she saw her mother walking angrily towards her. She wore a beekeeper suit and still had a few bees swarming her. "I kept trying to call you! We leave for boarding school in 10 minutes!"

READ THE REST ON AO3:

I Hope you enjoy it and have fantastic days ahead!